by Luanne Rice
“Who told you?” she asked.
“My grandparents,” he said. “And my dad too, I guess. It’s just known. Everyone on the island has a story. Lyra’s is that she left her kids.”
“People talk about it?”
He stared at her. A breeze off the harbor blew her hair into her eyes. She had dark, European beauty, but she seemed in some ways like a naive American. How could she understand the crumbling ruins of Capri, how they attracted broken people who’d stepped out of their other lives? His grandparents hadn’t arrived here wrecked, but so many of the other foreigners had.
“Yeah,” he said. “It makes her fit in here. The weather’s been bright and sunny since you arrived, but wait for the first rainy day. The gloom and damp will pull you right down, remind you of every shitty thing you’ve done. There’s no better place to brood, and I’m sure that’s why Lyra likes it here.”
The Chiesa di San Costanzo loomed behind them, the ancient whitewashed church reminding him of his grandmother’s funeral, of prayers that had never been heard, of the suffering he had caused.
“She doesn’t like me,” he said. “You know why?”
“Because of Christina. She loved your grandmother,” Pell said, sounding distant, catching Rafe’s attention. What was that about?
“Yeah,” he said. “Partly. But also because she knows I’m like her. A misfit who’s screwed everything up.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t believe you are Max’s grandson, that you have even one drop of his blood.”
“I was just trying to make a point, explaining why Lyra is so down on me. Everyone on Capri has their own story, their own reason for being here. It suits everyone for different reasons.”
“You have a grandfather who loves you, believes in you. He’s not looking backward at whatever you may or may not have done, thrown away, not appreciated. He’s thinking of you right now, wanting you to stay healthy and well.”
“I am,” he said.
“How?” she asked. “By hanging out in the wrong places here on the dock, torturing yourself by getting envelopes from guys you should stay away from?”
“What do you know about wrong places on the dock?”
“I live in Newport,” she said. She let it hang in the air. Although he didn’t know that waterfront city, he was sure he could find an Arturo or two down by the harbor. He shrugged and gave her a slight smile, letting her know she’d made her point.
“What church is this?” she asked.
“San Costanzo,” he said, thrown off guard. “Why?”
“I’m hot,” she said as the sun beat down. “Can we go inside?”
They did, and it was dark and cool. Walking up the aisle, they sat in a pew near the altar. A cluster of candles burned brightly at the feet of the plaster saint. Rafe couldn’t make himself look. He remembered coming in here the week before his grandmother had died. She’d fallen into a coma, and he’d lit a candle for her to get better. She hadn’t.
Pell sat quietly beside him. He heard her breath, surprisingly fast, as if she’d just run a race. Glancing at her, to make sure she was okay, he saw her watching him. For a second, it made him think of Monica.
“Here’s the difference,” she said. “My father took care of me and Lucy. He didn’t let up for a minute.”
“But he died,” Rafe said.
“Not before he made sure we were okay. We went through hell after she left. Real, true hell. My sister used to scratch her face at night, try to claw the skin off. She hurt so much inside, she had to make the outside match. And I pulled out hunks of hair, ripped them right out of my head.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I hated myself. I thought if she could leave me, I must be the worst person in the world. Ugly, and I don’t mean in looks. I mean inside. I felt like a monster, a little ugly troll whose mother didn’t love her.”
“You’re not ugly,” Rafe whispered, and he wanted to take her hand. It was church, and he felt stiff, and he didn’t know how she’d feel about it. His hand moved almost on its own, stopped just before he touched her.
“Neither are you,” she said. “You were just a little boy when your mother died, and your dad didn’t know what to do. He was working all the time, your grandfather said.”
“Yeah,” Rafe said. “And he’s English. It’s a cliché, but it’s true—British people can be very stiff-upper-lip. My grandfather is unusual … but my father is classic. No confiding, no such thing as comfort. Just ‘get on with it.’”
“You had all that emptiness inside,” Pell said. “It started when your mother died, and it just grew and grew. That’s why you wanted to sleep; to make that feeling go away.”
“You never took drugs,” Rafe said. “So how do you know?”
“Because I know the feeling,” she said. “I lost my mother too.”
“But she was still alive.”
“Not exactly,” she said. She fell silent, as if thinking something over. “Even when my father was still alive, we stopped talking about her—except with shrinks. My grandmother, once we moved to Newport, killed her in our minds. We didn’t talk about her. We didn’t look at pictures. After a while, it began to seem she was gone from the world. Not dead, not in a grave we could visit, not a saint we could pray to. Just someone who’d decided to move far away from us, in a life that had nothing to do with us. We knew she had chosen that. So we cut her out of our minds.”
“Couldn’t have been easy,” he said.
“Easier than hoping,” Pell said. “And she …” Again she paused, thinking hard. “Apparently she did the same thing. ‘Walled herself off from us, she said. That’s what we all did. Kept each other out.”
“But here you are,” Rafe said.
“She’s my mother,” Pell said simply.
Rafe pictured his mother. Even though he’d been just a kid when she passed away, her smile and eyes were as vibrant in his mind as ever.
Glancing at Pell, he tried to make sense of it. They’d both lost their mothers young; he’d taken one path to deal with it, she’d taken another. She’d seen him with Arturo’s envelope, and she’d recognized what he really didn’t want to admit: he’d been very tempted.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Here? You mean in church?”
“I mean on Capri. At your mother’s house. Why did you come?”
“We need her,” Pell said.
“Need her?”
“In spite of everything that’s gone wrong, she’s our mother. We want her back.” The whisper echoed in the cavernous space.
“She’s lucky,” Rafe said.
“Who was San Costanzo?” Pell asked, as if she hadn’t heard his words.
“The island’s patron saint,” he said. “He was on his way from Constantinople to Rome, got blown off course. Some kind of epic storm, sank all the other ships. But old Costanzo found a safe port here.”
She looked up at him with wide blue eyes, recognition of a kindred spirit. He’d felt this way at rehab, meeting people who’d been through similar wars, who had their own language, whose hearts spoke to one another.
“Like my mother,” she said. “And you.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. He took her hand, because he had to. She didn’t pull away immediately. Her skin felt hot, as if she had a fever; Rafe himself was burning up. He and Pell stared at each other in the dark church, survivors of deadly storms, finding respite for the moment in the cool of the nave. She slid her hand from his after a few seconds, but not before he’d felt them together, really connected, not just their hands, but whatever it was that had kept their hearts beating through all the loss.
We could have gone into a café, or a gelateria, or even a bar. But a church? The darkness and the ghostly smell of incense and the glow of all those candles blazing on the altar made it all seem so much more intense. Being in San Costanzo gave the moment too much weight, something li
ke an imprimatur. I’m thinking of Travis, of what he’d have thought if he had seen me there.
Rafe took me by surprise. All of it—not just when he held my hand in the church. That was a mistake, instantaneous, and I’m telling myself it was no more than what two friends might do. A quick clasp of the hand. Not a big deal. Right?
The first surprise was seeing him with the drug dealer, catching the wild look in his eyes when he was left holding that package—Rafe wanted to use; nothing he could say will ever convince me otherwise—and the passion I felt, caring so much about him and Max, my mother, the fragility of it all. My heart fell, just crashed, seeing him holding that envelope.
This is strange, but I’m thinking of my grandmother. Just before I left to come to Capri, she said, “You’ve always loved a lost cause.” She was speaking of my mother. Is there truth in her words? My mother basically told me—no, actually told me—that she had chosen life without us. It had been a conscious decision. Never have I felt more abandoned, more wrecked. It’s how I wound up in the church with Rafaele Gardiner.
After the hand clasp, it was as if we fell into a trance. Rafe and I sat there in the quiet church, not speaking or touching, just being still. I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest. I wanted to run away, make the feelings stop. I wanted to turn back the clock, not get off the funicular in front of him, not get drawn into the moment with him. I wanted there to be only Travis. I didn’t want to have held another boy’s hand, or be filled with these wild emotions.
But we sat there so long, my heart finally slowed down, and I felt overcome with sadness. My mother’s words came into my mind; she’d knelt before me, held my face in her hands. My eyes filled with tears. She had been a good mother when I was little, but she hadn’t wanted it. She had walked away from us, from motherhood. Rafe sat beside me, lost in his own world.
By the time we walked outside, onto the quay, I had lost track of everything: the sun in the sky, the time of day, the person I was before we’d gone into San Costanzo. The afternoon had somehow passed, and dusk was coming on. Capri’s bright blue sky had dimmed. Violet haze coated the harbor as the sun went down.
“Want a ride home?” Rafe asked, gesturing at the yellow boat at the end of the dock.
I stood there, feeling dazed. He touched my shoulder. “Pell?” he said. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“I don’t know either,” he said.
I hadn’t answered him about the ride home, but I fell into step with him. Our arms brushed, both comforting and jolting me.
We walked down the dock; Nicolas was there, putting gas in the tank of a big white yacht flying an American flag. When he saw me and Rafe, he gave us a solemn nod and a big smile. So big, in fact, I think he thought we were “together.” I mean, as a couple. It doesn’t take much to realize Max and his friends are worried about Rafe, and I’m nothing if not a good influence.
I climbed into the boat, we cast off, and went flying across the water. Salt spray cooled my face, and my hair blew straight back. I thought of Travis, an ocean away, fishing off the coast of Rhode Island. I said his name under my breath, just once. What had I done to us? I closed my eyes as the engine throbbed noisily, the boat bouncing across the waves as Rafe drove me home.
Eleven
Max stood in the lower walled garden as the sun began to go down. Staring at the bay, he watched for the boat to come around the headland. Nicolas had called earlier; he’d seen Rafe talking to Arturo. Max’s heart felt heavy. Could the trouble be starting again? A second call from Nicolas reported that Rafe had bumped into Pell, and that they were heading home. Max concentrated his gaze on the bay, as if he could will them to make it back safely.
A school of silver baitfish broke the surface. Gulls wheeled and cried. Max barely noticed, his eyes focused as he waited. Here they came now. Rafe had the throttle open, and the yellow boat sped into view, white water shooting up behind.
There were sharp rocks just below the surface, hard to see in the dying light. Max told himself Rafe wasn’t being reckless; he’d grown up summering here, and knew the water as well as Max himself. But if Rafe was back to drugs, hitting a shoal would put Pell in danger. And it would be the start of a treacherous trail.
Rafe pulled the boat up to the dock. Max saw Pell jump out, expertly catch and tie off the bow and stern lines. She started up the steps without waiting for Rafe, but he moved quickly and caught up with her. Max lost them in thick foliage as they climbed the steep stairs, but he was waiting for them when they got to the first landing.
“Hello,” he said.
“Max!” Pell said, reaching up to kiss him.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Rafe said.
“How lovely, to see my two favorite young people. Did you meet in town?”
“Didn’t Nicolas tell you?” Rafe said, challenging and defensive. “I know he was watching me.”
“He did tell me, as a matter of fact,” Max said. He stared at his grandson, checking his pupils. They seemed normal-sized, not the pinpoints presented when opiates took him over.
“Rafe did the right thing,” Pell said. “You don’t have to worry, Max.”
“You don’t, Grandpa,” Rafe said. He threw Pell a grateful look, but she didn’t receive it with warmth. She inched away, not meeting Rafe’s eyes, not even looking at him. Something powerful had gone on between them; Max couldn’t tell whether it was good or bad, but he couldn’t miss the electricity crackling all around.
“Pell, is your mother home?” Max asked.
“She was when I left a couple of hours ago.”
“Do you know,” Max began, “I rather feel like going out tonight? Let’s find your mother, and go to Da Vincenzo for dinner.”
“Maybe Pell’s had enough of us,” Rafe said.
“Never enough of Max,” Pell said, giving the old man a big smile.
The three of them continued up the narrow, shady steps. As twilight fell, it became almost impossible for Max to see the stairs. His feet knew the way, they always had. Max’s property included land on both sides of the steps, east and west, from the rocky shore up the steep hill to the very top elevation. Lyra’s house and gardens occupied a large chunk about midway up, west of the stairs.
They reached Lyra’s house a minute later. Max tried to get his breathing under control: it was racing not from exertion, but from the relief of knowing Rafe was okay, and the anticipation of seeing Lyra. He heard music coming from above, and her house glowed with warm light. The scent of honeysuckle surrounded them as they climbed the curved stairs to the terrace.
Max had been here infrequently at night since Christina’s death. They used to have drinks and dine often with Lyra. She would play her favorite music; sometimes they’d watch a DVD after dinner. Back then Max had loved her only as a friend, neighbor, the young woman who considered his wife her mentor.
As he stepped onto her terrace, behind Pell and Rafe, he felt overcome with emotion. Their families were connected in deep, ineffable ways. He had seen her grief over losing Christina, and that had opened them up to talking more about her daughters.
Lyra and Max had comforted each other. Although she was hard on Rafe, he knew she had his, Max’s, best interests at heart. And, especially, Max knew what this reunion with Pell meant to her, how both precious and terrifying it was to her. He could barely wait to see her now, witness the expression on her face as she began another evening with her daughter.
Voices carried through the vine-draped loggia, from inside the house. Max hesitated, not wanting to intrude if Lyra had company, but Pell led the way and he felt himself drawn along.
Lyra sat on her white sofa beside Gregorio Dante, their heads bent close together as they examined a large sheet of paper.
“Hi, Mom,” Pell said.
“Pell!” Lyra said. “And Max … Rafe …”
“Buona sera,” Gregorio said, standing to shake hands. “Ciao, Max.”
“Ciao, Gregorio,” Max said.
“Gregorio is building the moon gate for Renata and Amanda’s garden,” Lyra said to Max.
“Ah,” Max said.
“Do Lucy’s calculations help with the plans?” Pell asked.
“Perfettamente,” Gregory said, tapping a photo of Lucy, obviously brought out by Lyra. “I wanted to see for myself this young genius who solved the problem so quickly. Lyra’s daughters are both brilliant and exquisite. But why should I be surprised? They are hers, after all.”
Max fought the urge to get sick. He gave Gregorio a long appraising gaze. The younger man could barely contain his desire for Lyra. Did Max show his feelings half as blatantly? He hoped not. Lyra seemed … what? She seemed to be flirting, smitten with the stonemason, smiling as she put her arm around Pell.
“They’re wonderful all on their own,” Lyra said. Pell stood there for a second, then eased away. Max didn’t miss the way she reddened, looked down. Or the way Rafe leaned toward her, as if wanting to give Pell some strength, support.
“Her beauty is straight from you,” Gregorio said stubbornly, and Max knew he had to leave.
“Have a lovely evening,” Max said, smiling and giving a slight bow.
“But I thought you mentioned going out …,” Pell said. “We don’t want you to dine alone, Max.”
“Oh, of course not,” Max said. “In my enthusiasm over greeting you after your boat ride from town, I forgot that I have a previous engagement.”
“Max, are you sure?” Lyra asked. “Because we would love—”
“Quite positive,” Max said. “Good night, all.”
He left the room as quickly as possible. Turning, half expecting Rafe to be right behind him, he couldn’t help smiling. His grandson had lingered behind, unwilling to leave Pell until he was pushed out the door. Which, considering the way Lyra felt, might well happen sooner rather than later.
Trudging up the remaining steps to the villa, he heard crickets in the brush, saw stars beginning to appear in the dark blue sky. The sight was so beautiful, but filled him with sadness. Certain things in life were eternal: the beauty of the stars, the way love made his heart feel. He glanced down the hill, through the trees, at Lyra’s house. She was becoming attracted to a man much younger than he. How could he begrudge her that?
