The Education of Sebastian Read Online Free PDF Page A

if I’d imagined he was just out for a walk.
    “Did you finish your work?”
    I really didn’t want to be responsible for him neglecting his studies twice in one day.
    “Yeah, I guess.”
    “Well, I was going to go downtown. You want to come?”
    Part of me hoped he wouldn’t; things were already awkward enough.
    “Sure, that’d be great, Caroline.”
    There was a short pause while I thought of something to say. We’d chatted so easily this morning in the garage, but now I felt awkward. Maybe it was the memory of his intense gaze, the way his body had pressed against mine as he’d reached for the drinking glasses. I shook my head to clear it.
    “How is the studying going?”
    He shrugged, as if bored of that topic.
    “Not a problem. On practice tests, I’ve scored high. It’s all good.”
    “What AP classes are you doing?”
    He glanced sideways at me. “Math, English Lit… and Italian.”
    “Oh, well… that’s good.”
    I knew I ought to ask why those particular subjects – except I could guess, one of them at least.
    “I want to do an Associate of Arts degree: that’s only two years.”
    “So I understand,” I said, briskly.
    He looked like he wanted to say more, but instead turned to gaze out of the window.
    “Why don’t you put the radio on?” I said, hoping it would provide a suitable diversion.
    “Okay,” he said evenly.
    It’s ridiculous that this 18-year-old boy is more at ease than I am. Come on, Venzi, pull yourself together. Even after 11 years of marriage, there were times when Caroline Wilson was still Carolina, feisty daughter of the immigrant Marco Venzi.
    The radio hissed and crackled until Sebastian found a reasonably clear signal – blue grass. His choice surprised me: from Verdi to this? It made me smile.
    “You like Doc Watson?”
    “I like all kinds of music.”
    I parked in a lot on Harbor Drive and we wandered up the hill to Little Italy, talking about music and food. I remembered this area from when I’d lived here before. There was a Mercarto every Saturday, and I looked forward to being able to buy Italian specialty oils and vegetables that weren’t stocked in regular stores.
    “Do you want to grab a coffee?” Sebastian said, hopefully.
    Mmm. Good Italian coffee. “Oh, a real espresso. Yes, that would be lovely.”
    Too much enthusiasm. Don’t encourage him – no mixed signals.
    But the day was too beautiful to be half-hearted, and I found myself delighted with all the pretty cafés, gelateria, and ristorantes.
    We stopped at a tiny coffee shop just off India Street. The owner’s wife came out to serve us and was ecstatic when I spoke to her in Italian. She kissed me on both cheeks and summoned the rest of her family to come out and meet me. Sebastian looked overwhelmed, then offered a few careful Italian phrases and was engulfed in the bosom of the family. I couldn’t help laughing: their exuberance reminded me so much of my father.
    They rattled out Italian like peanuts, with such speed and vigor, each talking over the others, that I struggled to catch everything they said. Sebastian probably only caught one word in fifty, but he sat there grinning, only wincing when the owner’s mother, a little, round nonna of about 80, grabbed him with both hands and kissed him repeatedly.
    Then they all pulled up chairs and surrounded our small table, which soon overflowed with affection. Someone fetched half-a-dozen espresso cups and I sipped happily at the thick, bitter liquid. I was amused to see that Sebastian added several spoonfuls of sugar before he found the rich brew palatable.
    Eventually some more patrons arrived and the family scattered, returning to their various roles of cook, cleaner, chef and bottle-washer.
    “Whoa! That was something else,” said Sebastian, as we were left to our own devices.
    “Wonderful, wasn’t it?”
    “They kind of reminded me of your dad.”
    I sighed and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair.
    “Yes, crazy: just like