One Italian Summer(41)

“Do you want to sit?” he asks me.

I take a seat on a lounge chair, and he sits down beside me, on the same one. I can feel Adam’s shoulder against mine, and then the hint of his chest pressing into my back.

Down here, at the ocean, the evidence of nightfall is apparent. The moon slowly rises, the whole beach hovering in that space between things. I hug my arms to my chest.

“Are you cold?” Adam asks.

I shake my head. I am not cold. Not at all.

From next to me, gently, I feel him put a hand on the back of my neck and run it down my arm to cup my elbow. I breathe out into the night air.

“Adam,” I say.

I turn to face him. Like last night, I have a powerful, nearly impossible-to-say-no-to urge to kiss him, to throw myself into his arms and feel his skin everywhere. But I don’t. Because I have Eric, and whatever is happening here can’t be enough to forget that.

“Hmm?”

“I can’t,” I say. I want to cut off my own tongue.

Adam removes his hands, slowly, from my body. “I understand,” he says. “Do you want to go?”

I shake my head. I rearrange myself so my back is against the back of the chair. Adam sits up next to me. I feel his breathing beside me—in and out, in and out, like the tide.

We stay and watch the waves until the sky is near black. Until the stars look down on the boats at sea like steady, unblinking eyes.





Chapter Nineteen


Adam is gone the following day, traveling up to Naples for work, and I spend it looking everywhere for Carol. I go to Chez Black and wander down to the marina. I try the shuttered doors of Bella Bar: nothing. I wait by the entrance to the hotel for a solid two hours, but finally at 9 p.m., I have to concede defeat. She’s not here.

I eat a bowl of pasta Carlo sends out to me on the patio. What if I’ve lost her again?

I should have made a plan. I should have said, I’ll meet you here at 10 a.m. tomorrow. But I was drunk and happy and I forgot.

A few tables over, a group of thirtysomethings laughs over a bottle of wine. I have the impulse to pull up a chair, to talk to them, to express some of the wild and wonderful and complicated and confusing things that are happening in my life, in this foreign place, right now.

But I don’t talk to strangers. My best friend is a woman named Andrea whom I met in college and who lives in New York. She came out for the funeral, but we got no time together. The last time I remember us sitting down to dinner was at least a year ago. Eric and I never go to New York anymore, and Andrea is busy being a public relations manager. Watching these women now, though—laughing, drinking, talking—I feel a wave of regret that I haven’t prioritized our relationship. That I’ve let so much drift so far.

I finish my food and go upstairs. I sleep fitfully and give up entirely before the sun comes up.

At six I go down to breakfast in search of coffee. I got maybe three hours, combined, of sleep last night. Breakfast isn’t open yet, but Carlo is setting up the tables.

“Buongiorno, Ms. Silver,” he says.

“Carlo, any chance you have some coffee?”

Carlo gestures to the kitchen. “I’ll look. One moment.”

I linger on the patio. There’s a similar chill in the air to yesterday. But the whole town is still gray and blue.

Carlo returns two minutes later with a steaming Americano. It’s almost black in color. Perfect.

“Grazie,” I say. “Thank you a million.”

“A million not necessary,” he says. “But you are welcome. Shall I set the table?” He gestures to my usual spot, under the umbrella.

“No thank you,” I tell him. “Maybe later.”

I take my coffee and sit in a lounge chair by the pool. Without caffeine, everything feels as foggy as the day around me. I take a few sips.

Where is she?

When I was young, just a baby, really, my mother used to sing to me every night. I’d always request the song, the one that goes: My mommy comes back, she always comes back, she always comes back to get me. My mommy comes back, she always comes back, she never will forget me.

My mother used to sing it in a ridiculous Disney voice, making the whole thing just silly enough to almost eclipse the meaning. Almost. But it was her way of saying she’d always be there; she’d never leave.

I go back upstairs and put on my tennis shoes. I rub on some sunscreen, grab my sun hat, and then head up the Positano stairs. I get to the landing after ten heart-pumping minutes but keep pushing up. When I reach the Path of the Gods, I’m soaked. I take a swig of water and survey the day.

The haze is burning off, and the morning is breaking through. It looks to be another picture-perfect day. From up here, you can see all the way out into the ocean. It’s not quite the panorama that Il San Pietro provided, but it’s close. I can even make out the island of Capri.

There isn’t another soul up here. I have the path entirely to myself. The coffee has kicked in, and the combination of caffeine, fresh air, and exertion has me feeling awake. I’m about to decide whether I want to walk the path, additionally, when I hear footsteps behind me.

I hold my breath, expecting to see Carol pop up, please please please, but instead it’s Adam.

“Hey,” he says. “Look who it is.”

“Were you following me?”