“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.