The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners

by Luanne Rice

  “We’re old friends, Max,” John said. “If you can’t reveal yourself to me, who’s left? I’ve known you since Cambridge. I’ve seen it all.”

  “Enough, John,” Max said.

  “I loved Christina,” John said, ignoring Max’s raised hand. “You two had an epic marriage, one of the great ones. Christina was the sun—all warmth and light, no two ways about it. What happened in her last years was tragic, beyond words, to see her mind go …”

  “John,” Max said sharply.

  “And Lyra loved her too. That was quite obvious. She soaked up Christina’s goodness and care, as we all did. That last year, you and Lyra were completely devoted to Christina. It was touching to see, for all of us who know you well.”

  Aurelia delivered coffees. Max stirred the foam with a tiny silver spoon, thinking of that last year. John was right: Lyra had been by Christina’s side. She had fed her, by hand when necessary. She had sat with her in the garden, tending the flower beds as Christina had taught her. Many days Lyra read to her, from Christina’s favorite books and new ones Lyra thought she might like.

  That’s when Max’s feelings for Lyra had started to shift. He had always been fond of her, but thought of her as a troubled, spoiled, somewhat flighty American woman with endless money and a trail of wreckage left behind. Christina had gotten close to her, come home to Max with wrenching stories about Lyra’s lonely childhood and, worse, how devastated she was about leaving her own children.

  Seeing her minister to Christina, reading to her with such patience, tilling the garden and planting flowers with her looking on, had filled Max with peace. Later, as Christina declined even further, Lyra took care of her in a different way. She would wipe her chin during meals; she would change her soiled clothes. She’d changed her diaper. There were nurses as well, but they were professionals. Lyra’s actions were borne of love.

  “Why don’t you tell her?” John asked now.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Max said.

  “Don’t be cowardly.”

  “I’m old enough to be—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “Her father.”

  “Max, you’re only as young as you feel. You go up and down those steps to the dock how many times a day? You give young Rafe a run for his money, although maybe that’s not so remarkable considering what he’s done to his body.”

  “Stop it,” Max said, so sharply this time John had no choice but to take heed.

  “Sorry,” John said.

  “Just leave Rafe alone. He burned too brightly, hit rock bottom. He’s overcome his problems, he’s getting his life back.”

  “Perhaps a romance will bloom between him and Pell. Summer love? Lyra’s daughter is lovely.”

  “Yes, she is,” Max said.

  John chuckled. “You and Lyra, Rafe and Pell.”

  “You’ve gone round the bend, Harriman,” Max said, pushing back his chair.

  “I’m an old romantic,” John said.

  “Old fool, more like it,” Max said.

  Max paid for his coffee, then stood up. He shook John’s hand, walked away. He strolled through the Belvedere, a loggia of white columns with a spectacular view of the Neapolitan Gulf from Ischia to Vesuvius. John Harriman was one of his oldest friends. He had figured out Max’s secret, the old spy.

  It was with that thought in mind that he walked to the Belvedere, for fresh breezes and an open view of the water, and came face-to-face with Pell. The elder daughter of his heart’s desire.

  My father divorced her? Was my mother lying or just crazy? Everything feels wrong. I feel sliced to ribbons. How can I tell her Lucy and I need her when I don’t trust her? Coming here was a mistake. I ran away from my mother’s terrace as fast as I could, headed toward town. The Piazzetta. On the way, I called Travis.

  “I miss you,” I said.

  “Same for me,” he said. “It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Me too. Four thousand miles between us.” And I felt every one of them.

  “How’s everything going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You don’t know?” he asked, giving a little laugh.

  For some reason, his laugh felt like a slap. We were so close; couldn’t he tell when something was really wrong? I felt myself shut down.

  “I saw your grandmother this morning,” Travis went on. “She asked about you—and your mother.”

  “That’s surprising,” I said. “I think she wrote my mother off long ago.”

  “Maybe not. She was definitely curious about how things are going. So am I, Pell. Did I say the wrong thing?”

  “It’s just that things are tense here right now. We’re just getting to know each other. I don’t even know what to hope for.”

  “A relationship with her,” he said.

  I said nothing. Did he think that hadn’t occurred to me? What was happening, going wrong with me? I felt sensitive to everything Travis said. I’d felt so together when I flew over, able to handle my life and Lucy’s, at least temporarily. I’d thought I would act calmly and rationally, explain to my mother my concerns. But it was as if all Capri’s mountains and cliffs stood between me and what I needed to do, to say. I couldn’t get there from here.

  “Why are you mad at me?” he asked.

  “I’m not. I’m sorry, I’m just in a weird mood.”

  “Are you hanging out with anyone over there?” he asked finally.

  “No.”

  “What about the mystery man on the beach?”

  “It turns out he’s Max’s grandson, and what my mother calls ‘troubled.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Family problems, I guess.” This is odd, but I found myself not wanting to tell Travis about Rafe. Travis picked up on it, and he went silent. Nothing was going right. Travis and I had always been great. So why couldn’t I talk to him?

  “Travis. I’m sorry….”

  “Don’t keep saying that, okay?” he requested.

  “Okay”

  “It’s just, I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on! Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.”

  He was silent for a few seconds. A lesser man might have agreed with me, suggested I return home. Not Travis. “You’re there to get to know your mother,” he said.

  “If that’s possible,” I said, still not wanting to believe what she had told me about my father. Everything was swirling around—my parents, Lucy, the terrible fact that I didn’t feel like talking to Travis. I started to sweat; the sun was hot. “I’d better go,” I said. We said goodbye.

  Walking down the Phoenician Steps, I lost count at seven hundred. I was a zombie, an unhappy sleepwalker. I’d told Travis that Rafe was troubled, but maybe I’d been talking about myself instead. Suddenly I was in Capri town; that had to be the Piazzetta, café tables everywhere. I glimpsed John Harriman, his tan face tilted to the sun; thankful he didn’t see me, I ducked down an alley, began walking toward the blue: breathtaking, shocking sea and sky. The beauty began to calm my spirit and soul, but also made me feel like crying.

  “Hello, Pell …”

  I looked up, and guess who was taking in the same view? Max. An angel out of nowhere.

  “Hi, Max,” I said. I saw him staring at my red eyes. He smiled gently. I loved how he didn’t ask me what was wrong. I had the oddest idea that he didn’t have to, that he knew. He knew my mother; he understood something of our family pitfalls.

  We stood on the Belvedere, gazing out at the endless blue bay. Down below, boats thronged the harbor, white wakes splashing behind. The Marina Grande was bustling. Even from here, it reminded me of Newport—of Travis. That gave me a pang of guilt.

  “Another beautiful view,” I said, feeling miserable.

  “Yes, Capri has many lovely overlooks,” he said.

  “Nothing could be better than the one from your terrace.”

  “Or your mother’s,” he ag
reed. “We are very lucky. Although she’s luckiest to have you. A wise daughter willing to come all this way to make things right.”

  “You know that’s what I’m doing?” I asked.

  He nodded. There was such wisdom in his blue eyes. Once again, I saw the spark of youth there—eternal energy and hope. It made me think of my father; my eyes stung with more quick tears of missing him, and anger over what my mother had told me, and everything. Max saw again.

  “Shall we walk?” he asked.

  I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. We strolled across the piazza, and he pointed out the spot where Greeks built their acropolis in the fifth century B.C. He showed me the ruins of ancient tombs from that period. We admired the clock tower, which once had been bell tower to the now-gone cathedral, and Max pointed out the tower’s eastern influences, Moroccan tiles. Bougainvillea seemed to cascade over every wall, and hummingbirds thronged.

  I found comfort in his knowledge, in the way he showed me around, pointing out structures centuries old. We saw Town Hall, former home to the bishop, then the Church of St. Stephen, a brilliant white seventeenth-century building designed by Picchiatti. Lucy would have loved it, baroque with a Byzantine rounded cupola, built on the site of the ancient monastery. I stopped and stared.

  “My sister would love to see this,” I said.

  “Lucy,” he said.

  I nodded. Suddenly tears spilled out, and this time they couldn’t be stopped. “I miss her,” I said. “She’s my little sister, my responsibility. Last year, in school, she became obsessed with contacting our father’s ghost. When he didn’t come, she felt so let down. She doesn’t sleep enough. And sometimes when she does, she sleepwalks….”

  We walked, entering the medieval district, a maze of lanes and alleys. Small white houses stood close together, some first floors filled with shops and workshops, the passageways narrow, tilting up the hill, then a set of steps, a twist in the lane, a covered alley, a flash of brilliant blue sky, stone arches, more bright blue, an overhang of lush greenery and red trumpet flowers, sunlight splashing at our feet. When we came to another impossibly steep and narrow stone staircase, Max turned and gave me his hand to help me down.

  “How did Lucy try to contact your father’s ghost?” Max asked.

  “Through mathematical formulas,” I said. “‘Ghosts of departed quantities,’ she called it. Lucy’s very smart. But also so sensitive … she idolized my father. We both did.”

  “He must have been a wonderful man.”

  “He was,” I said. And then I turned to face Max. “Did my mother ever tell you they were divorced?”

  He nodded, gazing at me with sadness and compassion, as if he knew the whole story, felt sorry we’d gone through so much.

  “It was his idea?” I asked.

  “I believe so,” Max said.

  “Why?”

  “He must have needed to let her go, so he could live his life. And perhaps it was a kindness to her, as well. Allowing her to live hers.”

  I thought that over. It would be so like my father to be thinking of her, setting her free so she could get better, do whatever it was she’d needed to accomplish by leaving us. Yes, that was my father all over. I felt just a tiny bit better. I gave Max a look of gratitude, for helping me to see the situation this way.

  I thought of asking him if we could take the funicular down to the Marina Grande—I wanted to walk the docks, feel the buzz of the waterfront, the connection to Newport and Travis, let the salt water wash away the shocks of this day and return me to feeling close to my boyfriend. But something stopped me in my tracks. Straight ahead: the Grand Hotel Quisisana, old, elegant, and venerable. I recognized it immediately; Lucy and I had received a postcard of it.

  “My grandmother stayed here,” I said, staring at the façade.

  “Yes,” he said. “I met her when she came. She visited your mother only once.”

  “They never got along,” I said.

  “I believe your grandmother had certain ideas about how your mother should live her life.”

  “Lots of mothers and daughters disagree,” I said.

  “Christina took note of your mother’s great talent,” Max said. “She loves the garden, and exhibits true artistry. It became obvious quickly that all forms of self-expression were stifled from a young age. When I met your grandmother, I mentioned your mother’s love of flowers. And Edith said—”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “‘That’s why we have gardeners.’”

  “You know her well.”

  “I guess I do,” I said.

  “She told Christina that she wanted to be an artist when she was a young girl.”

  “My grandmother?” I asked.

  Max nodded. “She told Christina her mother said that art was for bohemians. Christina could have been insulted, but chose not to be; she heard great wistfulness in your grandmother’s voice.”

  “My grandmother isn’t known for being wistful,” I said.

  “No,” Max said. “It was a fleeting moment. But enough to see that her dreams had been thwarted. Instead of gaining insight, and nurturing your mother’s talent, Edith passed on her own parents’ lessons.”

  “Ghosts of the nursery,” I said, using a phrase I’d read in a psychology text.

  “Pell,” Max said, “you’re very young. And you and Lucy have been through so much. I find the fact you want to understand and forgive your mother to be touching beyond words. But do you really want to understand?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said, shocked by the question.

  “Then, as you spend time here this summer, notice her life and ask yourself what it must have been like for her at home, as a young woman, being held back, imprisoned by her mother’s ideas of how life should be lived.”

  “My grandmother didn’t force my mother to leave us,” I said. “Leave our home in Michigan.”

  “No,” Max said, sadly and with deep love in his eyes. “She didn’t believe your mother should have gone to Michigan in the first place. Your grandmother devalued her own daughter. Lyra came here, came alive through her garden.”

  “Her garden,” I said.

  “It brings her solace,” Max said.

  “Solace?” I asked. Not only because the word is odd and old-fashioned, but because of the way Max said it: I’d swear his voice was filled with longing. For my mother? I felt stunned by what I saw in his eyes.

  “We all need it,” he said. “And search for it. Your sister, through math and a connection with your father’s ghost. You, by coming here to Capri, rightly wanting more from your mother. My grandson, walking the tide line as he did long ago with his father.”

  “Rafe,” I said.

  “Yes,” Max said. “I wish I could help him more.”

  “I think you’re the reason he gets up in the morning,” I said. “Walks the beach, and saves the starfish.”

  “Because I want him to keep busy?”

  “No,” I said. “Because you love him and you’re saving him.”

  Max gave me a long look, as if I’d shown him a new way to see something. He smiled. We walked along a little farther, then came to an ice-cream shop. We went inside, and he bought me a cone, one scoop of dark chocolate. I ate it slowly as we continued our walk.

  Solace.

  Nine

  Lyra got up early the next morning, looked in on Pell. She slept on her side. Long hair covered her face. Lyra sat on the edge of the bed, stared at her for a long time. Dawn light slanted through the east window, clear and bright. It fell on Pell’s open backpack. Books were spilling out. A photograph. Lyra reached for it.

  Her wedding photo. Lyra looked at herself and Taylor. He looked so happy and protective; she looked elusive. She wore the famous Nicholson family veil, two hundred years old. She remembered her mother saying “Don’t rip it” perhaps ten times through the wedding day, as if the fabric of the veil were more important than that of the marriage.

  Lyra’s gaze drifted from the picture to h
er daughter. Why was Pell carrying it with her? The idea of a happy family had never left her. But formal photographs are funny things. They capture a moment, and not necessarily a real one, but an arrangement directed by a photographer to create a mood.

  Lyra and Taylor had had the wedding of the year; it was literally called that by the style editor at the New York Times. Four hundred guests, high nuptial mass at church, Pachelbel’s Canon and the Prince of Denmark’s March, limousines home to the Nicholson estate on Bellevue Avenue, a candlelit path to the tent—the candles in hurricane lamps to protect against the fresh sea breeze, vintage Krug champagne, Lyra in her white gown and family’s heirloom veil.

  A storybook wedding. The wedding guests included the governor of Rhode Island, two senators, European royalty, all friends of her mother. Sitting in the limousine with Taylor as they arrived at the reception, she’d stared at the sprawling house she’d grown up in and had had a panic attack. She’d been unable to breathe. Taylor’s hand on the back of her neck, easing her head down, his calm voice telling her everything was wonderful, they were married now, about to start their lives together.

  “I’ll tell the driver to just keep going,” he’d joked. “We’ll skip out on the party and go straight to Bermuda.”

  “Could we?” she’d asked, not kidding.

  Lyra stared at the photo another minute. She replaced it in the backpack, returned to the edge of Pell’s bed. She touched her daughter’s shoulder. Fine-boned, vulnerable. She felt a lump in her throat. Ten years missing.

  “Pell?” she said.

  “Mmm.”

  The last time she’d done this, Pell had been a little girl. But she slept the same way: facing the wall, fists drawn up beneath her chin, hair tangled over her face. Lyra shook with emotion. After all these years, her daughter was right here, sleeping in her house.

  “Could you get up? I’d like you to come with me.”

  And Pell did, without question. She rolled out of bed, washed her face, threw on jeans and a sleeveless shirt. Together they walked through the garden, down to the driveway she shared with the villa. Glancing up, Pell saw Max sitting on his terrace, writing. He waved, and looked so happy to see Lyra and Pell together, it hit her in the heart.