Sea monsters and unverifiable history aside, Isola’s occupation dates to Roman times, and is home to the stunning Villa la Scogliera, the house on the cliff, currently home to famed cinematographer Will Compton. The Villa, a former monastery, perches on the hillside and ties into the abandoned Roman fortress. While the Villa itself is of this century, and has been modernized with electricity and water, the fortress, abandoned for centuries, is undergoing a full renovation, sponsored in part by the Italian antiquities committee and the Compton Foundation.
In addition to grapes and olives, the island is known for its lemon groves. It also houses a natural rookery, home to the many birds who fly off course, find themselves lost in the straights and unable to return to land.
* * *
How romantic, how very Gothic and creepy, and how very Compton to choose an island in the middle of nowhere surrounded by sea monsters and exhausted birds to call their own.
“I see it. It’s lovely. Say the name again?”
“Villa la Scogliera.”
I try to mimic the way the R rolls off his tongue and bungle it massively, which makes Jack laugh.
“I’ve been studying the tapes and everything. I swear it.”
“Say it slowly, like this. Sko-lee-AIR-a. It means cliffside.”
“Skola-air-a.”
“Close. Emphasis on the third syllable, and roll your R,” he says, planting a soft kiss on my cheek. “Chef Boy-ARRR-dee. Sko-lee-AIRRR-a. You can just call it the Villa, you know. No one will mind.”
“I need to learn Italian properly.”
“And you will. But let’s focus on one thing at a time, shall we? We have our whole lives ahead for me to teach you.”
Our whole lives. Lives that can be changed in an instant.
Stop it, Claire.
“The terrace is lovely. Is it special? Historically important? Did Medusa stand there or something?”
He rolls his eyes. “Not Medusa. Venus, maybe. The whole island is loaded with odes to Venus. No, my dear, it’s special because that’s where you will spend your first night as Mrs. Compton. Just you, and me—”
“And thirty of our nearest and dearest.”
He laughs. “Well, they won’t be watching what we get up to in there. Besides, I’ve been told the bed is magic.”
There is something...wistful on his face. I run my hand from his cheek to his temple, smoothing back his too-long hair. There is the lightest sprinkling of silver in his part, just a few hairs here and there, lending him a serious, studious air.
“A magic bed? What, does it fly?” I tease.
“In a way. Rumor has it ladies tend to get knocked up on their wedding nights. My grandmother and my mother swear by it.”
“Ah.” A deep sense of foreboding seizes me, and I instinctually scan my body for any signs of pregnancy. It’s a reflex, something I’ve done regularly since we first became intimate. An accidental pregnancy terrifies me. I can only imagine the headlines, how I’d be portrayed. Prevailing wisdom: a woman like me can only land a man like Jackson Compton if I get pregnant and he is forced to do the right thing.
I run my mind over our sexual escapades from the past month. I had my implant taken out; it was making me feel terrible. I have been taking my pills on time, haven’t I? We’ve been careful, yes?
Stop it. You’re being paranoid.
Yes, of course we’ve been careful. The dull ache deep in my stomach is certainly my impending monthly, just in time to ruin our wedding night. The malaise I’ve been feeling for the past couple of days is stress and travel related. I’ve never flown well, even short hops leave me with a headache, clammy and uncomfortable. Add in a mild concussion and a boat on slightly stormy seas? I’d gone to the doctor for a preventative motion sickness patch before we left; it is helping tamp down some of the nausea from the bump on my head, too.
The long night coupled with the long journey from Nashville to Naples is catching up to me. We’d been forced—quelle horreur—to fly first class on Delta instead of being chauffeured across the sea in the family jet. Jack’s father is flying in from Africa, where he’s been on business with Jack’s brother Elliot. As heads of the company, their travel needs take precedence.
Yes, it was a terrible burden for me to be waited upon by the dark-eyed flight attendants with their prettily accented Italian and sly smiles for Jack. The wine was plentiful, the carbonara and crusty bread delicious, the lay-down beds surprisingly comfortable. I’d only disliked being separated from Jack. He was in the cozy suite behind me, and I felt all alone, watching the flight attendants’ faces light up with pleasure as they walked past me to tend to Jack’s needs.
The breeze picks up, and I realize Jack is looking at me curiously. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, but good grief, don’t wish a baby on us just yet. I want to be married for a while, first.”
“No promises, darling. My parents will explode with happiness at the idea of another heir.”
There is a certain hopefulness in his voice. Jack is a decade older than me. A widower. His first life was stolen from him. He is ready to start a family. I understand. He’s already experienced so much. I’m only getting started. I’m not ready for a child. I might not ever be ready. I need to tell him that, before the wedding. In case it’s a deal breaker.
I take a deep breath. “Jack?”
“Yes, darling?”
But we are interrupted by a call from the upper deck. Gideon, beckoning. “We need you for a moment, Jack.”
Jack squeezes my shoulder. “Be right back.”
I watch Jack stride away and wrestle my urge to confess back into place. What purpose will it serve? He’ll just get upset, and who knows, maybe I’ll change my mind.
You know what they say about digging your own grave.
I turn back to the island.
Unlike the smoky gray open waters of the bay, the water in the shallower edges of the channel is cerulean and almost clear; schools of dark fish race away. What are they running from? The boat? A predator?
The breeze cools, the azure Mediterranean early summer sky turning hazy. Bad weather is coming. Italy is under a Red warning this long weekend, a severe weather alert, expecting the worst storms in a decade.
I hope everyone gets here in time. The channel crossing to Isle Isola is too dicey to manage anything smaller than the yacht or the hydrofoil ferry in bad weather, and the hydrofoil normally runs to Isola only once a week, though it’s running three days in a row for us to get all the guests on the island. And obviously, the choppers can’t fly if the storm is too bad.
The Hebrides is approaching the cliff’s edge now. The imposing granite face is sheer and unforgiving. We’re so close I can see the striations of the stone, the moss growing in the cracks. At the top, there is a flash of white. What is that?