Seeck, Max - The Witch Hunter by Seeck Max

Author:Seeck, Max [Seeck, Max]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

55

OH, THAT BREEZE is nice.

The breeze is warm and humid. The boat rocks in the light swells off of the Lido sandbar east of the city, and a two-kilometer-long beach spreads out across from them. Jessica thinks about her mother’s words; it was one of those rare remarks she remembers coming from her mother’s lips more than once. At their pool in Bel Air, the only time the breeze felt cool was on her wet skin, in that moment before Dad would wrap her in a big towel. Usually the breeze was warm, almost as warm as the heavy, still air, and yet it was still refreshing, especially on the oppressively hot summer days. Jessica remembers how the wind would toss the fronds of the tall palms, how their trunks would bend thrillingly but never snap, even though she watched them, hands over her ears, waiting for the crack.

“What are you thinking about?” She feels Colombano’s voice at the base of her ear. His fingertips wander through her hair, rough and strong, stroke the scalp in a way she can feel in the pit of her stomach.

“Nothing.” Jessica turns her head so she can see herself in the lenses of Colombano’s aviators. She looks beautiful, even though the salt water has washed away her makeup and pasted her hair to her skin.

It has been eight days since Jessica was supposed to board the train for Milan. She has left behind her old life and leapt into an alternate reality, one that has no place for Torino, for skiing in the Alps, the train to Grenoble, the beach vacation in Marseille. Summer is at its most beautiful in Central Europe, and she’s in no hurry to get home. Besides, does she even have one? Has she ever had a place where she has felt safe and loved? Home is where the heart is. Her home is with Colombano now.

Sometimes Jessica feels like she has spent much longer at Colombano’s side. During those moments when she settles into a plush chair in the concert hall to listen to the Four Seasons, during those moments when they fix breakfast or amble around the city, during those moments when she sits alone in Colombano’s apartment, waiting for him to come home. During those moments when they kiss, make love, stroke each other’s skin, or feed the pigeons at Piazza San Marco. During those moments, her ever-present detachment finally evaporates, and she is enveloped in a sense of calm.

“You want to go swimming?” Colombano says, stroking Jessica’s cheek with his fingers.

“Sure.” Jessica smiles and sits up, takes off her sunglasses, and squints. The sun is blazing in the expanse of sky. She grabs hold of the hand bailer that has been pressing into her lower back while she’s been relaxing there and flings it into the bow of the boat. The boat is nothing special; there’s not a hint of luxury about it. Not a hint of the St. Tropez glamour Jessica had a chance to sample the summer before when she spent a few weeks on the French Riviera.

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