One Italian Summer(59)

“Nothing,” I say. “Nothing. Everything is fine.”

“Okay…” Then Nika holds up her hand like she’s just remembered something. She disappears in the back and returns a moment later holding a letter. “This was returned,” she says. “Your friend Carol mailed it a few weeks ago, but it came back.”

I see the stamp, the Los Angeles address.

“Will you give to her?”

Nika hands it to me, and I tuck it into my shirt. “Yes, absolutely. Thank you, Nika.”

I turn and walk up the stairs, take the elevator, and arrive at room 33. I put the letter down on the bed. I take a shower. I go through the motions of this day. The utter incomprehensibility of everything that has happened, is happening.

I put on a dress; I brush out my wet hair. I think about Carol, right now, getting ready for this meeting. I don’t know if she heard me on the path. I don’t know if I got through to her.

I take out some sandals. The ones I bought at the Century City mall with my mother two Augusts ago during an end-of-summer sale. I didn’t like them. I still don’t. Why did we buy them then? Why did I bring them? They’re my shoes. They’re my feet.

So I don’t put them on. Instead, I put on a pair of white flats. I take a look at myself in the mirror. I’m tanned, freckled—rosy, even. There is no other way to put it: I look healthy. It’s startling after so many months of sunken, hollow skin.

I take my room key and then head back downstairs. I have to go intercept that meeting. I have to make sure Carol understands. She cannot stay here. This is not the life she is meant for. She cannot take this job, and they cannot offer it to her.

I have realized, between the time I left Carol at her door and right now, walking the stairs back down to the lobby, something important. Something obvious. The truth of why I have come and why I have found her here. My mission—to send her home.

“Listen,” I say to Nika when I’m back at the desk. “I need you to do something for me. It’s really important.”

“Of course, Ms. Silver. Anything you need.”

“I need you to tell me how to get to the Sirenuse. And then I need you to please call them and ask if they can find Adam. Tell him I’m on my way and not to meet with anyone until I get there. Not a single person. Can you do that?”

Nika looks at me curiously. “Katy,” she says. The first time she has used my first name. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” I say. “Everything is fine. I just have to hurry.”

She nods. “Okay,” she says. “You follow the same road down, and then by the church, you turn up. It is a big red building—you cannot miss it. If you get lost, you can just ask. Everyone knows the Sirenuse.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I do as she instructed. I take the path down to the ocean, and when I almost get down to the marina, I follow the road up. On the right-hand side, right on Via Cristoforo Colombo, is the Sirenuse. It is set back from the road with a small driveway, the outside of the building a deep and striking red.

It’s a beautiful hotel. Immediately upon entering I feel swept away. I consider her suggested renovations. The scope of the place. In my opinion, it is perfect. I wonder why we try and change anything. We should do it less. Some things do not need to be tampered with.

“Excuse me,” I say to the girl at the front desk. “Do you know where Adam Westbrooke is?”

Her face folds into a frown.

“The meeting about the hotel?” I say. “I’m here to present my designs.”

She brightens. “Yes,” she says. “They are downstairs, in the restaurant.”

I follow the stairs, and then I’m in a mint-green dining room, the ocean behind me, and I see Adam and two older gentlemen seated inside.

“Katy,” Adam says. His face is befuddled. “I thought we were meeting in the marina at two? Is everything all right?”

“Is she here yet?” I ask.

“Who?”

I shake my head. “I need to talk to you,” I say.

The men exchange a glance. Adam shoots them a placating smile.

“Can it wait until lunch? We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

“No,” I say. “No, I’m sorry, it can’t. She’ll be here any minute now.”

“Who? Who are you talking about?”

“Carol.”

“Who is Carol?” Adam asks.

“The designer.”

“The designer?”

One of the men says something I can’t make out in Italian, and Adam holds up his hand to them. “I’m so sorry, one minute.”

He walks out of the room toward me. We step into the hallway together.

“Did they give you my message?” I whisper.

“No,” he says. “What message? What’s going on?” Adam’s face is expectant, concerned, even a little annoyed. And it’s at this moment that Carol comes walking down the stairs.

She looks first at me, then at Adam.

“Hi,” she says. “Katy… what are you doing here?”

“Are you Carol?” Adam asks.

She nods. “Yes, hi.” She tucks her portfolio folder under her arm and extends her hand. They shake.