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.