The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners

by Luanne Rice

  “Well, it’s about time,” John said, reclining on a settee on his terrace.

  “What are you doing here?” Max asked.

  “I came up here to offer a friendly ear. And this is the thanks I get?” John shook his head. “Bella let me in. We’ve been waiting for you. I assumed you would invite me to stay for dinner, and I in return would give you sage advice.”

  “About what?” Max asked.

  “Anything you choose,” John said.

  “I suppose Nicolas sent you up.”

  “Well. It’s possible that he did give me a quick call.”

  Max’s friends were vigilant. When Rafe had stepped off the path in the past, disaster had occurred. Max briefly considered lecturing John on having faith in the young man, but restrained himself. He himself had expected the worst from the moment Nicolas phoned.

  “I have seen my grandson, and he is fine,” Max said.

  “Excellent,” John said, but his tone conveyed skepticism. “Where is he now?”

  “At Lyra’s, with Pell.”

  “Why aren’t you over there with them?”

  “Oh,” Max said, walking toward the bar. He wanted his back to John, and busied himself pouring two glasses of Talisker. “Lyra has a guest.”

  “And?” John asked. “Do fill me in.”

  “Gregorio Dante. Bertoldi’s son,” Max said, handing him the scotch.

  “A more unlikely pair could not exist. What is she doing with him?”

  “He’s working with her on Amanda and Renata’s garden.”

  “Oh. Business. That’s different. I hear the girls have a photographer coming,” John said. “Some big magazine from the States is doing a spread on their house. So I suppose they’re trying to get everything finished quickly. Still, upsetting to have that faux Adonis hanging around. Go rescue her!”

  “Rescue her?”

  “Yes,” John said.

  “She’s strong. She doesn’t need me.”

  John swirled the scotch in his glass, then took a long drink. He gazed at Max from his reclining position, giving the impression of a very large and old tortoise.

  “Well,” John said, “I suppose for some men, writing a play about love would be sufficient. I just never thought you were one of them, not when you’re consumed with the real thing. However, introducing a specimen like Gregorio Dante will add quite a nice frisson of sex to the end of Act I.”

  “You’re a bloody idiot,” Max said.

  “Excellent scotch,” John said, draining the glass. “Do we have time for one more before Bella feeds us?” As if hovering just inside, Bella came out to say she’d noticed Max’s arrival, and was preparing the meal.

  “Thank you, Bella,” Max said.

  “We can play chess after dinner,” John said, sounding content. “And discuss your plans for Act II. Perhaps the stonemason can have a wall fall on him!”

  Rustling brush sounded from the stairs, and low voices drifted up the terrace wall. Max craned his neck to look over the side, saw Lyra, Pell, and Rafe standing in a semicircle, gazing upward.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d invited us to dinner?” Lyra asked.

  “You looked busy,” Max said. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “It was Gregorio, for God’s sake!” Lyra said. “I was just giving him specifications for the moon gate. We were just finishing up.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my mentioning Da Vincenzo, Max,” Pell said. “It just sounded so fun. Besides, any chance to spend the evening with you!”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” Max said. “It’s just that I’ve—”

  John scowled and mouthed Shut up!

  “Please, Max?” Pell called.

  Max looked down at the three faces. Rafe was silent, but Max saw him standing beside Pell, longing in his eyes. Lyra willing to go to dinner with his grandson was a first, a real breakthrough. Still … Max stared at her, wondering where any of it could ever go.

  Sitting on the villa’s terrace, the spot where he’d spent so many beautiful evenings with his wife, he felt the strangest sensation: a breeze through his hair, almost as if Christina were kissing the top of his head. He felt such yearning, a feeling that all was one, that these people he loved were all connected by invisible threads.

  “Yes,” he found himself saying. “Let’s go to dinner.”

  Turning from the balcony’s edge, he glanced at John. The three standing on the lawn below were unable to see over the villa’s curved stone wall, and hadn’t noticed that Max had a guest. John, surprising for him, had remained silent and avoided detection by the group. Max supposed there was nothing to do but invite his old friend along to Da Vincenzo.

  “Care to join us?” Max asked quietly.

  John shook his head and smiled as if Max was something of an imbecile.

  “Take the lady to dinner, will you?” John asked. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on the family scene. I believe I’ll have another scotch right here, and make sure Bella’s pasta doesn’t go to waste.”

  “Good of you,” Max said.

  “Happy to oblige. We’ll play chess and discuss Act II another time,” John said. “Meanwhile, see what you can drum up in terms of inspiration. Dinner with the muse is always most valuable.”

  “Max, who’s there with you?” Lyra called.

  John drew his index finger, a dagger, across his own throat.

  “No one,” Max said, “I’m on the way.”

  Da Vincenzo was located in Capri town, off the main square. They drove down the crooked streets in Max’s ancient Hillman. Lyra felt the summer breeze blow through the open windows and thought of how often she, Max, and Christina had driven in this old car to this, their favorite restaurant.

  The kids talked in the back seat. Lyra glanced down at Max’s hand on the gearshift. He’d once told her he’d had the car sent from England. It was sea green, small and compact, barely large enough for four. The salt air rusted it unmercifully, but Max cared for it and Nicolas kept it running. Lyra felt a rush of tenderness for the way Max loved things.

  “What is it?” he asked, catching her looking at him.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m glad we’re all together tonight.”

  “So am I,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a deep smile.

  They parked on a side street, fitting into an impossibly small spot. The rustic old house stood at the end of a dark and narrow alley, in a hidden park filled with lemon trees. Voices carried from the town square; doves roosted under the eaves of tall, crooked buildings.

  Max held the door open. They all walked into the restaurant. Da Vincenzo was half used-book store, half trattoria, making it necessary to pass through stacks of books, over readers sitting on the floor, under a staircase leading to the second floor, where the poetry and drama sections could be found, as well as several cramped guest rooms where, legend had it, many now-famous young writers had once stayed.

  All the way in back, through a heavy burgundy velvet curtain, the trattoria was cozy and intimate, illuminated by scores of red candles. The menu featured local seafood, homemade pasta, and pizzas cooked in a wood-fired oven.

  The dining room walls were lined with bookshelves, overflowing with old volumes that lone diners were invited to read while eating. Yellowed prints of great Italian writers hung below brass sconces, tarnished from the sea air; Lyra glanced up and saw Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio.

  The place was favored by young intellectuals, and had been ever since Lyra had first come to Capri. She examined the menu and tried to picture Max here as a young man. She couldn’t help turn her head, look at him again, as she had in the car. His leonine head was bent as he studied the menu, half-spectacles perched on the end of his sharp nose. Craggy and powerful, he was still a handsome man.

  “This is charming and wonderful,” Pell said, looking up from her menu. “I love it, Max.”

  “I thought you might,” Max said. “There are fancier establishments in Capri, but none with
quite so much warmth. And the food is superb.”

  “Grandpa’s been coming here since he was our age,” Rafe said, as if he’d heard the story a million times.

  “Not quite, but close,” Max said. “The original owner, Vincenzo Pertosa, was a friend to young writers and artists—not unlike Sylvia Beach at Shakespeare and Company in Paris. When I came to Capri right after Cambridge, I rented a room from Vincenzo. Many nights he fed me for free while I wrote my first play.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d written it here,” Lyra said. “I thought London.”

  “That’s where it was produced,” Max said. “But I wrote it right here. Upstairs.” He smiled up at the ceiling, as if in thanks and blessing.

  “You were a starving writer,” she said.

  “Poor, yes,” he said. “But not starving, thanks to Vincenzo. He housed and fed several of us that year. We were a colony of artists, giving one another support and making sure no one got discouraged. And eating well every night!”

  Lyra resumed studying the menu. She thought of how different her post-college tour had been, how privileged she had been, how easily everything had been given to her. But how lonely, as well: there’d been no colony of like-minded young people. She had thought she was the only one in the world like herself.

  The waiter came, and everyone ordered pizza. Max ordered a bottle of Taurasi, red wine from Campagna, for him and Lyra, while the kids drank mineral water. Lyra watched the way Max’s eyes kept darting to Rafe, making sure he was okay, monitoring his interest in the wine. The next time Max glanced Lyra’s way, she tried to give him a reassuring smile.

  “Max, after dinner do you think we can go upstairs and see the room you stayed in?” Pell asked. “Is it still there?”

  “I’m sure it is,” he said. “The rooms are all named after characters from Italian literature. Mine was ‘Beatrice.’”

  “We have a minute before the pizza comes,” Rafe said. “Want to run up and check it out?”

  Pell nodded, and the kids excused themselves. Lyra lifted her glass, raised it to Max. The red wine sparkled in the candlelight.

  “Here’s to your inspiration!” she said.

  Max seemed frozen, fingers wrapped around the stem of his glass, unable to move. He stared at her as if she had shocked him.

  “This place,” she explained, looking around. “Where you wrote your first play. It must have been very inspiring, right? That’s what I meant….”

  “Oh,” he said, clinking with her and starting to smile. “Of course.”

  “What did you think I meant?” she asked. A teasing glint entered her eye. “Did something go on here? Maybe before you met Christina? Don’t worry, Max … your secret is safe with me. Did you fall in love with a young artist?”

  He stared at her, warmth and great intelligence in his bright blue eyes, then looked away. She watched him gaze down at the bare wood table, rough-hewn and rustic, as if seeing something he couldn’t quite bear to think about.

  “Oh, Max,” she said. “I didn’t mean to tease you. I know that Christina was the love of your life. I just thought that maybe you’d loved someone before her, when you were young. It wouldn’t be wrong if you did. I’m sorry for even mentioning it.”

  “Please, don’t apologize, Lyra,” he said. “I just … your words about inspiration made me think of someone.”

  “A young artist?” she asked, smiling.

  He nodded. He met her eyes for a second, then looked down again. She watched him sip his wine thoughtfully, wondering why he was acting this way. Perhaps the restaurant was too full of memories, a reminder of days and people gone by. Wanting to comfort her dear friend, she reached for his hand.

  “It’s okay, Max,” she said, leaning toward him. “Whoever she was, she was lucky you felt that way.”

  “Thank you, Lyra,” he said.

  Pell and Rafe returned. Lyra glanced up, saw Rafe pull back Pell’s chair. He touched her arm as she sat down; Pell seemed unmistakably shaken. The sight chilled Lyra, and she gave Max’s hand one last squeeze, keeping her eyes on Rafe. He registered her watching him and gave her a steady stare back.

  “The room is empty,” Rafe said, “so we got to go inside. Grand pa, we found your name written on the windowsill.”

  “We all did that,” Max said. “Vincenzo insisted we leave our signatures, in case any of us had success.”

  “You sure did,” Rafe said, sounding proud of his grandfather.

  “There’s a medallion on the door with a scene from The Divine Comedy—Beatrice standing in a garden,” Pell said quietly.

  “Fruit trees, flowering vines,” Max said. “It foreshadowed you, Lyra.”

  “Thank you, Max,” Lyra said, wondering about the intensity in his voice.

  “Is it from the end of the work, where Beatrice and Dante unite in the Garden of Eden?” Pell asked, and Max nodded.

  “Dante,” Rafe said, gesturing up at the portrait. “Is Gregorio related to him?”

  “To Dante Alighieri?” Lyra asked, and it struck her funny. “I doubt it, but I’ll have to ask him.”

  “It makes you laugh?” Max said.

  “Yeah,” Lyra said. “Gregorio is a wonderful stonemason. But I don’t confuse him with a poet able to write about a journey through hell to paradise.”

  “It takes a man like Max to do that,” Pell said.

  Lyra gazed over at her daughter, surprised that she’d make such a statement. It wasn’t shy, reserved, polite, but it came from her heart, and Lyra was amazed at the way Max reacted. He bowed his head to Pell, touched his heart.

  “Love can take you to paradise,” Max said. “You might find tragedy and suffering along the way, in fact you probably always do. Not everyone knows that, or they might be too afraid to commence the journey.”

  “That’s why Vincenzo gave you the room with Beatrice on the door,” Pell said. “Because he knew you were worthy of her as your guide.”

  “She’s right,” Lyra said, thinking of Christina, of the selfless way Max had loved her. She thought of his devotion to her, his long and unwavering love, and felt bad for having asked him about the young artist; he suddenly seemed so thoughtful and sad. She glanced at Pell, overwhelmed with love for her and for Lucy.

  “Thank you, both,” Max said. “And Rafe too. You’re far too kind, and I don’t deserve a word of it.”

  “Yes, you do,” Lyra said, squeezing his hand again. Just then the waitress brought the pizzas, and everyone looked so happy. Even Max; he’d forgiven her for mentioning the other woman, his old love. He gazed at her with such warmth and depth in his brilliant blue eyes.

  Lyra felt stunned by her own feelings. Staring at Max, her own heart cracked open. He was so good; knowing he cared about her made her feel less terrible about herself. He accepted her for who she was, even for all the wrong she’d done, and she let herself imagine how it would have felt to be the young artist he’d once loved, to have him look at her in just this way.

  In Newport, the day was sparkling bright. Lucy and Beck had walked Gracie down to Bannister’s Wharf for an ice-cream cone, and to see the boats. They walked out on the pier to see Sirocco, and saw Lucy’s grandmother serving luncheon under the blue canvas awning, holding court like a seagoing queen. Ducking so she wouldn’t spot them, they went to the other dock, where all the fishing boats came in.

  “Travis!” Gracie said. They’d brought her here before, and she knew where her uncle worked.

  “That’s right,” Beck said. “Uncle Travis is out in Block Island Sound, catching fish.”

  “Ish, ish,” Gracie said, her word for “fish,” pointing at a cod-shaped weathervane on top of Keating Seafood.

  “Very good,” Lucy said, kissing Gracie’s head.

  “We’ll have to teach her to say ‘Auntie Pell,’” Beck said. “When she gets back from Italy.”

  “Auntie?” Lucy asked.

  “Don’t you think they’ll get married? Pell and Travis?”

  “They’re
only sixteen.”

  “Travis just turned seventeen.”

  “Still, they have senior year, then college. I think marriage is a long way off,” Lucy said. She loved thinking about it, but lately she’d noticed stress on Travis’s face after he talked to Pell. “If you’re right, we’ll be sisters-in-law.”

  “Totally,” Beck said. “I’m all for it. They’ll make it through college together. I can’t imagine my brother with anyone else.”

  “I can’t imagine my sister with anyone else,” Lucy said.

  “I don’t know how Travis is doing it,” Beck said. “He works so hard on the boat, and he doesn’t sleep when he’s home. He misses her so much. Have you noticed problems lately?”

  “Kind of,” Lucy said. “You have too?”

  Beck nodded. “He seems really worried about something. Could she be falling out of love with him?”

  “Never,” Lucy said. But she wasn’t sure. Something seemed wrong.

  “When’s Pell getting back?”

  “As soon as she convinces our mother to come home,” Lucy said. “Maybe she needs help.”

  “Good plan,” Beck said, her eyes glittering in that “Eureka!” classic Beck way. “Let’s get your grandmother to sail us over there aboard Sirocco!”

  “Um, on second thought,” Lucy said. Although she laughed and kept walking along the cobblestone wharf, she felt a pang inside. She ached for her sister. One of the side effects of losing touch with their mother so long ago was an unbreakable bond with Pell. No two sisters had ever been closer.

  Pell called Lucy when she could, and Lucy called her. Phone conversations were one thing, but nothing even came close to seeing each other. No wonder Travis couldn’t sleep either.

  “Well, your grandmother’s yacht isn’t the only way to get there,” Beck said.

  “We could swim!” Lucy said.