“Okay, Caroline,” he grinned at me.
“Now, I can make you a chicken salad sub or… tricolored salad.”
“Insalata tricolore, per favore.”
I turned to him in surprise.
“I’ve been learning Italian,” he announced proudly. “A correspondence course. My high school only offered Spanish.”
“Really? Molto bene!”
“And I’ve been listening to opera, too. I like Verdi.”
“The fallen woman.”
“Excuse me?” he gasped.
“La Traviata: I presume that’s what you mean when you say you like Verdi. Or maybe A?da? Rigoletto?”
He let his breath out in a gust. “Yeah, all of those.”
“I thought teenage boys only listened to heavy rock music,” I teased him.
He looked wounded and I regretted my comment. He was obviously trying to impress me.
“I’m glad you like opera; my father loved it.”
“I remember: I remember you and him singing opera in your kitchen.”
“Really, you remember that?”
He nodded, serious. “I remember everything.”
I sighed. “That was a great visit when papa came to stay.”
Sebastian smiled. “Yeah, he was fun. We blew up a lot of things.”
I rolled my eyes at the memory. “Yes, David wasn’t very happy about it.”
Why I mentioned David at that moment, I couldn’t say.
Sebastian frowned. “How is your dad?”
And the painful memory lanced through me. My dear father, lying shrunken and in pain, tiny and helpless in a hospital bed; the morphine failing to tame the pain of cancer that devoured him whole.
“He passed away: two years ago.”
I could barely speak the words, taken by surprise at the crushing force of the memory. I felt tears hot in my eyes. Ridiculous, I scolded myself.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Sebastian whispered.
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but now I was craving his absence. I heartily wished I hadn’t offered him lunch.
“Thank you for your help this morning, Sebastian. It was really very thoughtful of you, but I’m going to have to insist that you go and do some studying as soon as we’ve eaten. I don’t want to get you into any more trouble.”
He pouted, suddenly looking his age. It made me want to laugh, but I truly didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Especially not when he’d been so helpful. I changed the subject.
“Will you go surfing with your friends again soon?”
He sighed. “Maybe. I’ll have to borrow a board.”
“Oh, what happened to the blue one?”
“Dad trashed it – snapped it in half. Said I wasn’t to waste any more time surfing.”
He said the words casually, but I could hear the anger and hurt beneath them; I remembered his father’s threat at the barbeque.
“That’s awful. And it’s all my fault. I should never have said…”
He interrupted me, speaking softly. “It’s not your fault that my father is a sadistic bastard, Caroline.”
My hand fled to my mouth as he spoke, my eyes fixed on his.
“I’m so sorry.” My words were whispered and faint.
He shrugged. “No big deal. I’m used to it.”
“I must buy you a new board, Sebastian. That’s all there is to it.”
I tried to lighten the mood.
“Thanks, Caroline, but it’s cool. I can always borrow one of Ches’s. His dad surfs, too.”
“Well, let me give you a ride home after we’ve eaten. It’s the least I can do.”
He grinned at me, and the tense moment had dissolved.
I sliced some mozzarella and tomatoes, diced the avocado, drizzled virgin olive oil, and ground some black pepper. I was irritated that I hadn’t had time to buy any fresh basil to shred over it. It would have to do.
I found some bread I was going to use for bruschetta, and put a plate in the middle of the table; I imagined a teenage boy would eat a lot more than me.
He tucked in with gusto, swallowing everything in sight.
“Boy, you really can cook, Caroline.”