One Italian Summer(11)

“Carol, these won’t fit,” Eric said, holding them up. They looked a little truncated, and Eric is not a short guy.

“They’ll be perfect,” she said. “It’s one picture.” She smiled at him, which meant: Try them on.

“Now?” he asked her.

“Why not?”

Eric did a half eye roll, half laugh and went into the powder room. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Eric! It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before!” I remember my mother calling after him playfully. It was true, she’d seen him in various stages of undress—when he got his appendix out, every holiday in a bathing suit, Saturdays at their pool.

“We’ll take the photos Saturday,” she said to me while he changed. “I want to get them done early this year.”

It was October. A bright, lingering summer day.

I should have known then that something was wrong. I should have known when she called the following week, after the pictures, to ask if Eric and I could come for dinner. I should have known when she said, over our pumpkin soup, “I have some news.”

The pajamas fit, incidentally. She was right.

I change, into a plain pink cotton sundress and sandals and a wide-brimmed hat. I tuck sunscreen and a wallet into my small Clare V. cross-body bag and leave the room. When I open the door, there is a man standing a foot away from me.

I scream and jump back. He yelps.

“Ay!”

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry.”

His hands are held up in surrender, and in one he is holding A Moveable Feast. I realize he has been browsing the small lending library outside my door. A nook of books, tucked into the side wall. I usually bring two to three books with me on a trip, and even if they don’t get read, I leave them behind. I have paperbacks I’ve picked up along the way, too. The Girl in the Flammable Skirt from an Airbnb in Joshua Tree, Lulu Meets God and Doubts Him from the Fontainebleau in Miami. This is the first trip I can remember that I didn’t pack a single novel. Ironic, as there’s no one else to keep me company.

“Just making a trade,” he says. “Crichton for Hemingway. Not a fair one, but not meant to do bodily harm, either.”

He takes a copy of Jurassic Park off the shelf and shows it to me.

“No thanks,” I say. “I already saw the movie.”

He cocks his head at me and smiles. “Never heard of it.”

“Funny.”

He’s American, with a confident stance and a sky-blue linen button-down he’s paired with brightly colored board shorts. The whole thing practically screams Cape Cod clambake.

“Are you trying to browse?” He gestures to the shelf.

“Oh, no, thanks. I’m just going to…” I point to the hallway down to the stairs.

“Right, yes.” He slips Hemingway under his arm. “See ya around.”

I leave him at the books and walk downstairs.

Breakfast is on the same terrace as dinner, and the sun is lighting the town on fire. The chairs have been swapped out—what were red last night are now bright florals this morning. The water below us sparkles like it’s made of actual crystals.

“Buongiorno!”

Tony is not there, but a stout man with a wide smile is. He comes up to me and greets me by grabbing onto my forearms. “Ms. Silver,” he says. “Welcome!”

He smiles and gestures to the same table I had for dinner.

“Be our guest,” he says.

“Has Monica left?” I ask.

He looks around. “She is somewhere, probably. I will tell her. I am Marco. I’m glad you have met.”

I sit and am brought a silver carafe filled with coffee. It comes out steaming and strong—nearly black—and I pour a touch of cream into it and watch it transform.

Breakfast is a buffet set up inside. There are platters of fresh fruits fanned out like rainbows—melons and kiwis and bright yellow pineapple. There are breads, muffins, cinnamon rolls, and croissants next to ramekins of butter dusted with sea salt. There are eggs, sausage, and cheeses—Parmesan and blue, Halloumi and a soft chèvre.

I put a buttery roll, a chunk of juicy grapes, and some pear on a plate and take it outside. When I emerge back out onto the terrace, the man from upstairs is sitting at a table two feet away from mine.

He waves.

“Hello,” he says. “You again. How’s the spread this morning?”

I tilt my plate toward him in answer.

“I’ve been here a week,” he says. “I think I’ve put on ten pounds of pure zeppole.”

He’s in very good shape, so I take his self-deprecation to be hyperbole.

I look to the seat across from him. It’s empty. But who comes to Positano alone? Who but me.

“It looks great,” I say. “The spread, I mean.”

He laughs. “Your plate looks like a warm-up.”

I look down at it. The sliced pear is already wilting. I think about last night’s ravioli. “I think you’re right.”

He stands, tossing his napkin down on his chair.

“Follow me,” he says.

I put my plate down and pivot back inside. He hands me a fresh one from a stack. They’re warm. I press my palms into the underside.

“Okay, you got fruit, that’s good,” he says. “But you skipped the watermelon. It’s the best they have.”