We Run the Tides(63)

Hugh tells me he’s happy to meet me since he has met so few of his wife’s friends from childhood, from San Francisco. “I always imagine what it would be like to live there,” he says. “My company has an office near Cupertino so I could make the switch. We know a man who works in real estate. High-end properties. His name is Wallenberg. Do you know him?”

“I used to,” I say. The last time I saw Axel Wallenberg in person was at the welcome-back party for Maria Fabiola. “He went to a different school.”

“That’s right. It must have been so strange for you women to grow up in an all-girls school. You know what Maria always says.”

My eyes open wide. He calls her Maria.

“She says that you were all molded into being replicas of one another. She says the only way out was to be extraordinary.”

I’m at a loss for words. “Well, she is extraordinary,” I finally say.

He smiles a polite smile. This is something he hears often. He signals to the waiter that he’d like coffee.

“Do you think if you moved to the Bay Area you’d send your daughters to Spragg?” I ask.

Hugh stares at me. “My daughters?” he says. Something about the way he looks at me makes me fearful. “Who told you I had daughters?” he asks.

Oh god, I think. “Maria Fabiola told me . . .” I say. “She told me about her three daughters.”

“Can we go outside for a minute?” he says and stands without waiting for my response.

We walk out onto the balcony and find two middle-aged women admiring each other’s bracelets. “No,” he mumbles and turns. I follow him to a staircase off the rear of the breakfast room. He suddenly looks like a man who desperately needs a vacation, not like a man who is in the midst of one.

“You have to understand,” he says, as though he is going to tell me the secret to life. But instead of sharing he is so silent I can hear the still air. “She does this . . . ,” he starts to say.

A maid ascends the staircase with fresh tablecloths. She seems surprised to see us there. “Scusatemi,” she says, but Hugh seems unaware of his surroundings and barely moves to let her by. She hustles past us.

“We don’t have daughters,” he says and opens his fists like a magician at the end of a trick. “We’ll probably never see you again, but I wanted to correct the record in case you talk to your other friends.” Hugh looks at me meaningfully. It’s clear he’s been in a situation like this before.

I stare out at the ocean. I think back to my lunch with Maria Fabiola. Of course she said she had three children. I had one, and had two miscarriages. That made three. I contemplate asking Hugh if Maria Fabiola’s really planning to buy the hotel, the festival, but suddenly I’m exhausted, and besides, I know the answer.

*

INêS AND I TAKE THE FUNICULAR down to the port, and board our ferry. She wants to sit on top and secures two seats near the bow. “You know that Homer wrote about this island,” she says.

I ask her to remind me. I haven’t read The Odyssey since Mr. London’s class.

“This is where the sirens called from, where they lured the sailors to their deaths. Odysseus put wax in the ears of his sailors so they wouldn’t hear their song. But Odysseus wanted to hear it, so he tied himself to the mast so he could listen without being tempted.”

The ferry pulls away from the port.

“I’m thirsty,” Inês says. “Are you?”

I walk downstairs to the snack bar. As I’m returning, my phone begins to ring. The call is from a number I don’t recognize, so I ignore it.

A second later I get a text. It’s a photo of three beautiful, dark-haired girls. Another text comes through. “My babies,” it says.

Maria Fabiola has my number from my business card. I zoom in on the photo. I’m not sure whose three girls they are, but she did a good job—they look like her, ethereal-eyed and with her full lips.

Inês is watching Naples coming toward us at a turtle’s pace. I hand her a bottle of water and sit next to her, inhaling her nutmeg scent.

Another text comes through. Maria Fabiola is asking me to submit the photo of the girls to the Spragg alumnae bulletin. “Simone is the troublemaker,” one says. “Cleo is the peacemaker,” says another. “Mirabella is the enigma,” says another. “A little bit like you.”

The texts keep coming, the arrival of each announced by the phone’s loud sing-song alert. “Hope they don’t turn out like those models yesterday!” reads one, followed by “Bitches!”

“That was a joke because of the models!” reads the next.

I turn down the volume and place the phone deep in my bag.

When we arrive in Naples, the ferry lurches forward, and then back before righting itself. The passengers all rush to the doors. I gather our suitcases and help Inês off the boat. My phone rings again, louder now. The jostling in the bag must have turned the volume back up.

I look behind me at Capri, as though I can see Maria Fabiola there calling, calling.

“Who keeps trying to reach you?” Inês asks.

“Long story,” I say.

We’re surrounded by tourists rushing to get onto the ferry, to go where we’ve been. I steer our suitcases through the throng. I’m sweating in the heat.