One Italian Summer(50)

But standing here in this small Italian store, in this small Italian town, with my mother who very much is and is not at the same time, I realize how much of her life I was always missing. She knew me completely, but it didn’t work both ways; it couldn’t. Look how much life was lived before I ever even arrived. Look at who she was before she met me.

I think about her childhood in Boston, school in Chicago, moving to Los Angeles. I think about the death of her own mother—so young, far younger than me—and her warm but removed father. Who taught her how to love? Who taught her how to be the woman she became, the woman she is here today?

Carol pays, and we carry on with a small paper bag full of groceries.

“It’s a steep climb,” she says. “But quick. Are you okay in those shoes?”

I look down at my espadrilles. They’re already rubbing. “Sure,” I say. “No problem.”

We take the stairs. After two flights, I have to rejigger my dress so it’s looped over my arm.

“You’re doing great,” Carol says. “Almost there. You know I’ve been climbing the stairs almost daily since I saw you? It’s actually a great way to start the morning once you get over the leg cramping and potential cardiac arrest.”

I laugh. “I agree.”

After another minute, we reach a split in the stairs. One set leads up and to the left, the other straight ahead, and to the right there is a small turquoise door.

“We’re here,” Carol says. She hands me the paper bag, a sign of casualness and warmth that fills me with a particular kind of ease, and takes out her key.

Inside is immediately warm and bright and cozy. Carol’s taste is not my mother’s, not even close, and this is a temporary living space, of course, but there is a familiarity here that I would recognize anywhere. A small kitchen that spills into a living room. To the right is a bedroom and beyond the living room, a balcony. The view is not the same as at Hotel Poseidon, but it looks out over town, and you can see the ocean beyond. A sarong covers the couch. There is a brightly colored rug on the wood floor. A map of Greece is taped to the wall. The whole place feels a little like an English cottage in the middle of the Mediterranean.

“This is lovely,” I say.

“Oh, thanks. If you want, you can take your shoes off.” She gestures to a rack by the door. “But fair warning, the floors might be a bit dusty.”

Dusty floors? Carol? I kick off my shoes, intrigued by the possibility of dirt in a Silver house.

It feels good to release my feet. I set my espadrilles down by her tennis sneakers and a pair of flip-flops.

“Red or white?” Carol asks. “Or I could make negronis.”

“Whatever you prefer,” I say. “I’m easy.”

Carol sticks her hands on her hips and surveys me. “But what do you want?”

I consider the question. “Red.”

Carol nods. “Me too.”

She disappears into the kitchen, and I make my way around the living room. I want to take it all in. This place Carol resided—resides—in, even briefly.

There are small remnants of her everywhere—a pile of New Yorkers on the coffee table, a vase of half-dead flowers, a sweater tossed over the chair by the dining nook. Intentioned clutter.

I pick up the sweater and hold it to my nose, breathing her in.

“I opened a bottle of Montepulciano,” she says. She comes around the corner and catches me with the sweater.

“Soft,” I say.

“Oh, thanks. I’m newly obsessed with stitching and fabric. I can’t tell if it makes me look like my grandmother, but I like the feel of the materials. Here.” She hands me a glass. I take it.

“Have you been crocheting?”

“Knitting,” she says. “A bit. It’s enjoyable to do something just because.”

“I know what you mean. I brought a camera here, and I’ve been taking some photos.” I take a sip of the wine. “Maybe that’s my vocation.”

Carol laughs. “Well, I’ll tell you, knitting definitely isn’t mine.”

My mother knew fabric—textures and textiles and materials. She could hold a sweater in her hands and tell you what she thought it should cost. You won’t knit, I think. But you’ll use this, all of it.

“I’m going to start dinner. You can take your wine out onto the patio?” She gestures toward the French doors that lead outside.

I look down into the kitchen. “Could I help you?”

She smiles. It feels warm, so very safe and familiar. “I’d like that.”

One side of the kitchen is wide open, leading into the living room, and I perch on a stool opposite Carol as she takes ingredients out of the bag, refrigerator, cabinets. Olive oil and flaky salt and tomatoes and fresh lemons. Ricotta and pancetta.

“Do you cook?” she asks me.

“No,” I say. “Not really, I’m not very good.”

She shakes her head. “You’re too self-deprecating.”

“I swear,” I say. “I’m very bad at it.”

“The difference between being good and bad at something is just interest,” Carol says. “Would you like to learn?”

“Yes,” I tell her.

“Lemon ricotta pasta and tomato salad.”