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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A fter we finally exhaust Stefanie’s stock and wear out her staff, probably her patience, too, although she would never allow that to show, she sends a small army of uniformed male staff carry the bags down and pack them into the car.

I’m still wearing the slinky Max Mara pant suit, nothing under the coat by a camisole and a white gold chain. A warm, glowing buzz is lit up inside me all the way as Alessio drives us back to the Lady Giusi .

When we get to the dock, we have the boat all to ourselves.

We unload the masses of shopping. Rather than see a high and thick wall of shopping bags and boxes fill up one side of the master suite, we agree to put them in the junior berth instead.

He pulls me to him and his hands set me alight. I need a moment to chill and reset, though.

He’s tactile, affectionate, even, but he keeps returning to the variations of ‘Who are you?’

Deep down, he’s anxious. Nervous. I know. But I don’t want to put it to him in that way. As he holds me, he lets slip to me what a total shock it was.

“I lost you so totally. First you were unconscious for more than a week. I didn’t know if you were ever coming back. Then when you did, to see you so adrift and disconnected. It was like your body was taken over by somebody else.”

He kisses me with a passion. “I know you’re still finding your way, but it’s so fucking great to see you back with me.” Then he adds, “With us.”

I tell him, “I’m thinking of myself before as Real Lucia. This, how I am now? I’m calling myself Cadet Lucia. Replacement Lucia.”

“You don’t do yourself justice.” He kisses my neck, under my ear. “You are breaking out of that darkness so well. I’d call you Princess Lucia at the very least.”

“That’s what I was called back then.”

He holds my shoulders. “Now, back and greater than ever. And soon you will be Empress Lucia.” Then he says, “Even after all of those canapés, I’m still pretty hungry. How about you?”

It takes a lot to scare him, but I know what he doesn’t want to face… actually, I don’t want to face it, either. I tell him, “Yes. I will be Empress Lucia. And soon. But will it be soon enough?”

My stomach quivers as I tell him I’m not hungry, but I’d be happy to fix something for him.

He says, “Those little salty things with the sardines and olives were the ones I liked the best. Do you know what they call them?”

Then he does a double take.

“Are you okay? You look pale?”

“I just feel a little bit nauseous. It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? Can I get you anything?”

“No. I’ll drink some water and I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

I run to the bathroom. My body and nerves shake a lot longer than it takes to empty my poor, cramped stomach.

Breathing hard, I pat my face with a cold flannel, I regret having to dab water on the beautifully applied blusher and shadow. I only use the flannel on my forehead, but my face needs cooling on my cheeks and between my eyes, too.

Facing myself in the mirror, I wonder if Real Lucia had this trouble with nerves.

All the boys like us to call it by its nautical name. They also like ‘head,’ because it’s the nautical term.

As I step back out, he’s waiting for me.

He takes me gently in his strong arms and strokes my hair as he tells me, “You’re still fragile, aren’t you?”

I hate hearing the word ‘fragile’ used about me in that way. But I have to bear it. Especially as it’s so obviously true.

I tell him, “We have to talk about what’s happening to our businesses.”

He says, “Two trucks got taken. They were on the road since yesterday.” Then, hesitant, “It’s the right decision to close everything down. I should have done that a week ago.”

I touch his shoulder. “It’s hard, though. Everybody needs to pay their rent. Cover their bills.”

His mouth purses. “Everybody knows they need a war chest for times like this.”

“Still. It will be tough on a lot of people. We can’t even say how long it will be.”

I tell him, “Memories of the night of the crash have been seeping back to me. They come mostly in flashes and bursts.” He strokes my hair. Pulls me to his chest. I feel safe there.

About my recovery, he wants to know, I know he does. But he doesn’t want to hear about it. It makes it all too real. But I do need to talk it through.

“I have to tell you about this. I have to say it to put it into some kind of order.” I look in his eyes, “So please, drink a beer and listen. Maybe you can watch a game. I don’t know if I need you to be concentrating.”

“It’s okay.” He folds me in his arms. “I’m a big boy. I can even be quite brave if I have to.”

As I squeeze hard against him, I remember times I’ve seen him run, straight into gunfire. Mostly to protect me.

“Yes. I press my lips to his for a delicious moment. “You can.”

And I feel like I’m opening up as I start to tell him. “At first all I remember is the crunch, the impact, and the howling twist of metal. Something huge and very hard slammed into the side of me. The whole world flipped over and around. Like I was tumbling underwater, everything slowed down. Slow roll. Slow fall.

“Everything rolls to a stop. Then more noise.

“Sirens, screeching tires, smashes, crashes and violent lurching. Hands and arms reach in. They’re all over me. I’m pulled. Grappled, manhandled.

“Whirling lights flash through the noise and blur of motion, all around me. Racing in beats and pulses.”

His strong arm enfolds me. I burrow into him for a moment. But then, I need to sit up.His hand holds mine, and his eyes are with me as I let it all out.

“I’m being taken. Dragged out and strapped onto a board or a stretcher. Then shoved and wheeled backwards, fast and head first, up a ramp. In through black, rectangular space, bumping through the rear doorway of an ambulance.

“Some hasty strapping, fastening, and buckling. Sirens start up. They yowl and crackle. The doors slam and the ambulance lurches forward. Rocks and swerves, charging at speed through the night traffic.

“Pain, hot and raw, bursts out, erupts all over me. I remember it like noise. Blasts of unbearable howling.”

My fists clench and I and chew my lip. “A face leans over me, too close. A hard voice with hot breath, asking questions I don’t understand. Insisting. Demanding.

“I can’t make out the words.

“Then the bang and a sickening swerve, and the noise. And it all starts over.”

I gasp. “Smash, roll, noise, hands. Grappling. Pulling. Race. Crash. Bang. Roll.

“Repeat.

“The second time, it feels like the figures that take me are darker. Covered. Black.”

Trying to remember this is all too much stress. As more parts of it come back to light, I try to concentrate but it makes me weary. I feel like I’m filled with sand, and water is pouring in, soaking the sand. Making it heavier.

Then a light goes on in my head.