One Italian Summer(29)

Adam turns his palms up, then down like he’s disregarding gathered sand. “Nothing,” he says. He exhales out. “All right, enjoy your date. Call my room if you’d like a nightcap.”

I put my hand up to wave goodbye, and then all at once Adam leans forward and kisses my cheek. His lips are soft and warm on my skin. I feel his body close to mine, right there, and something in me reaches out and hooks on. I lean into him.

“Thanks for a wonderful day,” he says, and then he is moving away, his body now a separate entity, heading up the stairs.

I stand there, blinking after him.

My face is hot where his lips were. My whole body feels rooted to the marble floor beneath me.

“Buonasera!”

I jump and turn to the desk to see Marco behind it. He throws his arm up like he’s tossing a hat into the center of the lobby.

“You look lost in the thoughts.”

“Just wine!” I say a little too loudly.

“Perfetto,” Marco says. “And where will you go tonight?”

“A restaurant out of town,” I say.

“Alone?”

I shake my head.

“With Mr. Adam?”

“No,” I say. “A new friend.”

Marco beams. “Enjoy!” he calls.

I take the stairs slowly. For one, my legs are exhausted and my quads are starting to cramp from all the exercise this morning. The stairs, coupled with the miles around town, have left me feeling like Jell-O. I haven’t used my physical being this much in years.

And for another, I feel swayed by something else entirely. The day, being with Adam. I am struck with the overwhelming clarity of how good it feels to exist, to be wanted and… not known. To have a man look at me who hasn’t seen me wan and laid out with the stomach flu, or folded over on the first day of my period. And even better—how it feels to look at someone whose shape and mind and history are not familiar to me.

When I get inside, I lie down on the bed. I let my legs dangle, stretching out my back. I reach my arms up overhead and let them fall behind me.

In an hour and a half I will see Carol again. She will be vibrant and real. We will spend an entire evening together. Eating and talking. It feels impossible, and yet—

I know she will show. I am no longer worried this is all an illusion. I no longer feel like I am having some kind of extended hallucination, if I ever did. She’ll come. She’ll be here. We will have tonight.



* * *



It’s just four o’clock when I head downstairs. I’m wearing a silk sundress with a puffed shoulder, in a purple-green-and-blue patchwork pattern. My still-wet hair is held back in a bun, and I have on earrings that my mother gave me for my twenty-first birthday—opals, surrounded by tiny pavé diamonds.

Disappointment floods my insides when I see Carlo alone at the desk.

“Buonasera,” he says. “How are you, Ms. Silver?”

I glance around. “Good,” I say. “Was there a woman here?”

“I don’t know, signora.”

“She comes here to mail things sometimes? Long brown hair?”

Carlo shrugs. “I don’t think so, but look at you. You got sun,” he says. He moves his finger in a circular motion around his face.

I touch my palm to my cheek. “Oh, yes, some.”

I check my watch. It’s now five minutes after four. Italian time, I remind myself. She’ll be here.

“Can I help?” Carlo asks. “With the woman?”

I glance outside. “No, that’s okay.”

Just then Marco comes out from the back office. “Buonasera,” he says to me. “You look lovely.”

I smile. “Thank you, Marco.”

“You need something? You need someone? Your American came in, he’s upstairs.”

I feel myself blush. “Oh, Adam. No, that’s all right. Also he’s not my American. Just an American.”

Marco laughs. It’s a deep belly laugh. “It’s okay, signora. Positano is for the lovers.”

I open my mouth to respond and then see a pink bus pull up across the street.

“What is that? It’s adorable.”

“For La Tagliata,” he says. “And no one knows why it is pink. The whole restaurant is green!”

“The one in the hills?”

He nods. “Sì, certo. It comes for those with a reservation.”

“Have a good night!” I run out of the hotel and across the street. There are a few people gathered at what seems to be the designated spot, and I catch my breath as I join their line. The door swings open, and we begin boarding the bus.

“La Tagliata?” I say.

“Sì, sì.”

I don’t know whether to get on or not. My heart rate is sky-high, I can feel my pulse in my ears. Where is she?

“You come or you go?” the man asks me. I look up into the bus, trying to see inside, but the windows are black. I arch around, and the man steps forward, blocking my gaze.

“I’m sorry,” I say, craning my neck. “I’m just looking for my…”

“Sì o no?” the man asks.

I look across the street at the hotel. There’s no sign of her. “Sì,” I say, and then in an instant, I get on the bus.