Sebastian frowned and my father looked puzzled. “I don’t understand what Papa Ven is saying.”
“You’re speaking in Italian, papa,” I said, smiling. I turned to Sebastian. “He says he’s singing to God.”
“Ah, cara! Italiano! The language of Dante! The language of cooking! The language of love!”
Thereafter, every day of my father’s visit, Sebastian learned a few more words of Italian; not all of them were entirely suitable for a child of his young years, but my father had a wicked streak in him. As it turned out, one that I inherited.
I was reasonably happy in San Diego. I became involved with the Base’s magazine and helped out on open house days at the Base or the hospital. I had even put in an application to go to evening classes in journalism, one of the few individual forays I had ever made. It was at this time that David informed me he’d been assigned to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, and that we were leaving. It was another sideways move for an officer who had failed to live up to his early promise. David chose to see it as a promotion, but then he would.
Within 48 hours David had disappeared to the far side of the continent, and I had a week to watch the contents of our little home being packed into containers.
Sebastian came to see me every day; every day he cried.
And then, on a Tuesday in September, I was gone.
Chapter 1
The sun was warm on my skin, and the book had become heavy in my hands. I’d missed the Californian sun; it felt good to be back, even under these less than ideal circumstances.
I tossed the book aside, pushed my sunglasses up to my hair, and rested my head on my arms, soothed by the warmth of late morning.
I wasn’t entirely sure I’d wanted to make this return journey with David. I had friends in North Carolina independent of naval life; I had a job I enjoyed as an administrative assistant on a small but respectable local paper, and had finally gotten my English Lit degree after six years of night school.
But at the same time I was feeling restless, and ready for a change. Turning 30 had shifted my world view somewhat and, a little surprised to find myself still married, I felt ready to try something new… or something old, as it turned out, because we were back in San Diego. It was a prized location and considered a step up from Camp Lejeune. In any event, David was happier, which made my life easier. We’d found a way to co-exist that was not unpleasant. He wasn’t always an unkind man, or so I told myself, and I wasn’t a faithless wife; we were just fundamentally unsuited to each other. We’d grown apart.
At least I was enjoying the beach. Point Loma was seven miles from the hospital and patronized by nearly all the Base personnel, a finger of land that separated the ocean from San Diego Bay. The less popular part was at the north end of Adair Street; here, I thought, I was less likely to be disturbed.
Perhaps fate was watching, but I suppose the meeting would have happened sooner or later, if not that day.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilson.”
I didn’t recognize the light, tenor voice. I twisted around and cupped my hand over my eyes, squinting against the sudden brightness of the sun.
“Yes?”
Two men of about 20 were standing awkwardly a few feet away, and a third was leaning over me, dripping onto my beach towel.
“It’s Sebastian.”
“Who?”
His radiant smile faltered.
“Sebastian Hunter.”
My mind unraveled. Little Sebastian Hunter – all grown up.
“Oh, my gosh, Sebastian! I… I didn’t recognize you. Wow!”
I rolled over and sat up, resisting the urge to yank up my bikini more firmly.
“I heard you’d come back. I was hoping I’d see you,” he said, smiling again.