“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 ne
ed, 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 eye
s 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.
Very Valentine Page 29
