One Italian Summer(9)

“Buonasera, signora,” he says. “Can I help you?”

I realize I left my itinerary upstairs. I have no idea if we had reservations for tonight here, or somewhere else, even, but I haven’t eaten since a panini at the train station, maybe seven hours ago.

“Is it possible to have dinner here?” I ask.

He smiles. “Of course,” he says. “Anything is possible. We are at your service.”

“Grazie,” I say. It sounds harsh and so American. “Thank you.”

He gestures for me to follow him out onto the terrace. “Right this way.”

Half of the terrace is the pool and lounge chairs, with a row of small tables for drinks and food, but to the right is a covered area, dripping in vines and flowers, with lanterns strung overhead like lights. There are white metal tables covered with white-and-red-checkered cloth, and waiters in slim ties weave in and out of the glass doors.

“For you,” he says. “The best table we have to offer.”

He leads me over to a two-top on the edge of the terrace, right up against the wrought iron fence. The view is breathtaking. A front-row seat to a sun that seems as if it will never set. All around the light is golden and liquid and heavy, like it’s just beginning on its second glass of wine.

“This is beautiful,” I say. “I’ve never seen a place like this before.” Every corner is just begging to be photographed. I think about the camera I have tucked away upstairs. Tomorrow.

He smiles. “I am so glad you are happy, Ms. Silver. We are here to help.”

He leaves, and another young waiter appears with a menu, a bottle of still water, and a basket of bread.

I unfold the white napkin and pull out a slice, still warm from the oven. I spill some olive oil into an oval plate, hand-painted with blue fish, and dip. The bread is delicious, the olive oil tangy. I eat two more slices immediately.

“Something to eat and drink?”

The waiter is back, hands tucked by his sides.

“What do you recommend?” I ask. I haven’t even opened the menu.

At home we don’t cook; we mostly order in or go to my parents’ house. Eric likes Italian food, but the vaguest remnants satisfy him. We get pizza from Pecorino, or even sometimes Fresh Brothers. Chinese takeout from Wokshop, salads from CPK. Once a week, I pick up a roast chicken from the market—Bristol Farms or Whole Foods—and some bags of broccoli and carrots. I have always felt a little bad for Eric that I did not inherit my mother’s skill in the kitchen, but he always says he’s just as happy with a sandwich as he’d be with a steak.

It strikes me that I’m not sure I’ve ever been out to eat alone. I cannot recall sitting down at a table, opening up a napkin, being poured a glass of wine, and picking up a fork without some level of conversation.

He smiles. “Tomato salad and the homemade ravioli. Simple. Perfect. You want wine, too, no?”

“Yes.” Definitely, yes.

“Excellent, signora. You will be very happy.”

He leaves, taking the menu with him, and I sit back into my chair. I think about my mother here, all those many years ago. Looking out over this same view. Young and carefree, with no idea what the future held for her or how things would turn out. I find myself wishing that I had a blank slate. That I hadn’t already entangled myself so deeply—marriage, a house, a life that is not movable, at least not without destruction.

“Ms. Silver.”

I hear a voice behind me. It’s the woman from the front desk. She stands, her hands held in front of her. She’s wearing a crisp white button-down and a pair of jeans.

“Hi, good evening,” I say.

“Yes, good evening. You look well. Positano is already good for you.”

I look down at my dress. “Oh, thank you.”

“Are you settling in?”

I nod. “Yes, it’s gorgeous here, thank you.”

She smiles. “Good. My name is Monica. I realize we did not get to properly meet downstairs. This is my hotel. Anything you need, you ask us, okay? We are your family here.”

“Okay,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”

“You have a boat ride for tomorrow. To Da Adolfo beach club, and a reservation for lunch. It is early in the season, so it will not be a problem if you want to schedule it for a different time. Perhaps you can rest here and explore the town a bit tomorrow.”

She smiles that warm, open smile. I look out over the remaining pool loungers.

“That would be great,” I say. “Thank you. That sounds better.”

“Perfetto,” she says. “Tony told me you are having the ricotta ravioli tonight. Excellent choice. I always put a little lemon in to brighten it up. I hope you enjoy.”

I laugh. It surprises me, it has been that long. “He chose for me.”

“One should always let waiters choose food, and builders choose wood,” she says. “Something my father used to say.”

She begins to back away, and I stop her. “Monica,” I say. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “You are most welcome.” She surveys the terrace. “It’s a beautiful night.” She turns her attention back to me. “Tomorrow I’m going to Roma on business for a few days, but anything you need, my staff will take care of. We hope you enjoy your stay, Ms. Silver. We are so very glad you have come to us here.”