GRAM, DOMINIC, GIANLUCA, AND I did the cobbler’s tour of Italy in the week before our last day in Arezzo. We drove up to Milan and went through the Mondiale factory, buying enough buckles, clips, and fasteners to supply our shop for another ten thousand pairs of shoes.
While we were in Milan, we met with Bret’s international business connection, a group of Italian financiers who work with designers who coventure in Italy and America. They reinforced Bret’s idea that we develop a line secondary to our custom shoes. I explained to them that we were in development on that front. I mentioned the possibility of the Bergdorf windows, which was an exciting notion to them, as they have done a lot of business with the venerable Neiman Marcus Company that now owns Bergdorf Goodman.
We also went to Naples to meet with Elisabetta and Carolina D’Amico, the embellishment experts. I got lost in their shop, a playground for any designer, rooms of jeweled straps and laces, beaded links, clips and bows. The women have a sense of humor, so their work can be whimsical, shell ornaments on a sea of dyed rice, glued to look like grains of sand on a beach; or miniature jeweled crowns on cameo faces; or my favorite, the Wedding Cake, cushion-cut rhinestones in the shape of a cake across the vamp, with gold charms of a bride and groom at the top of the ankle, affixed with matching straps. Brilliant.
It’s our last morning in Arezzo, and while I’ll miss Signora Guarasci’s soup and my bed with the open windows to let in the night air, I’m anxious to drive to the airport to drop off Gram and to pick up Roman. I try not to show my anticipation because, as happy as I am to go, Gram is equally sad.
She waits for me in the hallway outside our rooms. “I’m ready,” she says quietly.
“I’ll get your luggage.” I go into her room for the suitcase. I’ve already loaded my bags into the car, along with a new duffel filled with fabric swatches. The leather and fabric I ordered are being shipped and should be at the shop by the time I get home.
Signora Guarasci is waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. She’s made us box lunches for the trip, prosciutto and cheese panini, with two cold bottles of Orangina to wash them down. She gives us each a hug and a kiss and thanks us for our patronage.
Gram goes out the front door, takes the banister, and goes down the stairs. Dominic waits for her on the last step. I quickly skip around Gram to give them a private moment.
I go to the car, which is parked at the side of the inn, load her suitcase into the trunk, and wait. Through the thick boxwood hedge, I can see the two of them embrace. Then he dips her, gives her a kiss, backbend style, the likes of which I have not seen since Clark Gable kissed Vivien Leigh, in the commemorative DVD of Gone With the Wind.
“Papa is very sad,” Gianluca says from behind me.
I’m embarrassed to be caught spying. “So is Gram.” I turn to him. “Thank you for everything you did for us on this trip.”
“I enjoyed our talks,” he says.
“Me, too.”
“I hope you visit again sometime.”
“I will.” I look at Gianluca who, after weeks of traveling around with us, has become a friend. When I first met him, I was judgmental, all I could see was the gray hair, the big car, and a daughter nearly my age. Now, I can appreciate his maturity. He is elegant without being vain, and he has excellent manners without being grand. Gianluca is also generous, he put Gram and me first throughout our stay. “I’ll bet you’re happy to see us go.”
“Why would you say that?”
“We’ve taken up so much of your time.”
“I enjoyed it.” He gives me a slip of paper. “This is my friend Costanzo’s number in Capri. Please stop and see him. He’s the finest shoemaker I know. Besides you of course,” Gianluca says and grins. “You must watch him work.”
“I will,” I lie. I don’t plan to look at shoes much less wear them while I’m in Capri. I want to make love, eat spaghetti, and sit by the pool, in that order.
“Well, thank you.” I extend my hand. Gianluca takes my hand and kisses it. Then, he leans forward and kisses me on both cheeks. When his lips brush against my face, his skin smells like cedar and lemon, very cool and clean, reminding me of the first time I climbed in his car, the day we went to Prato. I check my watch. “We’d better be going.”
Gianluca and I walk to the foot of the stairs below the entrance of the Spolti Inn. Gram and Dominic are laughing, doing their best to make their good-bye a happy one. I touch Gram’s arm, but they keep talking as they walk to our car. Dominic helps Gram into the car, while Gianluca holds my door open. I climb in, and he closes the door, checking the handle just as he did when we went to Prato.
Gram sinks into the front seat as I start the car. She’s moving in slow motion, when all I want to do is blow this Tuscan pop stand (my father’s words) and get to the airport, drop off Gram, and pick up Roman, and at long last, let the fun begin.
I peel down the hill to the main street of Arezzo, check the signs, and head for the edge of town to take us to the autostrada.
I look over at Gram, who seemed like a peppy teenager during our stay and now shows every day of her eighty years. The white roots peek through her brown hair, while her hands, folded over her lap, seem frail. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to sound too chipper while she is so sad.
“It’s all right,” she says.
I pick up speed on the autostrada and we sail along at a good clip. The highway is ours today, and I take full advantage. When Gram nods off to sleep, I think that it’s better this way. The more she naps, the less she’ll miss Dominic.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out and open it.
“Honey?” Roman says.
“You landed?”
“No, I’m in New York.”
“They canceled your flight?” My heart sinks. I hate the airlines!
“No, I didn’t make the flight. And I didn’t want to call you in the middle of the night to tell you.”
“What happened?” I raise my voice.
Gram wakes up. “What’s wrong?”
“We got a tip that the New York Times is coming to review us this week, probably Tuesday night, so I’m going to fly out Wednesday and meet you in Capri. I hope you understand, honey.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A review in the Times could make or break me.”
“A vacation in Capri could make or break us.” I’ve never threatened a man in my life. So much for being adorable; what does Katharine Hepburn know about men anyway? She never dated Roman Falconi.
“This is just a delay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Save it. I’m tired of waiting for you to show up when you say you will. I’m tired of waiting for us to begin. I want you to go on vacation like you promised.”
He raises his voice. “This review is really important to my business. I have to be here. I can’t help it.”
“No you can’t, can you? It shows me what’s important to you. I’m a close second to your osso buco. Or am I even in second place?”
“You’re number one, okay? Please, try and understand. I’ll be there before you know it. You can relax until I get there.”
“I can’t talk to you. I’m about to drive into a tunnel. Good-bye.” I look straight ahead; there is nothing but a clear ribbon of autostrada and blue Italian sky. I snap the phone shut and throw it into my bag.
“What happened?” Gram asks.
“He’s not coming. He’s going to be reviewed by the Times and he has to be there. He said he’d fly over Wednesday, but that hardly gives us any time once he lands, gets to Capri, and gets over the jet lag.” I begin to cry. “And I’m going to turn thirty-four years old alone.”
“On top of everything else-your birthday.” Gram shakes her head.
“I am done with that man. This is it.”
“Don’t be hasty,” Gram says gently. “I’m sure he’d rather be with you than at the restaurant with a critic.”
“He’s unreliable!”
“You know he has a difficult professional life.” Gram keeps her tone even.
“So do I! I’m trying to hold it all together myself. But I needed Capri. I needed a break. I haven’t had a vacation in four years. I could almost face the nightmare back home if I could just rest before I had to deal with Alfred again.”
“I know there’s a lot of pressure on you.”
“A lot? There’s too much pressure. And you aren’t helping.”
“Me?”
“You. Your ambivalence. I half-think you’d like to stay in Arezzo and just forget about Perry Street.”
“You’ve read my mind.”
“Well, guess what? We’re both going home today. I am not going to lose everything because of Roman. At least let me keep my job.”
I fish for my BlackBerry to e-mail our travel agent Dea Marie Kaseta. I pull over on the side of the road. I text her:
Need Second Ticket On Alitalia 16 Today 4 pm to NYC. Urgent.
I pull back onto the road.
“I’ve never seen you this angry,” Gram says quietly.
“Well, get used to it. I’m going to stew all the way home to New York.”
The woman behind the counter at Alitalia looks at me with a lot of understanding, but very little hope. There isn’t an extra seat available on flight 16 from Rome to New York. The best Dea Marie could do was get me a hotel room and a ticket to fly out the following morning.
I put my head down on the stainless-steel desk and weep. Gram pulls me off the line so the impatient passengers behind me can pick up their boarding passes. “I’ll go with you to Capri.”
“Gram, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to go to Capri with you.”
“I understand.”
“Why don’t you go with Dominic? The hotel is all set. And I’ll take your ticket and fly home.”
“But you should have a vacation. And Roman said he’s coming on Wednesday.”
“I don’t want him to come at all.”
“You say that now, but Roman will be here soon and you’ll make up.”
Gram opens her phone and calls Dominic. I survey the long line of passengers. Not one look of understanding or sympathy comes my way. I cry some more. My face begins to itch from the tears. I wipe my face with my sleeve. I remember my father’s words to me: Nothing ever seems to go right for you. You have to work for everything. Well, now I have a new revelation-not only do I have to work for everything, but the work may go totally unrewarded. What is the point?
“We’re all set.”
“Gram, what are you talking about?”
“I’m going to Capri with you now. Dominic will join me there. I will stay with him at his cousin’s home, and you can have the hotel room all to yourself.” Gram takes my arm. “Listen to me. Roman didn’t do this on purpose. He’ll be here on Wednesday, and this way, you can have a little alone time before he gets here.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter as she leads me away from the hellish whirlpool of Alitalia check-in and out into the airport. I follow Gram, who now walks ramrod straight, with a spring in her step as she anticipates her reunion with Dominic. I push our enormous luggage cart forward with the full weight of my body through the Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino International Airport. I arrange for another rental car and pile all the luggage back into the trunk of the new rental while Gram straps into the passenger seat in the front. I e-mail Dea Marie for a credit on Gram’s missed flight, asking her to rebook it for the day of Roman’s and my return. I climb into the car and fasten my seat belt.
“See there? There’s a solution to every problem.” Gram throws my cheap inspirational phrase right back in my face like a slap. “On to Capri!”
When we arrive in Naples, I drop the rental car at a location by the docks. I look around for help with the bags, but there doesn’t seem to be the Italian version of red caps working the pier.
I load up another luggage cart with the bags and push them, like a sherpa, to the pier. Our baggage seems to multiply every time I move it, or maybe the carts are getting smaller, I don’t know, but it’s overwhelming. I’m sweating like a prize fighter, my hair is wet by the time I reach the dock.
Gram stands guard next to the cart while I go and buy the tickets for the boat to Capri. We stand in the line as the boat backs into the harbor. When the attendant lets down the gate, a stampede of anxious tourists beats us up the ramp and onto the boat. I send Gram up the ramp and I follow her, pushing the cart.
Just when I think I may collapse, then be crushed under the wheels of my own cart, the ticket taker takes notice of my dilemma and hollers at a kid working on the deck. Finally, someone comes to my aid! He’s tall, with black hair like Roman, and I can’t help but think I wouldn’t need him if my boyfriend had arrived on time. Inside the ferry, I take a seat next to Gram. As the ferry leaves the harbor, I exhale and look out over the sea. A few minutes go by, and then I see the island.
Capri is jammed into the rolling turquoise waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, like a party hat. The jagged cliffs, born of volcanic eruptions thousands of years ago, are draped in vivid jewel tones. Fuchsia flowers cascade over the rocks, bursts of purple bougainvillea spill off the cliffs, while the emerald waves along the water’s edge reveal glossy red coral, like the drips of red candle wax on a wine bottle.
The bustle on the pier in Capri with bellboys from the hotels grabbing bags and loading them onto carts in a frenzy puts me smack in the middle of a Rossellini film where a small village is evacuated during wartime. Porters are shouting in Italian, tourists scramble to flag down drivers, and tour guides wave small flags to herd their groups together. Gram and I stand in the center of it poised out of need, not choice.
I can’t imagine how our luggage will make it to the correct hotel until I recognize the logo of the Quisisana on one of the bellboy’s lapels. I show him our mountain of luggage. His eyes widen and he laughs. “All yours?” he says.
“What’s it going to take?” I shout over the din.
“Just a tip, signorina. Just a tip.” He laughs but he’s getting a big tip based solely on calling me signorina. The i-n-a makes all the difference to a woman turning thirty-four in a matter of days. It’s the difference between miss and ma’am, and I’m grabbing the miss like a winning ticket.
I take Gram’s arm as we climb into an open dune buggy/taxi with a cloth canopy as a roof. The driver speeds up the mountain on hairpin curves, past opulent gates surrounding private villas. The stone walls of ancient palazzos are covered in waxy green vines bursting with white gardenias. The high-rises on the Bay of Naples, from whence we came, look smoky and industrial from here, like a stack of gray shoe boxes in a warehouse.
When we reach the top of the cliffs, the driver drops us off in a piazza. Tourists mill about, corralled into the town square like circus animals in a ring. Elegant shops line the piazza, their entrance doors propped open to encourage customers. The driver points to the street that will take us to our hotel.
Gram and I weave through the tourists. Free of the luggage, I begin to feel like I’m really on vacation. We walk down a narrow street lined with shops that sell coral and turquoise, Prada, Gucci, and Ferragamo. I make note of a small stand where you can buy a fresh coconut ice. The shoppers are shaded by the leafy green pompadours of old cypress trees as they walk the strip.
The Quisisana hotel is tucked into a row of grand stucco fortresses on the top of the cliffs. The hotel looks like the dream set in a lavish Preston Sturges comedy where a runaway heiress, wearing an evening gown of peacock feathers, winds up in Dutch on a jet-set Italian island. It’s spectacular. I look at Gram, whose eyes widen at the sight of it. Her reaction is priceless, but I sure wish it was Roman’s face I was looking at in this moment. She knows what I’m thinking and squeezes my hand.
Inside the hotel, the guests seem to move in slow motion under the Renaissance murals in the grand lobby. The diagonal black-and-white-patterned marble floor is splashed with thick white rugs. Statuary of Roman goddesses on pedestals peeks out of corners, while opulent crystal chandeliers twinkle over soft white silk sofas and chairs covered in gold damask. Glass walls in the back of the hotel reveal a wide staircase to the gardens, with circular sidewalks that wind lazily through patches of green shaded by palm trees.
The visitors on this Italian Brigadoon dress with lavish simplicity, swaths of white silk and cobalt blue cashmere flit by, offset by lots of gold everywhere you look, chains, hoops, drops, and links. Women drip in platinum and diamonds, splashes of glitz against their tawny skin.
I stand near the reception desk, manned by some of the best-looking people I have ever seen. The women have the high cheekbones and straight jaw lines of a Giacomo Manzù marble sculpture. The bellhops, lean and tan, wear white tuxedos with gold epaulets, all of them versions of Prince Charming, saying very little, but eager to please.
I explain my situation. The attendant smiles and gives me a plastic key that looks like a credit card. “Mr. Falconi has taken care of everything.”
This announcement reminds me that Roman really meant to be here today, that he made excellent plans and had a dreamy vacation arranged for us from start to finish even if he isn’t here to share it on day one. It’s not enough to make me forgive him, but at least I’m beginning to look forward to Wednesday in a whole new way.
Gram follows me into a tiny elevator to the top floor, called the attico. When we step off the elevator, there is an alcove with a pale blue tufted love seat and an oil painting of pastel Mondrian-style squares. The wood floors glisten.
Gram and I enter an enormous suite filled with light and beautifully appointed in serene blues and eggshell white. We stop to drink it in, half-expecting to catch Cary Grant and Grace Kelly on the love seat toasting each other with champagne.
I put my purse down on a secretary of cherrywood with gold-leafed accents on a black-leather-inlaid writing surface. A long, white Louis XIV sofa is staggered with pillows covered in blue silk.
Gram whistles, “Wow-ee.”
I walk into the bedroom where a king-size bed is covered by a bright white coverlet, a row of pastel blue buttons up the seam. Beyond the bed is a bathroom with a deep white tub and matching marble double sinks on legs of braided brass. The floor is a kicky sky-blue-and-white-tile pattern. I catch my face in the mirror, drinking in the details of this romantic suite, where everything is outfitted in two’s. My expression says, What a waste without a man!
The French doors off the bedroom open onto a large balcony with a small white wrought-iron table and two chairs in the corner. There’s a chaise longue facing the sun. There’s another chair with a matching ottoman on the other side of the chaise.
I hold the railing and look out beyond the gardens to a stunning oval swimming pool, set in the ground like an agate. Crisp navy-blue-and-white-striped umbrellas are open around the pool, looking like spools of hard candy.
The restaurant where Roman spent a summer working lies beyond the pool. There is an open veranda that leads to stairs and an elegant indoor dining room. The veranda is dressed for dinner, with small tables covered in pristine white tablecloths. Beyond the restaurant and down the jagged stone cliffs is a view of the faraglione, a trio of large rock formations that rise out of the sea, inside which is the famous Blue Grotto.
Summer is almost here, as evidenced by a bunch of small, waxy lemons dangling from a tree in a terra-cotta pot on the terrace. Amateur but serious gardener that I am, I check the black earth in the pot to see if the plant needs water. It doesn’t. Somebody tends lovingly to this little tree. I pull a leaf off the branch and rub it between my hands, releasing the scent of sweet citrus.
The anxiety of the past few hours leaves me as I watch a white yacht cross the horizon leaving a trail of foam on the blue water. The breezes of Capri have the scent of a scooped-out blood orange filled with honey.
“Oh, Valentine. The ocean.” Gram stands beside me on the balcony.
“I’ve never seen anything like this, Gram. You sit. I’m going to get you something to drink.” I go into the room to the refrigerator and pull out two bottles of pomegranate juice. I find glasses on a tray on the secretary.
“Now aren’t you glad I made you come here?” Gram puts on her sunglasses.
“I guess.” I unsnap the bottle opening and pour the juice into the glass. I give it to Gram, and then fill my own glass. “You seem relieved. You really weren’t ready to go home, were you? Why?” I take a sip.
“You know why,” she says quietly.
“Mom is gonna be very hurt that you haven’t told her about Dominic. You might want to call her.”
Gram waves her hand. “Oh, I couldn’t. How would I explain it? It doesn’t make any sense. I’m an eighty-year-old widow with bad knees. On a good day, I feel seventy and on a bad one, I feel ninety-nine.” She sips her drink. “I didn’t count on falling in love at my age.”
“Well, we never do, do we? It’s all fine until you actually submit to the call. Then, overnight, it’s a relationship, all compromise and negotiation. Once he loves you, and you love him, you have to figure out where it’s going and what it means, where to live and what to do. Really, if you boil it all down, love is one giant headache.”
Gram laughs. “You just feel that way today. When Roman takes you in his arms on this balcony, you’ll forgive him. You will if you’re my granddaughter. In our family, we’re built to overlook things that make us unhappy.”
“Gram, that’s the single most unhealthy thing a woman can do. I’m not going to overlook what makes me unhappy! I’m going to seek my own happiness. Why would I settle for less?”
The phone in the room rings. Gram closes her eyes and turns her face to the sun as I go to answer it. She is not about to argue with me.
“Gram, it’s your inamorato. He’s downstairs. He’s got your bags. He’s ready to sweep you away to his cousin’s villa.”
Gram gets up out of her chair and smooths her skirt. “Come with us.” She looks at me tenderly.
“No.”
Gram laughs. “Are you sure?”
“God, Gram, I’m a lot of things, but a third wheel ain’t one of ’em.”
Gram takes her purse and goes to the door. I follow her into the hallway and press the elevator button. The brass doors open and Gram gets on. “Have fun,” I tell her as the doors close. The last thing I remember is her face, shining, bright with anticipation of her reunion with Dominic.
I wake from a nap on the balcony. The sun is low in the sky. I check my watch. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Great, I slept three solid hours. I stand up and look down to the pool. The navy-and-white umbrellas are still up. I see a woman doing laps.
My luggage rests by the closet in the bedroom. I lift out stacks of clothing, new outfits I saved for my week with Roman. I find the red Macy’s bag that Mom sneaked into my suitcase. I open the bag. It’s a new bathing suit. I take the black Lycra suit out of the bag. “No way,” I say aloud as I hold it up in front of myself before the mirror.
Mom bought me a black one-piece bathing suit (so far so good), with a plunging V-neck in the front. Forget plunge, this is a nose-dive. The straps are shirred and wide and create a matching deep V in the back. That would be fine, except for the wide rhinestone belt that anchors the waist across the front. It has an enormous buckle with two interlocking C’s. Faux Chanel when people around here are wearing the real thing. I check the seams on the side of the belt. It’s sewn on. Even if I could remove the belt (and who could since they don’t allow travel scissors through security), it would leave a gaping hole in the fabric and what this suit doesn’t need is more peekaboo.
As I pull the straps of the suit up over my shoulders, I can’t believe my mother bought me this suit. I’m selling something in this getup and it isn’t full coverage. I’m Gypsy Rose Lee on the Italian Riviera, dressed by a determined stage mother whose goal is an engagement ring.
To be fair to Mom, this was probably the only bathing suit in captivity that had a rhinestone belt, and everyone knows that my mother never saw a Swarovski crystal she didn’t like. And it is a one-piece bathing suit, which can be flattering, but this one is so revealing it needs a turtleneck under it.
I look at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The V in the front is so deep it exposes parts of my body that have never experienced direct sunlight. I turn around and look over my shoulder. The back looks okay, but that has more to do with the construction of the suit than my body.
There’s a tag on the suit that says slimsuit, so the rear end of the thing is double backed, which means extra coverage à la the old Spanx. I pose like John Wayne and hang my thumbs on the belt buckle like it holds the directions to the cattle drive. How can I possibly leave this room? I look like the girl who was kicked out of the chorus line for showing too much skin back in the days when they showed a lot. After about ten seconds of internal fashion debate, the blue pool calls to me. What the hell, I tell myself, nobody knows me here, and there surely has been more cleavage on display at the Quisisana. I pull on my black capri pants and hoodie over the suit. I put on my sunglasses, take my key and wallet, and head down to the pool.
A young Italian boy runs over with a towel when he sees me standing at the side of the pool. “Grazie,” I say as I tip him.
The water is the same shade of turquoise as the ocean, made more deeply blue against the contrast of white trim and white statuary in the shallow end. Beyond the low walls, the waiters set the tables for dinner, unleashing a series of dark blue awnings overhead. I look around. There’s no one in the water, and only one woman on a chaise reading David Baldacci’s Simple Genius. I have the pool to myself. Heaven.
I unzip my hoodie and slip off my capris. I wade into the warm water until it’s up to my neck. I shuffle the water on the surface with my hands. I lift my feet off the bottom and float in the silkiness. I extend my feet in front of me, until I’m floating on my back. I close my eyes and let the gentle rolls of the water envelop me.
The late-afternoon sky is powder blue, and a breeze from the grove beyond the hotel carries the scent of ripe peaches. After a while, I swim over to the lion statuary in the shallow end. I catch the water in crystal bursts as it flows through my hands. The warm water and soft breeze comfort me as the sun sets. What will I do for dinner? I have no plans, so I swim.
Back and forth I go, from the shallow to the deep end, doing a slow Capri version of laps, owning the pool. My arms hit the water in rhythmic strokes, and soon I’m panting. I float on my back again. I imagine, years from now, I’ll remember this, me in a tacky bathing suit, alone at a glamorous resort. I think about Gram’s advice to overlook what makes me unhappy. Hilarious, as she seeks her own happiness this minute at a villa with Dominic.
The pool boy snaps the umbrellas down, signaling that the pool is closing. The umbrellas look like blue pins sticking into the purple sky. He straightens the chaise longues into a wide circle, then rolls a hamper of towels behind a rattan screen.
“Valentina?” I hear someone call my name. I pirouette in the water and look toward the voice.
“Gianluca?” I shade my eyes from the setting sun. Gianluca kneels by the pool, holding my towel. The lady with the thriller, and the pool boy, are gone, it’s just Gianluca and me. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t let Papa drive to Naples alone.”
I climb up the steps and out of the pool. Gianluca holds the towel, and like everything else in Italy, he moves slowly as he hands it to me. I extend my hand, dripping water on his arm. I pat his arm where the water goes. Then I open the towel and wrap it around me like a cape.
“Coco Chanel?” He points to the belt.
“Chuck Cohen.”
“Chuck Cohen?” he says, confused.
“It’s a knockoff.”
“Si, si,” he laughs. “Outlet?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I hold up my hand. “My mother is an outlet queen. Long story.”
“Mi piace.” Original or not, he likes the suit.
“Gianluca, I’m in no mood to flirt. Let me warn you. I’m basically a blowfish filled with so much angst, that if I hit a wall, I’d explode. I’m supposed to be with my boyfriend on this romantic island; instead I’m alone and just north of miserable. Capisce?” I pull the towel tightly around me, like a bandage. I am the walking wounded in a towel embossed with a giant Q.
“Capisce. What are you doing for dinner?”
“To tell you the truth, I was going to order up and watch a movie.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I do when I’m alone.”
“But you’re not alone. I’m here.”
Gianluca, like all men of a certain age, looks best in fading sun. The gray in his hair turns silver, his height is magnified, and his strong features throw just the right amount of shadow on his bone structure, giving the impression of youthful invincibility or wise old warrior. Take your pick. I size him up as a night breeze happens through. I could do worse for a dinner companion, plus, the idea of eating alone in the attico suite without Roman borders on self-punishment. So I say, “Let me get dressed.”
I check my BlackBerry while Gianluca waits in the lobby. Roman has sent a total of eleven text messages, all of them dripping with apology when they’re not loaded with promises of great sex and endless sampling of regional wine. I scroll through the texts like they’re a Chinese take-out menu and I’m trying to get to the noodles. I have decided to stay mad at him for the time being, and I believe I am entitled. Instead of texting Roman, I dial my mother.
“Ma, how are you?”
“Forget me. How are you?”
“I’m on Capri. You don’t have to pick Gram up at the airport.”
“I heard all about it. She called. How nice she has a good friend to show her around. She must have made wonderful alliances on her travels.”
“Are you watching Jane Austen?” My mother’s turns of phrase are a dead giveaway that she’s on a British bender.
“Sense and Sensibility was on last night. How did you know?” she says. “Listen, honey, she told me about Roman. I’m sorry. What can I say? The man has an all-consuming career. This is the price of success. You’ll just have to be patient.”
“I’m trying. But Ma-the bathing suit?”
“To die for?” she squeals.
“If you’re Pussy Galore in a James Bond movie.”
“I know! It’s so retro and chic. Very Lauren Hutton Vogue 1972.”
“The belt?”
“I love the belt! They’re good rhinestones.”
I knew she’d defend the paste. “Ma, it’s too much.”
“On Capri? Never. Liz Taylor and Jackie O vacationed there. Believe me, they dazzled at the pool and why shouldn’t my daughter?”
“That’s how you justify this suit?”
I hang up the phone and slip off the hotel robe. I take a bath with the Quisisana shower gel that’s loaded with shea butter, vanilla, peach, and some woodsy pine. I smell so good, I could fall in love with me tonight.
I pick out a cute black skirt and a white blouse with billowing poetry sleeves. Somewhere in my mother’s old magazines, there was a dog-eared page with a picture of Claudia Cardinale on a Roman holiday, and she wore a similar getup. I pull out silver sandals with a simple pearl closure on the ankle. I spritz on my Burberry and head for the elevator.
I walk the long hallway to the main entrance. All sorts of couples of different ages are dressed for dinner and milling around the lobby. I walk through them and go outside. Gianluca is waiting for me at the outdoor bar. I wave to him. He stands as I approach.
“I ordered you a drink,” he says. My drink rests on the table with his. He pulls out my chair. I sit, and then he does. He picks up his drink and toasts me. “I’m sorry your trip didn’t work out the way you had hoped, Valentina.”
“Roman will be here on Wednesday.”
“Bene.”
“However, I won’t be nice to him until Friday.”
“Why do you let him treat you this way?”
“He’s running a business. Sometimes things are out of his hands.” I can’t believe I’m defending Roman, but the tone in Gianluca’s voice makes me defensive. “You don’t know him. All you know is that he was supposed to come to Capri, and he had to cancel, but he’ll be here as soon as he can. It’s not the end of the world.”
“But this is your first visit.”
“Right.”
“You should see it with someone you love.”
“I will see it with someone I love. Just not today.”
We finish our drinks and join the throngs of visitors on the small cobblestone street that weaves through town. We walk for a while and then Gianluca steers me off the busy street and through a wooden gate. He closes the door behind us.
“This way,” he says, leading me through a garden and under a portico to the back of the building. Carved into the side of the mountain is a small restaurant, built on the incline. Every seat is taken with people who look more like locals than the fancy guests of the Quisisana. No Bulgari jewels, Neapolitan gold, Prada purses, or cashmere here. Just lots of clean, pressed cotton with embroidered details and fine leather sandals. I fit right in. These are my people, the working class, relaxing after a hard day’s work.
The maître d’ smiles at Gianluca when he sees him. He shows us to a table overlooking the bluffs to the sea below. The tables remind me of Ca’ d’Oro, intimate and beautifully set. I must remember to bring Roman here. “What’s this restaurant called?” I ask.
“Il Merlo. It means blackbird,” Gianluca replies.
We sit at our table. The waiter doesn’t bring a menu, just a bottle of wine. He opens the bottle and pours.
“La sua moglia, bianco e rosso?” the waiter asks.
“Rosso,” Gianluca tells him.
“Excuse me. But did the waiter just call me your wife?”
“Si.” He grins.
“Oh, okay. Either you look young, or I look old. Which is it?”
Gianluca laughs.
“Not funny. In my family old is something to avoid and deny until death, when it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s a downer.”
“What does that mean?”
“A downer is the opposite of hope. La speranza. Non la speranza.”
“Ah, so…I’m too old for you.”
“I don’t mean to insult you,” I say. “But your daughter is almost my age. Well, not almost. I could be her sister.”
“I see.”
“So, it’s really Mother Nature talking, not me. I don’t think you’re old, in fact, in many circles a fifty-two-year-old is young. Just not for a thirty-three-year-old woman.”
The waiter brings us tiny shrimp in olive oil and a basket of small rolls. Gianluca scoops up the shrimp with the bread. I do the same. “How old is Roman?” Gianluca asks.
“Forty-one.”
“So, he could be my brother.”
“Technically, yes.” I scoop up some more shrimp. “I guess.”
“But he is not too old for you.”
“Oh, God, no.”
Gianluca nods his head slowly and looks out to sea. Between the coconut-and-rum cocktail at the hotel, and the wine I’m sipping now, I’m feeling chatty. “Look, Gianluca, even if you were thirty-five, I could never go out with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because your father is dating my grandmother. Now, if that isn’t a Jerry Springer episode waiting to be Tivoed, I don’t know what is. If your father married Gram, you would be my uncle. Are you beginning to see the picture here?”
He laughs. “I understand.”
“Look, you’re a handsome man. And you’re smart. And you’re a good son. These are all wonderful attributes.” I scan Gianluca for more positives. “You have your hair. In America, that would send you to the top tier of Match.com. I just don’t think of you that way.”
Gianluca reaches across the table and dabs my chin with his napkin.
“I cannot argue with that,” he says.
I lean on the railing of the balcony outside my room as a full moon pulls up over the faraglione, throwing silver streamers of light on the midnight blue water. I feel full and happy after that delicious dinner. Gianluca can be a lot of fun for an older man. I like how Italian men take care of things. He reminds me of my father and my grandfather, and even my brother, all of whom swoop in, like the Red Cross, during a crisis. That’s why I’m so impatient with Roman. I know what he’s capable of, so when he can’t fix something, I assume it’s because he doesn’t want to.
I hear muffled voices, followed by soft laughter as two lovers make their way back into the hotel from the garden below. I watch as they weave through the cypress trees on the twirling path, stopping only to kiss. If you can’t be happy on the isle of Capri, I doubt there’s anyplace on earth you could be.
I go inside to my bedroom and pull the sheer draperies to the side, leaving the terrace doors open. I climb into bed and lie back on the pillows. The gauzy moonlight cuts a white path across my bed, like a bridal veil.
I put my hand on the pillow next to me and imagine Roman there. I can’t stay mad at him, and I don’t want to. Maybe I had too much to drink and the island alcohol triggered my forgiveness. Maybe I want romance more than acrimony. Whatever it is, I’ll call him in the morning and tell him about the cobblestone streets, the pink stars, and this bed, which seems to float over the ocean when the doors are open and the night breeze happens through. The anticipation of sharing all of this and more with Roman sends me into a deep sleep.