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.