We Run the Tides(60)

“We live in Lexington,” she says, and I practically gasp. “My husband’s business is based in Kentucky and we’ve been there for years. What about you?”

“San Francisco,” I say.

“You never left,” she says, while looking disapprovingly at my forehead.

“I lived in Lisbon for years—my husband’s from there, and my son was born there. But after my mom passed . . . well, it felt like the right time to move closer to my dad.”

She says nothing about my mother’s death. “What does your husband do in San Francisco?” she asks.

“He coaches soccer at a high school,” I say.

“He volunteers?”

“No, he’s the coach at a new school in the Presidio.”

She asks about the school, and I tell her about it, and about how San Francisco has changed. For a time, the small talk is very small. We could be two people seated next to each other on an airplane, making casual conversation before putting on headphones and ignoring each other for the remainder of the flight.

A different pool boy approaches carrying two glasses of prosecco. He stares at Maria Fabiola’s figure.

“Chin chin,” she says, and clinks her glass against mine.

“Chin chin,” I say.

She takes half the glass in one sip. “Do you see anyone from Spragg?”

“I do, actually.”

“Really? Tell me all the gossip.”

And so I tell her about Julia and her house in Tiburon and her practical shoes and turtleneck sweaters. I tell her about Faith and how her children go to Spragg—how much she loves the school.

Maria Fabiola seems strangely uncurious about Faith and Julia. Instead she surprises me by asking about Milla, a girl on the periphery of our friend group, who now owns a gallery. “That’s a crazy story,” I say.

“Tell me,” Maria Fabiola says, and she relaxes into her chair. For a moment I am taken out of time and place—I could be a schoolgirl on China Beach, gossiping with my best friend.

“Milla has this woman she brings with her everywhere.”

“What do you mean?” Maria Fabiola asks.

“This woman is a kind of advisor,” I explain. “She calls her her Intuition.”

“Excuse me?”

“Milla doesn’t trust her intuition anymore,” I say, “so she pays a woman to be her intuition. She brings her everywhere, and consults with her before making any significant decision.”

“That’s hilarious,” she says. “No one wants to do anything for themselves anymore. We’ve always outsourced our cooking, our cleaning, our childcare . . .”

I smile. I can’t afford to outsource any of these things.

“And now,” Maria Fabiola says, “we outsource our intuition!”

She laughs her genuine cascading laugh. “I’m so happy we ran into each other,” she says, and for a moment, she does seem very happy. And I feel as I did when I was thirteen—that her laughter is a reward, that her attention is a prize.

A man in pink salmon shorts and a white collared shirt makes his way over to us. As he gets closer it dawns on me that this must be Maria Fabiola’s husband. He’s older than we are, probably around fifty-five, but still in good physical shape. He looks like a retired tennis pro, his hair just long enough to imply an artistic side.

“Hi honey,” she says. “How was tennis?”

I thrill at my guess.

He bends down and kisses her on the cheek. His nose is sunburnt and he smells of sunscreen mixed with sweat.

“I beat him again,” he says. Then he looks at me, as though suddenly aware of my presence.

“Eulabee, this is Hugh,” Maria Fabiola says. “Hugh, this is a surprise from the past—this is Eulabee.”

We shake hands. His fingers are tan, his nails buffed.

“How do you two know each other?” he asks, and for a moment I’m speechless. My husband knew Maria Fabiola’s name by our third date.

“We grew up very near each other,” Maria Fabiola says.

This is what it’s come to. I am a childhood neighbor, nothing more.

“Ah, the mean streets of Sea Cliff!” he says. “So glad you survived. Not many people get out of there alive.”

I smile politely and search his face for irony, for knowledge of the reported kidnappings Maria Fabiola and I endured, for awareness of Gentle’s death. His face is blank. He knows nothing.

I look at Maria Fabiola and see only my own reflection in her sunglasses.

He asks if I live in the Bay Area still, and I tell him I do. I tell him I’m a translator. Maria Fabiola removes her glasses and squints at me. “You are?”

“Wow, a dying art form,” Hugh says. “How long are you staying in Capri?”

“We leave tomorrow,” I say. “I’m here with my mother-in-law. And you?”

“A few more nights,” he says. “We come every year for a week, sometimes two.”

“How lovely,” I say, not sounding at all like myself.

“What do you want to do for lunch, babe?” Hugh says to Maria Fabiola. “Should I order you your usual?”

“I’m so tired of eating here,” she says and sighs. She turns to me. “I’ve had the same salad for four days.”