One Italian Summer(13)

“The Beverly Hills,” he says. “But yes.”

“You live in LA, too?” I say. “That’s a coincidence.”

He shakes his head. “Officially Chicago. But I’m there often for work. Can’t beat the weather.”

“Can’t you?” I gesture outward, toward the emerging day.

“Point taken, but only for the prime season.”

“You’ve been here a week?”

He nods. “Scouting some locations, more or less. It’s just special here, special to me. Positano took a hit a few years back, but this town doesn’t change much. It’s been popular for a long time, and I feel like I’ve been coming for almost that long myself. I imagine it will only continue, so now my company wants to invest. Own a little piece of paradise, so to speak.”

“Your company, the Dorchester Group.”

“Indeed.” He waves his hand in front of his face like he’s clearing away a bug.

“So,” he says. “Lonely traveler. What’s your name? I don’t even know.”

“Katy,” I say.

“Katy what?”

“Katy Silver.”

“Adam Westbrooke,” he says. He holds out his hand. I take it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

We eat in silence for a few moments, punctuated by the activity of the morning. Couples come down to eat; the street below us becomes active with cars and bicycles. The bells ring out: it’s 9 a.m.

Adam stretches. “That’s my cue,” he says. “I should probably head out.”

“Busy day?”

“I have a few meetings,” he says. “But if you’re free later, would you like to meet for a drink?”

I think about my wedding band tucked upstairs. Is this a date? Or just two fellow travelers enjoying each other’s company? We just met. We’re in a foreign country. I’m alone.

“Yes.”

“Great,” he says. “I’ll meet you downstairs here at eight.”

“Sounds good.”

“Have a great day, Katy,” he says. He pushes back his chair and stands. His hair is blond, then red. It changes color in the sun.

He leans down close and plants a kiss on either cheek. I smell his smell—cologne, sweat, the scent of the sea. I don’t feel even the hint of stubble.

“See you later.”

When he’s gone, I think about what I want to do today. The itinerary is tucked upstairs, but I still want to visit my mother’s favorite places. Now that I don’t have a schedule, I can, as Monica said yesterday, explore. There was a restaurant she always talked about in town. Chez Black, right on the water. We were supposed to go tomorrow night. But today I want to explore as she did when she was first here.

Just then Marco appears, right at my chair.

“You left this,” he says, holding out my room key and gesturing to the other table.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Thank you.”

“And I see you’ve met Adam.”

“Upstairs,” I say, tucking the key into my bag. “He was borrowing a book from the little library and introduced himself.”

Marco shakes his head. “He’d borrow this whole place if he could.”

“What do you mean?”

Marco rolls his eyes. “This young guy here.” He gestures to Adam’s empty seat. “He’s trying to buy my hotel.”





Chapter Six


“Adam, he comes here every year. This year he comes and he has this stack of papers.” Marco holds his hands like an accordion in front of him. “And he tells me, proposal. He wants to buy Poseidon.”

I’m struck by two emotions. The first is anger at Adam at trying to Americanize this Italian gem. The second is bewilderment that Marco is sharing this information with me so readily, and easily. We just met an hour ago.

“I’m assuming you are not interested?” I ask.

Marco laughs. “This hotel has been in our family for many years! Never. Poseidon is like my child.”

“You should tell him to back off, then,” I say. I think about Adam’s smile at breakfast. His easy confidence. His charm. They annoy me now.

Marco shrugs. “He knows; he does not care. It is no matter, though. There is very little we must do that will not be done in time.”

I nod, although that is a blatant lie. If we had caught my mother’s cancer earlier, if we had done something about it, she wouldn’t be dead. She’d be here right now, with me, listening to Marco with a compassionate ear. She’d have the best advice for him, too.

I push back my chair.

“I have not upset you, Ms. Silver?”

“No, of course not,” I say. And then in a moment, a flash, a millisecond, I find myself crying. I cried up until my mother’s death, daily, hourly, even. Everything set me off. Touching the coffee maker before the sun came up, the elaborate one I had wanted but wouldn’t buy for myself, so she’d given it to us for our wedding. The gardenia soap in the shower we bought on a trip to Santa Barbara years ago, and which I now keep a steady supply of. The drawer of plastic forks from delivery and take-out meals, because she could never bear to throw away plastic. Everything was a reminder of what I was losing, of what was slipping away.