Page 32 of Kept 2
Turning to leave, I pause as she places a hand on my arm.
She is the only one left in the restaurant and has chosen to dine outside under the grapevine-covered patio overlooking the sea. Candles still illuminate every table surrounding her, giving her the feeling of not eating alone, and making the small outdoor area look a little like a fairy realm.
This evening though, it is a full moon, so even the candlelight is not really needed on such a clear night. Her meal could clearly be seen, and the bright lunar light lit up her blonde hair, making it appear almost white. I know it probably did the same to mine, I had dyed my hair back to its original colour after leaving Paris, deciding that as Nicholas had seen me with black hair, I might perhaps benefit from a little camouflage. Truth be known, the light colour suited my skin more here, tanned as it now was, whereas black had suited the almost translucent white my skin had been in Paris.
But then it wasn’t just my skin that had changed since I’d moved to Sicily. My outlook too had changed. I still had a shadow hanging over me, but it didn’t seem so dark on this sunny, Mediterranean isle. And my knowledge of food had exponentially grown under the tutelage of the chef here. I was happier than I had been since I’d fled Boston. It was as if all the holiday-makers here had somehow rubbed off a little of their relaxation and pleasure onto me every time I served them a meal.
“I’d like to talk to you if that is alright,” she says quietly, her posh English accent making me immediately want to agree to anything so politely asked.
“Ah, sure, is it something about the food?”
“In a way,” she laughs quietly, “are you closing soon?”
“Yes, yours is the last meal for the evening.”
“Then we can chat after.”
“Uh, I’m sorry, but I have plans after work. I’ve been on my feet all day. Perhaps you can direct your questions to our chef? Or maybe come back tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid it is a matter of some urgency,” she says, raising her eyes to mine and frowning.
There is something about the way she looks and speaks that is tweaking a feeling I haven’t felt in many months, a feeling I don’t want to feel ever again, and I shrug her hand off my arm and step away.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
I turn to leave, but my steps falter as I hear her say; “he’s coming for you.”
I spin to face her, anger bursting through me.
“Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“I don’t have any friends like you?”
“You do, but you have chosen to treat us as the enemy.”
I walk back, pull up a chair opposite the woman, and take a deep breath.
“You have five minutes.”
She smiles and picks up her fork, taking a dainty nibble of the clams; all the while, her pale green eyes never leaving my face. As I watch her chew I am reminded of that old saying ‘keep your fork’ – the saying that conjures up childhood delight when you hear it at parties as your plates are cleared, because keep your fork means more food is coming, something sweet most likely, and delicious – only I had a feeling this time, it was not something good, or sweet heading my way.
“My name is Lucy Bernshire.”
“Oh fuck,” I shake my head, “I knew it. How did you find me?”
“That was the easy part,” she says gently, “the hard part is going to be getting you out of here, alive.”
Our conversation is interrupted as Ricardo walks out of the restaurant and sees me sitting with our last guest. Wandering over, he smiles at Lucy and raises his hands in supplication.
“Is something wrong with your meal, madam?”
“No, it is perfect,” she smiles, “I’m a friend of Josephine’s. I thought since you are about to close, we could have a chat.”
“A friend,” he smiles as he draws a pack of cigarettes from his white jacket pocket and slips one between his sensual lips, lighting it in one smooth motion, “then you are very welcome to stay as long as you want. Perhaps some more wine?” he nods his head towards the empty glass before her.
“That would be wonderful,” she croons, giving him an admiring glance.
