One Italian Summer(20)

“Where else have you been here?”

“I went to Ravello, which was heaven. And Naples, which I didn’t care for. That’s where Remo is from. Rome is wonderful, obviously.”

“I’ve never been to Italy before,” I say.

“Well,” my mother says, reaching across the table for my hand, “you’ve picked a perfect time to be here.”

Remo tells us about the beauty of Ravello, one town over, and asks if I’ve been to Capri—I tell him I just got here.

“There is plenty of time,” Carol says. “Italy is about taking it slow.”

When we finally stand, I feel a little light-headed.

We push back our chairs and make our way outside to the rocks. There is a lounge chair open, and my mother throws her bag down, and I do the same. Then she lifts her dress up and over her head. I’m struck by the motion—so carefree, so thought-less. I think about my mother in Palm Springs, in Malibu. Her one-piece always offset by a well-placed sarong, her arms covered from the sun in a light linen shirt. She had a great body, always did. But there was a modesty to her that is not apparent here. When did it arrive? When did she decide that her body was something she should pay so much attention to? That it shouldn’t be admired?

She always loved the water, though. She loved to swim. She’d do laps in the pool every morning, her L.L.Bean hat like a ball floating on the surface.

I follow her, and then we’re padding into the ocean. I duck under the water, and when I come up, she’s floating on her back, eyes closed. I want to photograph her, capture this moment, but instead I copy her. We stay that way, just floating, until Antonio’s boat appears at the dock.

We board, soaked, and are transported back to the port of Positano. By the time we get there the sun is sinking lower in the sky. The boat docks, and Remo helps us off. We thank Antonio, and he tips his hat before pulling away.

“Thank you,” I say to my mother. “I had a really great day. The best I’ve had in a while.”

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s lovely to make a new friend.”

I realize I haven’t even asked her how long she is staying. “Will you be here tomorrow?” I say. I can feel the freneticism growing inside. The sudden desperation to hold on to her after a day of leisure.

She smiles. “Of course. I’m taking you to La Tagliata. It’s this incredible restaurant high up in the hills. You won’t believe it. The bus leaves at four from your hotel, so I can meet you there.”

“Where will you go now?” I ask.

“I have to drop Remo off and then pick up a few things at the market. The woman who owns the flat I’m renting is in tonight.”

I’m met with images of my mother cooking, laughing, sharing a meal with another woman. I feel a wave of jealousy come over me.

“But I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?” She peers at me. And for the briefest, tiniest slivers of time, I think that maybe she recognizes me, too. Maybe something in her is reaching through time and space to deliver her the information she needs to know. That she belongs to me. That we are each other’s. Only us. But then Remo taps her shoulder, and the moment is broken.

I nod.

“Good. Tomorrow,” she says. She turns to leave, and I am suddenly—standing on the pier, the water moving below us and the wine coursing through my veins—met with the intense need to hug her. I feel it viscerally.

So I do.

I lean forward and capture her in my arms. She smells like salt water and wine and her.

“Thank you for today,” I say, and release her. Tomorrow.





Chapter Ten


I wake up to a soft rapping at my door.

“One moment,” I say, the haze and pressure of a hangover setting in. I look at the clock: it’s after 8 p.m. I came back from lunch, just thinking I’d lie down, and now I’ve been cold asleep for over three hours.

I grab a glass water bottle on the dresser and chug it as I open the door. On the other side is Nika, dressed in a white shirt and high-waisted jeans, hair down. She has a little blush on her cheeks. She looks lovely.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello,” she says. “Good evening. You’re all right?”

I look down at my crinkled cover-up and feel my face. Despite the sun hat, it feels tight and hot—sunburned, no doubt, from today. I don’t think I reapplied sunscreen once after the dock, and the restaurant was almost entirely uncovered.

“Yes,” I say. “Too much wine at lunch. Are you…”

“Oh!” she says. She rolls her eyes at herself. “The gentleman downstairs was concerned. I told him I would come to check on you. See to it that you are okay.”

Adam. Shit.

“Tell him I’ll be right down,” I say. “And I’m so sorry. Thank you.”

Nika nods. “I will.”

“Hey, Nika,” I say, remembering. “Marco told me Adam is trying to buy the hotel?”

Nika laughs. “Marco thinks everyone is always trying to take this place from him. It is not as desirable as he thinks.”

“Really?”

Nika shrugs. “Well, I think it’s desirable, of course. I love it. It has been my family’s life for many years. I don’t know about Adam. Maybe he is trying. But we could use help.”