One Italian Summer(44)

His eyes scan my face. And then he ducks back under the water. When he emerges, he’s back close to the boat.

“Come on, Silver,” he says. “We’ve got a day to get underway.”

We climb back on and towel off, and Amelio guides us between the rocks and into the cove, right up to the dock that bobs and weaves with the water.

Adam takes my hand and helps me onto the wooden plank.

“Thank you!” I call to Amelio.

“Come back maybe four or four-thirty.”

Amelio nods. “No worry!”

He gestures out to sea, out to the blue water that surrounds us, miles of it in every direction.

Once we’re on land, I take in our surroundings.

Blue-and-white-striped umbrellas dot the scenery like camera flashes. Underneath them beachgoers lounge in chairs. Some linger on the rocks; others swim. The beach club isn’t crowded—more pleasantly populated. Beyond the rocks, there is a thatched building with the words La Fontelina on a wooden sign.

“I’ve heard of this place,” I say, remembering. My mother and I had reservations at the neighboring beach club, Da Luigi.

“Welcome to heaven,” Adam says. “Come on.”

We check in at a stand and are handed two beach towels. A porter guides us over to two lounge chairs, a stone’s throw away from the water. He sets up an umbrella overhead.

“This is spectacular,” I say.

I haven’t bothered to put my cover-up back on, and I toss my towel down, then plop onto the lounge chair.

“Just wait until lunch,” Adam says. “They have one of my favorite restaurants in Amalfi.”

I stretch out, feeling the sun on my legs.

Adam takes out a book. It’s his copy of A Moveable Feast, the one he traded at the lending library by my room the day I met him.

“Is it good?” I ask.

“It’s a classic.”

“And?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s very good. It reminds me of the best and worst of Paris. The romantic tragedy of that place.”

“Does your mom go back often?” I ask.

“Yes, about once a year. Her sister still lives there, my aunt. They are close, and I think it’s hard for my mother, being so far away from her.” He pauses, looks down at my bag. “Did you bring anything to read?”

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I’m very content.”

I say it, and I realize I mean it. I feel a strange calm take over my body. I close my eyes. There’s a breeze off the water, and the umbrella overhead keeps me well shaded.

We sun for a little while. I doze in and out of sleep—lulled by the sounds of the ocean, the peace of this place.

“Are you interested in heading up to the restaurant?” Adam asks me after about an hour. “We can order some wine before lunch.”

“Sounds great.”

I toss my cover-up on, and we climb the steps into the breezy building.

We’re seated out on the deck, overlooking the rocks, the whole ocean splayed out in front of us.

Adam orders us an ice-cold bottle of Sancerre. It’s sweet and delicious. I gobble down a glass.

From our perched spot you can see all blue, clear water and the three rocks of Faraglioni. They rise out of the ocean like Viking warriors, stacks of the sea. A hundred meters high, like cliffs themselves. The middle rock is an archway, where you can pass through. It’s impossible not to recognize them from thousands of photographs—on Instagram, or otherwise.

Adam follows my gaze. “You know the story about those, right?”

I nod.

If you kiss while entering through the archway of the middle rock, you will be happy in love for the next thirty years.

Thirty years. As old as I am. Thirty years. As old as my mother is here now.

“That’s a long time,” I say.

“Not here,” he tells me.

My stomach rumbles. I feel like I’m always hungry. That something in me that has been shut off is waking up now. Ready to be fed.

We order. A plate of grilled vegetables, seared octopus, creamy burrata and vine tomatoes, and lobster pasta. A tossed green salad and light dinner bread round out the meal.

I eat. And eat and eat.

“I could constantly consume food here,” I say. “I feel like I’m bottomless.”

“I know,” Adam tells me. “I told you. The food is amazing. Italian food has that effect. When the ingredients are high quality and simple, the meal is satisfying and doesn’t sit on you.”

I have a memory of Adam tapping his stomach, claiming to have gained ten pounds.

I take another sip of Sancerre. I’m pretty sure we’re now on our second bottle. My limbs feel pleasantly loose. There is a happy buzzing in my chest.

“Do you always come to Italy for work now?” I ask him.

“Not always,” he says. “We have a hotel in Rome, but Positano is a nice place to come in between when you have a little time off.”

“It’s pretty romantic,” I say out of nowhere. It’s the wine. I have the impulse to cover it with more words, but I don’t.

Adam raises an eyebrow at me. “Yes, I agree. It is.”

My stomach pulls, imagining Adam here with some other girl. Maybe he met her, like me, at the hotel. Maybe she was American, too. Or Swiss. Or French. Some fabulous brunette with legs a mile high and a tiny kerchief at her neck. Annabelle. No, Amelie.