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Alicia forced her eyes not to close.
‘Get some rest,’ he suggested.
‘I’m fine.’
She had spent a decade fighting memories of them, and she did not want to relive them with Dante nearby.
It was a fruitless task.
Their time together was no doubt a mere passing thought to him—a pleasant memory that occasionally drifted past like one of the thin clouds the jet was now searing through.
But for Alicia that one day, their short existence as one entity, felt more like a season, with the seeds planted then bearing fruit even now.
Now, as she found herself headed back to Sicily with Dante, Alicia was fighting not to remember every last moment they had shared...
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sicily, a decade ago...
THESCIROCCOWASSAIDto send people crazy.
And with a funeral to attend too...
No wonder Alicia was on edge.
As hot desert sands were lifted in Africa and made their approach across the Mediterranean, Alicia wrestled with her black tights. They were far too heavy for the heat that even by Sicilian standards was fierce.
And they were dreadful.
At least they covered the vast awful knickers—only not quite, as the elasticated waist of the flesh-coloured cotton stuck out above the black of the tights.
Alicia looked down at the odd bra. It was an off-white satin, with padding and wires and seams that squashed her breasts into two strange points. Hating it already, Alicia pulled on the dress Sister Angelique had chosen for her. It was black nylon with a built-in slip, long sleeves, and a lot of pleats as well as buttons and zips. Her shoes were Cuban-heeled dance shoes, again from the donation cupboard, and a size too large so they kept slipping.
There were no mirrors allowed in the residence, and although Alicia had that morning received a small compact mirror, she chose not open it up. She did not need the contraband to confirm that she looked a fright.
Tears were trickling down the back of her throat and she swallowed them down and scolded herself.
This was no time for vanity.
Yet she was in an odd silent frenzy.
It was the approaching winds that were driving her crazy—everyone said they sent you mad.
And then there was the absence of a birthday card from Beatrice.
Her eighteenth birthday had come and gone unacknowledged.
Well, there had been a difficult conversation with Reverend Mother—and, yes, there had been cake that evening, and the parcel with the compact yesterday. But there had beennothingfrom Beatrice and that hurt.
Dreadfully.
Despite frantic promises that she would write each week the correspondence had soon faded. Now, a full week after her birthday, Alicia’s hope that Beatrice would make contact was fast fading.
Certainly she had reason to be upset, Alicia told herself. There was the absence of Beatrice, and now, of course, the shock of Signora Schininà’s death.
It had nothing to do with the beastly black dress!
The nuns had seemed both surprised and displeased that Alicia was attending the funeral. In truth, apart from the occasional nod if they saw each other in the village, she and Signora Schininà had never really spoken. Ragno had left four years ago, to find his father, but even if Alicia didn’t approve of how the woman had treated her son, she held a certain fondness for Signora Schininà.
