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lemon trees here, for instance, would never survive if they were exposed to the sirocco.”
    She supposed she once knew that, along with the thousand other trivial details that made up daily life on this tiny island, but rediscovering them could wait. For now, sketching in the major figures that shaped her particular situation had to take precedence. “I can see I have a lot to relearn, so let’s get started.”
    “ D’accordo. Where shall I begin?”
    “With your family, since they’re also now my family by marriage. Do they live here some of the time, as well?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are they here now?”
    “Yes.”
    “I haven’t seen any sign of them.”
    “They don’t actually live in my dammuso .”
    “You’re what? ”
    “Dammuso,” he repeated, his grin gleaming in the dark. “Plural, dammusi . It’s an Arabic word loosely translated as house although more accurately meaning vaulted structure . The style and method of construction is the same for all residences on Pantelleria.”
    Not quite, she thought. They might all be shaped like sugar cubes with arched openings and domed roofs, but most were a far cry from the elegant luxury that defined his and the others perched on this remote headland. “Then where do they live?”
    “Here, we’re close neighbors. My sister lives next door, and my parents next door to her.”
    “And when you’re not on the island?”
    “Our home base is Milan where our corporate headquarters are located. But we’re not on top of each other there the way we are here. In the city, you and I have a penthouse, my parents also, but not in the same building, and my sister and her husband have a villa in the suburbs.”
    “You have no brothers? Just the one sister?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Does she have children?”
    “Yes, but it’s probably not a good idea to confuse you with too many names and numbers just yet.”
    “Okay, then tell me about these corporate headquarters, which sound imposingly grand. Exactly what sort of corporation is it?”
    “A family business going back over ninety years. Costanzo Industrie del Ricorso Internazionali. You might have heard of it.”
    She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
    “My great-grandfather started it in the early 1920s. After hearing about and reading of the misery and destruction during World War I, particularly of children left orphaned and homeless, he vowed he’d dedicate himself to creating a better, more beautiful world for those who’d been born into poverty. He began small here in Italy, buying abandoned land and creating parks in areas of our cities where before, rat-infested alleys were the only playgrounds.”
    “Then you do know of at least one man who kept his word.”
    “Sì.” He acknowledged her gentle dig with another smile. “Eventually, he expanded his idea to include holiday campsin the country for needy children, some of whom had never seen the sea or a lake. To subsidize their operation and make it possible for cash-strapped families to send their sons and daughters away for a few weeks every summer, he turned his entrepreneurial skills in a more lucrative direction, developing ski, golf and beach resorts, at first on his home turf, then in neighboring countries. A portion of the profits went toward setting up endowment funds for his charity work.”
    “I wish I’d known him. He sounds like a very fine gentleman.”
    “From all accounts, he was. When he died in the mid-1960s, CIR Internazionali was a household name in Italy. Today, it’s recognized worldwide and supports a variety of nonprofit organizations for underprivileged children.”
    “And where do you fit in the corporate structure?”
    “I’m senior vice-president to my father, the chairman and CEO. Specifically, I oversee our European and North American operations.”
    “So I married an executive giant.”
    “I suppose you did.” By then they’d come to a flight of stone steps that brought them back to the seaward side of the