I am still alone, despite Jack’s presence beside me. I still am not sure about what happened. Who broke in? Why? Who did we kill?
There are things happening that are out of my control, and the thought sends a tight shiver through my body. I pretend to stifle a yawn as cover for lurching away from Jack’s hand, but if he notices, he laughs it off.
“Do you want to take a nap before the meeting?”
“It’s tempting. You need to rest, too.”
“No, I’m fine. I was in Europe all last week, remember? My body clock is already adjusted. Seriously, if you want to lie down, I can go check in with my parents and let you rest.”
My silence worries him, because Jack folds me into his arms again. “I’m sorry this has been such a strange couple of days.”
“Yes,” I murmur, pushing away my concerns, letting myself be comforted. Now that we’ve stopped moving, the adrenaline rush of our arrival is fading fast. I am suddenly so tired. I just want to crawl into the bed and sleep for a year.
“If you’re up to it, once we finish with the lawyers, and you’ve had a chance to catch your breath, I’d love to introduce you to my grandfather. Though if you’re not in the mood, I can push it off.”
Get it together, Hunter. Be strong. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear, straighten my spine.
“I’m fine, I promise. Would you rather we go talk to him now, before we go to the library?”
“We’ll do it after,” Jack says lightly. “I think he’s taking a walk. He usually does this time of day.”
As he says this, there is a ruckus from the hall. A woman’s voice, speaking in gentle Italian-accented English, cajoling. “Signore Compton, no, Signore Compton, not that way. They’re in the bridal suite.”
“Oh,” Jack stands straighter, brightening. “He’s back. Apparently, you do get to meet him now.”
I look to the sea again, to the billowing, blackening clouds, take a huge, deep breath through my nose, the salty air tinged with the heady scent of the spring flowers and lemon, then blow it out and go to Jack’s side to face my soon to be grandfather-in-law.
11
Make Way for the Great Man
I’m not sure what I was expecting from my first meeting with the world-renowned Will Compton, but the robust, tanned, bull-chested man in front of me isn’t it. I’ve seen pictures, of course; Will Compton is a legend in his own right, not only the father of a genius. His work is all over the internet, as are his well-documented exploits. He got his start shooting military footage in Vietnam, then pivoted into the entertainment industry in the late seventies. The movies he worked on are classics, shot in foreign locales with beautiful actresses and brooding actors. Worldly, cosmopolitan Will Compton, the great cinematographer.
But in person, he is something more. I’m not at all prepared for his presence, his stature. His thick, steel-gray hair sweeps back from his forehead, hanging to his shoulders like a well-aged surfer. He is exceedingly handsome still; I can see echoes of Jack’s face in cheekbone and chin. This is what Jack will look like when he is seventy-five. Not like his father, with his nervous rabbit demeanor and shifty eyes, or his severe great-grandfather, but like his compelling grandfather.
I put out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Compton.”
That’s when I realize as physically imposing as Will Compton is, something is off. When he locks eyes on me, he seems frail. Damaged. Sad, and frightened. He searches my face, wariness creeping over his craggy features.
“Who is this?” he demands in a deep, rusty, ancient voice. He looks from me to Jack, who says, “Hey, Grandpa. This is my fiancée, the painter, Claire Hunter. You remember, I told you we were going to be here for the wedding? I sent you one of her paintings. You loved it.”
We sent him Silvia, a small oil I’d painted in school, layered grays and whites and blacks that Jack said reminded him of the waters on Isola during a storm.
Will stares at us, standing there side by side with hopeful smiles, then surges into the room, eyes suddenly wild, an angry snarl on his face.
“No, it is not. Who do you think you are, bringing that girl here? You get away from her.” He heads for Jack, and throws a punch, connecting solidly with Jack’s cheek. Jack stumbles back in surprise, hands up to ward off the attack.
“Gran, stop. I’m Jack. Your grandson.”
“You know what’s going to happen. It happens every time. You get away from her, right now. You don’t touch my girl.” The old man grabs my bicep, his grip like steel, and Jack pulls me away, putting himself between us.
“Hey, now. Lay off, old man.”
“Signore Compton!” The nurse is yanking at her charge’s arm. “Basta! Stop that, right now.”
“He killed her. He killed her. You know that he killed her.”
Will is jabbing a thick finger at Jack, shrieking, while the nurse tries to manhandle him away, toward the door. Her voice is gentle again, soothing.
“Va bene, Signore Compton, va bene, va bene. That’s your grandson Jack, he’s here to get married to that sweet girl with the blond hair. Nobody killed anyone.”
The nurse speaks over her shoulder, whispering, “He’s just confused. He has good days and bad days. Ignore him.” She tugs at his arm, hard. “Signore Compton, let’s get you back to your room.”
Will Compton is having nothing of it. He whirls toward us again and rages on. “I am not confused. He killed her. I saw it with my own eyes. We must see justice done. I can’t let it happen again. It will happen again if I don’t stop him now.” And to me, “Stay away from him. He’s dangerous.” He starts back into the room, lasering in on Jack, who steps toward him, ready now, fists clenched. I am reminded of two lions squaring off. One will hurt the other, badly, before this is through, whether physical or emotional, I don’t know.
The nurse finally gets a solid grip on Will’s arm and hauls him back toward the hall.
“I know, Signore. Let’s go back to your room, and we’ll call the polizia.” To Jack, she says, “Mi dispiace. So sorry. He gets like this sometimes. Let me get him to his rooms and you can come see him in a little while. Sometimes he gets upset when we change his schedule. There’s been quite a bit of disruption these past few days.”
The old man finally settles, muttering to himself as he is led away.
The nurse calls back over her shoulder, “Allora, I nearly forgot. Signore Jackson, your mother is looking for you. She says it’s important she speak with you immediately.”
“Grazie, Petra,” he replies.
Shaken, I reach for Jack’s hand, surprised to see tears in his eyes. He is horrified. Or is he terrified?