“You have got to be kidding.” I point to the sign. “You mean it’s true?”
I step down into his arms and he lifts me into the rowboat.
“Stay low,” Gianluca instructs me. I duck my head as we enter the grotto. At first, all that I see is a gray cavern, the stone entrance, and then, as Gianluca rows, we enter the blue.
When I was a girl, I was obsessed with panorama Easter eggs, the kind made of white sugar shells decorated with swirls of colored icing. There was a window at the end of the candy egg, and when you held it up to look inside, a scene would be depicted. With one eye, I would study a field of swirly green icing for grass, a miniature princess in a tulle skirt sitting on a tiny mushroom flecked with sugar, a green candy frog resting near her feet, and bright blue jelly beans, placed around the scene like stones in a garden. I would look inside the egg for hours, imagining what it would be like to be inside. This is the same feeling I have inside the Blue Grotto.
It’s a wonderland of slick gray stones, walls worn away by the seawater, leading to a smooth lake of sapphire blue. Light pours in through holes in the rocks overhead, making silver funnels of light on the water. At the end of this cove, and deeper into the cavern, there’s a tunnel that leads beyond this lake, and through it, I see more light piercing between the rocks and reflecting on the water, creating a dimension of depth and a deeper blue.
“You can swim,” he says.
“Seriously?”
Gianluca smiles. I take off my beach cover-up and slip into the water. It’s cold, but I don’t mind. I swim over to where the light comes through the faraglione. I place my hand in the silver beam, which makes my skin glisten. I swim around the edge of the lake. I touch the coral that grows on the seawall. The waxy red reeds hold to the wall tightly, beautiful veins that lead deeper into the water. I imagine how deep the coral must go, the vines rooted in the bottom of the ocean in some magical place where colors are born. I hear Gianluca enter the water. He swims toward me.
“Now I understand the sign,” I tell him. “Why would you want to share this with anyone?”
“It’s meant for sharing.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says. “Is it all you dreamed it would be?”
“Yes.”
“There are so few things in life you can say that about,” he says.
“Ain’t that the truth?”
“Follow me,” he says. I swim with Gianluca through the tunnel and deeper into the grotto to another cove, this one filled with light. When I look up it’s as if the cap on the stone mountain is gone, and this is the place the moon goes when the sun is out.
“We should go now,” Gianluca says.
I swim over to the boat and reach up for him. He pulls me in. He hands me a towel. “Nice earrings,” he says.
“They go with the suit.”
“I can see that.” He smiles.
“You know, sometimes there’s no point in fighting the inevitable,” I tell him. Of course, I’m talking earrings, not Italian isle hookups.
Once Gianluca returns the boat to its hiding place, and the sign back to the ledge, he helps me into the motorboat and we speed past the beaches of Capri and around the far side of the island where the villas of Anacapri are visible from the shore. Massive palazzos, built into the side of the mountain in layers, connected by breezy porticos, show how the rich live, and so much better than the rest of us. “We should have that view,” I tell Gianluca.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because we’d appreciate it.”
Gianluca nods at the mention of “we.” Above and beyond my bad behavior, he’s been a good friend on this trip. We have a lot in common. This is such a small thing, it seems, to have mutual interest in work and the same kinds of family issues, but we do, and it’s been nice to talk to someone who understands where I come from. I have that with Roman to some degree, but the truth is, he spends his days and nights in a very different way than Gianluca and I do. I have appreciated Gianluca’s view of the world. I suppose a tanner and a shoemaker have a marriage of true minds, we rely on each other to sustain our crafts, at least in the workshop.
Gianluca stops the boat in a calm inlet. He pulls out a picnic basket of the food I love most: fresh, crusty bread; pale green buttery olive oil; cheese; tomatoes, so ripe their skin is caramelized by the sun; and homemade wine that tastes of hearty oak, cherries, and sweet grapes. We sit in the sun and eat.
I try and make him laugh, which is easy. Gianluca has a good sense of humor, not that he’s funny himself, but he appreciates it in others. I do a drop-dead impersonation of an American tourist who tried to talk Costanzo’s prices down until finally he said to the woman, “You’re terrible. Get out.” She left in a huff. Gianluca loves that story.
We sit in the late-afternoon sun until the breeze turns cool. “It’s time to get back,” he says.
Gianluca revs up the boat, and invites me to steer. I’ve never driven a boat before, but I like to think that I’m open to trying new things, so I take the wheel of the boat with confidence and a dab of chutzpah. You would think that after driving a stick shift from Rome to Naples, commandeering this little boat would be easy. But I’m amazed by how much brute strength it takes to turn the wheel. After a few moments, I begin to feel my way on the water, and gripping the wheel just so, I use my entire body to guide the boat.
When we get close to the docks, I slow down and give Gianluca the wheel. When I let go and surrender my grip, I almost fall, but he catches me with one arm and takes the wheel with the other.
As we reach the pier, he throws a line to a boy working on the dock, who places the rope around a piling, securing the boat. Gianluca climbs out first and then lifts me up to the pier. We walk to the cab stand, and he helps me into a car. We don’t talk as the driver takes the twists and turns of the road at a clip up to the piazza and back to the Quisisana.
There’s a long night rolling out ahead of us, and I wonder where this ride will take us. One time, back in the shop, June told me a story about a married man she had an affair with, and she said, once she kissed him, she was already guilty, so why not just go the distance? I look over at Gianluca, who looks out over the hills of Capri to the blue sea below. He has a look of contentment on his face. When we reach the top, Gianluca climbs out of the taxi with me.
“I leave you now,” he says, taking my hand.
“It’s so early.” I sound disappointed. I am.
“I know. But you should have your last night to yourself. Happy birthday.” He smiles and leans down. Then he kisses me on the cheek. I must look confused, because he raises both eyebrows with a look that says, We’re not going there again. He places a small package tied with raffia into my hand. I look up to thank him, and he’s gone.
I walk back to the hotel alone. I stop in the lobby of the Quisisana and look around, imagining how much I will miss this grand entrance when I go. I decide to redo our dingy entrance on Perry Street as soon as we get home. We need a paint job, new lighting, and a rug. There’s another thing I learned in Italy—entrances matter.
When I get off the elevator in the attico, I look at the painting over the love seat for the last time. For every day I have come and gone from the hotel, I have waited here for the elevator, and looked at this painting. For days, it has been a mystery to me. Now, I understand what all those Mondrian checks represent—they’re windows, hundreds of windows. For me, this trip was all about seeing out of them, and for sure, I did. I sit down on the love seat underneath the painting I have come to love and open the package from Gianluca.
As I loosen the ribbon and unfold the paper, my hand shakes a little. I open the lid on the box and lift out a shoemaker’s tool, a new hammer, il trincetto. Gianluca has engraved my initials on the handle.
I open the door to my room and there’s a large antique urn on the coffee table bursting with blood red roses and branches of bright yellow baby lemons. The air is filled with fragrant sweet roses, tart
lemons, and rich earth. I close my eyes and inhale slowly.
Then I pick up the card on the table. That Gianluca, I’m thinking as I open the card. That’s why he rushed off. He wanted to surprise me with the flowers. I open the envelope and lift out a single card.
Happy birthday, honey, I love you. Come home to me. Roman
Of all the great lessons I learned in Italy, the most important is: travel light. Pushing our mountain of luggage through three regions of Italian countryside has turned me into a minimalist. I’m this close to becoming a nun and rejecting all worldly possessions. Gram, however, is not. She clings to these suitcases, fills them carefully, and knows the contents of each Ziploc bag and bundle. Old people need stuff. It makes them feel secure, or so Gram says.
Gram holds on to the handle of the cart as I push the bags through customs at John F. Kennedy Airport. We’re back in the United States, which means I must begin to live a real life again and face my responsibilities. I begin with a commitment to Gram’s health and general well-being. I will call and make an appointment for her with Dr. Sculco at the Hospital for Special Surgery. Gram needs new knees, and she’s going to get them if it’s the last thing I do.
I survey the line at pickup. Families, friends, and chauffeurs wait for us, looking us over from head to toe as we search for familiar faces from our side.
Roman waits with my parents. Mom is wearing a red sundress with matching sunglasses and waves a small Italian flag. Nice touch. Dad stands next to her, waving plainly with his human hand.
Roman stands tall over them, in jeans and a blue Brooks Brothers button-down shirt. He looks handsome. He always does, which makes hellos and good-byes sweet. When our eyes meet for the first time in a month, my heart races. I really missed him, and as angry as I was with him, I love him. My nose stings as though I might cry.
I kiss my father and mother, and then Roman. He takes me into his arms, and my parents and Gram vamp about the trip, as if they don’t notice that he can’t let go of me. This ought to be an interesting car ride. Roman takes the luggage cart from me and pushes. Mom and Dad and Gram follow. I fill him in on Costanzo and what he missed on Capri. We go through the doors to the parking garage.
“Honey, we’ll take the bags. You go with Roman,” Mom says.
“I drove, too,” Roman says.
“Oh, two cars. Great. Okay. You can take my bags. I never want to see them again.”
Dad helps Roman load up the back of his Olds Cutlass Supreme with the bags I lugged through Tuscany and farther south. I lift my carry-on out of the car and hold it in my arms. “Precious cargo,” I tell Gram. “The shoes. I want to keep them with me.”
“Of course,” she says.
They climb into Dad’s car, while Roman opens the front door of the passenger side of his car for me. I get into his car, and shiver, even though it’s almost June. I remember the first winter night I sat in this car, and how happy we were. He climbs in and pulls the door shut. He turns to me. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.”
“You’re beautiful,” he says and kisses me.
“It’s the Capri sun.” I shrug, deflecting his compliment that sounds sincere. I don’t know what to believe. When it comes to Roman, all I know for sure is that things are constantly changing. “You want to stay over?” he asks quietly.
“Sure,” I tell him.
With my quick answer, Roman, like all men, is satisfied that all is forgiven. He believes what I tell him, and why shouldn’t he? I don’t want to overthink our reunion and turn it into a monster discussion of our future and our relationship. We’ve got years for that, or do we? When it comes to love, this is where I’m weak. I don’t fight for myself or what I want. I’m perfectly happy to pretend that we’ve moved past my hurt, Italy, and all the unpleasantness. Now I’m home and all will be well. We can pick up where we left off.
Roman talks about the restaurant-review night, and how the pressure was on. When he tells me Frank Bruni of the Times gave him three stars, I throw my arms around him. I act excited for him, giddy even, and I’m all the things he needs me to be: supportive, interested, and utterly on his side. When he asks me about Italy, I give him the broad strokes, but I don’t explain how I think I’ve changed, and how the people I met had such an impact on me. I begin to tell him about the old lady’s brooch, but it sounds silly, so I change the subject and switch the conversation back to him.
I look at his face, and his glorious neck, his hands and his long legs, and I get stirred up. But it isn’t stirred up of the deep variety; it’s a fashionable fake of the real thing. This is the part of me that loves being in a relationship. I like the stability and being part of a couple. Never mind our problems, we’re together, and that’s enough. More than enough. Roman Falconi might be the Chuck Cohen of love, the knockoff, whereas I’m looking for a couture label, but he’s mine.
I’m going to his apartment and I’m probably going to make love to him, but it’s not going to mean what it would have meant a month ago, or even a week ago. Then, we were building on a solid foundation. Now, doubt has seeped in and I’ve got to find what I saw in the beginning. I only hope that my feelings will all come rushing back just as they were the first time he kissed me. Maybe then our relationship can begin anew, and I can figure out how to be in a relationship with Roman and his restaurant.
“Someday, we’ll go back to Capri together,” he promises. Gratefully, the traffic on the LIE gets thick and he has to keep his eyes on the road. In this moment, I try to believe him. But somehow I know he’s just saying it because he thinks that will keep me focused on the future, and out of the present, where our problems with each other are alive and well.
“That would be great,” I tell him. It’s not a lie. It would be great.
The next morning, I wake up in Roman’s bed, buried deep in the warm comforter. I slept soundly, exhausted from the drive to Rome and the flight back to New York. I look over and see my overnight bag by the door, and my carry-on with the Bella Rosa inside.
I get up and go into Roman’s kitchen. There’s a pot of coffee and a bagel on the counter with a note: “Went to work. So happy you’re home.”
I pour the coffee. I sit down in his kitchen and look across the bright, sunlit loft, and instead of seeming masculine and romantic, as it did before Italy, in full daylight it appears to be unfinished, bare, in need of things. Temporary.
14
58th and Fifth
TODAY IS THE DEADLINE FOR THE DELIVERY of the shoes for the competition for the Bergdorf windows. I get off the subway at Columbus Circle, holding the shoe box containing the Bella Rosa in the crook of my arm, like a newborn baby. Let’s face it, this is my version of precious cargo. Some people give birth to babies, I give birth to shoes.
In my backpack is the sketch of the Rag & Bone gown. For fun, I photographed the shoes, reduced them to scale, and put them on the feet of the model in the sketch of the wedding gown Rhedd Lewis sent to us. I also included my original ink-and-watercolor sketch of the shoes, the photograph of my inspiration—Gram at her wedding—and a photograph of Costanzo and me under the Capri sun, giving him credit as the cobbler who built my design.
I push my way through the revolving door at the side entrance and walk past the specialty handbag section to the elevator. I look around at the customers, wanting to shout, Pray for me, but I imagine the only soul connection these ladies experience is the Zen that comes during a microdermabrasion facial. I don’t believe they light candles to Saint Crispin for spiritual guidance.
When I get off the elevator on the eighth floor, it’s not the serene waiting area I remember from our appointment months ago. It’s packed, full of people and loud, like the subway platform at Forty-second Street, except no one’s waiting for a train. They wait for Rhedd Lewis. It seems that all the major shoe labels are represented in flashy, attention-getting ways. Donald Pliner has wedding shoes dangling off a tabletop palm tree; a delivery boy from Christian Louboutin carries a tr
ay of cookies, upon which is a wedding shoe filled with candy; an actual six-foot-tall Amazon model, dressed as a bride, wears what look like Prada shoes. A publicist carries an enormous blow-up of a Giuseppe Zanotti wedding shoe with a phrase in French staggered across the poster. Alicia Flynn Cotter’s signature patent leather pumps are hanging artfully in a small-scale hot-dog stand turned wedding wagon. It’s a madhouse. I work my way through my competitors to the receptionist.
“Rhedd Lewis please,” I tell her.
“You here with a shoe?” she asks as she types.
“May I speak with her assistant please?”
Without taking her eyes off the screen, she says, “She’s on her way out for Craig Fisse. And I’m just a temp. You can leave your submission on the pile.”
My heart sinks as I look at a pile of submissions: shoe boxes, some FedExed, others hand-delivered, dropped in the corner like rejects on their way to the garbage. I cannot leave the Bella Rosa there, I won’t.
Rhedd’s assistant appears in the doorway. She smiles tensely and looks over the crowd. I push to the front. Suddenly, I feel like the kid at Holy Agony who will never get chosen for Red Rover during recess. But I’ve come too far to be shy now.
“Remember me?” I say to her.
She doesn’t.
“I’m Valentine Roncalli of the Angelini Shoe Company. This is our submission.” I place the box in front of her. I don’t move until she instinctively reaches for it. She tucks the shoe box and the envelope of extras under her arm like yesterday’s newspaper.
“Great. Thanks,” she says, looking past me to the model with the gown.
“Well, thank you for the opportunity…,” I begin, but the din escalates in the room when the deliverymen and the sideshow attractions realize that the woman I am speaking with is Rhedd’s assistant. This, clearly, is the moment they’ve been waiting for, and they press forward in a heap and commence shouting to get her attention. I push through them and back to the elevator.
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