One Italian Summer(40)

“Yes,” I say.

I don’t see how you would ever leave. The magic of Italy seems to be in its ability to connect to some time out of time, some era that is unmarked by modernity. There is so much peacefulness in being present, right here.

I take a sip of the champagne. It’s dry and crisp.

We walk on a stone pathway covered overhead by branches of lemon trees.

“This is heaven,” I say.

“Every guest room is different,” Adam says. “Totally unique. From the fixtures to the hardware to the decor. It’s really special.”

Down the path, a man and woman walk hand in hand in bathing suits. He has a towel slung over his shoulder.

“It’s like being in a movie,” I say. “Like Only You or Under the Tuscan Sun.”

“I don’t watch too many movies,” he says. “But it is very cinematic, I agree.”

“Who have you brought here?” I ask him.

Adam smiles at me. His dimples on full display. “Maybe someone brought me.”

I shake my head. “No way.”

“Why?”

“You strike me as someone who likes to be in the driver’s seat.”

“Well,” he says. “I suppose that’s true. But you can’t know something without being introduced to it. Everyone has an entry point. An ex I dated brought me to Positano for the first time, actually. Granted, it was many years ago. We were barely more than kids. We stayed at a hotel called La Fenice. It was so high up and out of town we basically had to hike up to the path every day. We didn’t have much money, but the view was stellar.”

I look at him, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“It was your favorite trip, wasn’t it?”

Adam turns back to me. His gaze lingers on me. “It used to be.”

Dinner is out on the terrace, bathed in the golden Italian light. There is a wood-fired pizza oven, decorated with beautiful blue and white and red enamel plates, and the meal is served on the same flatware.

We get pizzas—truffle with figs and roasted tomatoes—and the sweetest arugula, pear, and Parmesan salad and crisp calamari, fried to perfection. There is also a bottle of red wine that is so delicious I drink it like water.

“What happened to the girl?” I ask Adam. Our plates have cleared, and we are enjoying a second bottle of wine. The sun is setting on the sea—dimming the whole evening into blue hues. The ocean darkens from turquoise to indigo. All of a sudden, the terrace is lit by candlelight.

“Oh,” Adam says. “It was a long time ago. We were young.”

“How young?” I realize I don’t know how old Adam is. Older. Thirty-five? Thirty-eight?

“Young enough,” he says. He laughs. “We were traveling all over, and Positano was her nonnegotiable travel destination, so we came.”

“And you fell in love.”

“With the town, yes. I was already in love with her. She ended up breaking my heart six months later.”

“What happened?”

“A drummer named Dave.”

I nod. “I get it,” I say, although I don’t. I never let myself fall in and out of love. I never had other experiences.

I think about last night, Adam across from me.

“How about you?” Adam asks.

“Me?”

“Have you ever had your heart broken?”

I think about Eric, at college, his goofy charm, weekends driving the coast to Santa Cruz, Costco runs, pizza night at my parents’.

“No,” I say.

Adam smiles. “You know what they say.”

“What?”

“Never trust anyone who hasn’t had their heart broken. It’s a before and after. You never quite see the world the same way again.”

All at once a cloud settles in over my heart. I see my mother, at the hospital, in her bed in Brentwood. The hum and beep of machines.

“I think I need to amend my answer, then,” I say.

“You have?”

I nod.

From across the table, Adam takes my hand. He flips my palm open and grazes his fingers along the inside. I feel his touch up my spine—it gets stuck in my ears, vibrating sound, energy, electricity.

We order dessert. A pot of chocolate and cream I’d like to bathe in. There are delicate chocolate flakes and powdered sugar on top. It might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

“Before we leave,” Adam says, “there’s something we have to do.”

We finish our wine, Adam pays the bill, and then he leads me over to the corner of the terrace. There’s a green door, and inside is a glass elevator. It’s nearly dark now, but the entirety of the hotel is lit up in light.

“After you,” he says.

We get inside, and then we’re going down—descending past the layers of gardens and rooms and terraces and dining areas, deeper into the rock. Past the gardens filled with fresh produce and the spa—down, down, down until we land in the middle of a rock cave.

Adam opens the door, and then I see the elevator has spit us out into a stone grotto. We emerge into the night three hundred feet below where we began. The hotel’s tennis courts are to our right, and to our left is the hotel’s lunch spot, followed by the beach club.

Adam takes my hand and we walk down, over to the chairs. The ocean plays just ten feet over, jumping, lapping at the rocks.