One Italian Summer(52)

“What would you tell me?” I ask her.

Carol doesn’t blink. Her expression doesn’t change a molecule. “I’d tell you that no one knows your marriage or your heart better than you.”

She turns back to the stove. The water is humming now, dancing. Behind us from somewhere, Sinatra sings.

I did it my way.





Chapter Twenty-Three


The pasta is creamy and tangy. The pancetta is salty and fatty. And the tomatoes are plump and sweet. There is wine, and then there is chocolate cake, decorated with powdered sugar and cut fresh strawberries. It’s a dessert I know well, one she has made for me many times before, and there is a supreme comfort in that here tonight. It was a special occasion cake. Carol Silver did not believe in dessert every day. As time went on, my parents assumed a largely vegetarian diet but remained familiar in their habits nonetheless. Special nights were still for chocolate.

We settle on the floor by the sofa, our wineglasses and plates on the coffee table.

“Tell me about the plans for the hotel,” I say.

“The Sirenuse?”

I nod.

“Yes,” she says. “Actually, I already had a preliminary meeting and it went well.” She looks a little sheepish. “They’d like me to come in again.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s great.” Something pulls in my stomach, but I ignore it. “Do you want to show me? I mean, I’d love to see what you’re thinking.”

Carol smiles. “Only if you promise not to judge me.”

The idea of my mother being insecure is laughable, so I laugh. “Are you kidding?” I say. “You’re the most confident person I know. I’m sure whatever you’re doing is great.”

“That’s kind.”

She disappears into the bedroom and then returns with a box. It’s wooden, long, and flat, almost like a drawer. She lifts off the top and takes out papers—there are sketches inside, tons of them. Loose-leaf paper with pencil markings.

“So the first thing you need to know is that the Sirenuse is iconic. Classic old-world Italy. Really just the staple of luxury in Positano. I still have to bring you.”

“That guy at my hotel took me to Il San Pietro,” I say. “A few nights ago. Have you been?”

Carol smiles. “It’s beautiful there, but it’s like another world.”

“True.”

“The Sirenuse is Positano. Two entirely different experiences.”

“I know you said you wanted to make it more Mediterranean,” I say.

Carol squints at her papers. “Well, yes, sort of. Here, I’ll show you.”

She places a map onto the table. It’s of the hotel.

“So here is the entryway.” She sets her wineglass down and points, reorienting the paper. “And if you walk through these doors, there’s this lobby that’s pretty stuffy.”

“The horse decor.”

“Right! Yes, the unfortunate horse decor. And then you keep going, and their terrace is—their terrace is probably the most beautiful place in all of Positano. Not just to have a drink, but to be at all. It’s connected to a restaurant called the Oyster Bar.”

“Sounds fancy.”

Carol nods. “It is. Very fancy. Expensive champagne, the whole thing. I have this mental image of myself as a five-year-old standing out there. Anyway, I think it would be interesting to bring some of the sunlight from outside into the lobby. If you just got rid of this one wall”—she circles with her pointer finger—“you could really make the whole entryway feel like one big terrace. And your welcome would be the ocean instead of some stuffy ottomans.”

I think about our own home. The way the kitchen spilled out onto a deck behind. The big glass windows. The sense of welcome, and nature, and light. Everyone who came to visit fell in love with our house. It’s where my mother hosted birthday parties and anniversary dinners. It’s where she made Shabbat on Fridays, for whoever wanted to come. On the open lawn is where I had both my bat mitzvah and my engagement party—in a tent lined with silk and stars, roses and candlelight.

“It sounds incredible,” I say.

“They’re hearing pitches tomorrow and Thursday,” she says. “I know it’s stupid, I really do. I’m not even Italian or professionally trained. But I feel like I could pull this off. I feel like I have a shot. That sounds ridiculous, right? I sound ridiculous.”

I shake my head. “Not at all.”

She looks down into her wineglass. “Refill?”

“Yes, please.”

“And would you like some tea?”

“Sure,” I say. “I can make it.”

“Okay, so you’re not great in the kitchen, but boiling water is your strong suit.”

“My one and only.”

Carol smiles. She touches my arm. “Well, that’s certainly not true.”

I leave her in the living room and go into the kitchen. I put on the kettle. I open the cupboards. I see three different teas—green, English breakfast, and peppermint.

I take out three tea bags. I pop two into hers, the way I know she likes, and then I take out another and add two to mine, too. When the water boils, I fill the mugs three-quarters of the way up.

“Here you go,” I say. I set the hot cup down on the coffee table.