by Karina Halle
Praise for Where Sea Meets Sky
“Where Sea Meets Sky combines one-night stand with coming-of-age to glorious success, one that makes this not just a read, but an experience . . . Halle’s writing also stands out, poetic and vivid, then starkly honest.”
—Heroes and Heartbreakers
Karina Halle takes us on another epic adventure . . . a journey of self-discovery and love, of taking chances and redefining futures . . . I absolutely loved Halle’s ability to whisk us away and make it seem as if we were in a faraway place . . . It felt like an adventure.
—Vilma’s Book Blog
“A luminous love story fraught with serious angst and impossible odds against the backdrop of a stunningly beautiful location . . . Where Sea Meets Sky is Karina Halle’s most flawless writing to date.”
—Angie and Jessica’s Dreamy Reads
“Karina Halle, where have you been all my life? . . . [The] descriptive writing made the entire book so vivid! . . . If you’re looking for an insanely sexy book to pick up, grab Where Sea Meets Sky!”
—Once Upon a Twilight
“Emotionally beautiful, inspiring and unforgettable, Karina Halle has yet again touched my heart with her poignant writing and her beautiful stories, and I can’t wait to read Amber’s story coming soon this summer!”
—Shh Mom’s Reading
Thank you for downloading this Atria Books eBook.
* * *
Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Atria Books and Simon & Schuster.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com
To Stephanie and her two giant suitcases. Thank you for making Italy such a memorable adventure. Stay away from the “brown nuts.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book was originally meant to be set in Brazil, a place I really wanted to visit, especially as I was set to take my assistant, Stephanie, along with me—she’s Brazilian and would’ve been a giant help with the language. But the visa process and bureaucratic hoops to get into the country proved to be too much, so Stephanie and I went back to the drawing board for the research trip. Or, rather, I brought the drawing board to my readers. Since Brazil was out of the question, I asked readers where my next book should be set. Wherever they told us to go, we would go.
An overwhelming number voted for Italy’s Amalfi Coast. Since I’d only been to Venice and Rome before, they didn’t need to tell me twice; we packed up our bags and headed for the land of lemons.
Our trip took us from Naples, to Sorrento, to Positano, to Ischia, to Capri, and I fell in love with each of these places—some more than others. The Italian people of the Southern region are very charming, as you might imagine, and we made it our daily goal to find the best caprese salad we could. (Interestingly enough, the best caprese salad isn’t on Capri, but at the Hotel Mare Blu Terme on the island of Ischia.)
At one point, we even saw Derio—no kidding. He was tall, dark, and handsome, with that same swoop of hair, Chucks, long shorts, and a tattoo on his leg. We were in Sorrento and I walked past him and then did a double take. We spent the rest of the night sitting curbside at a cafe, drinking wine and wondering if we’d see him again. Guess what? We did. He was walking with his mother, which made us both squee and swoon from afar. So, Derio does exist somewhere on the Amalfi Coast! If you find him, take his picture; the ones we took are too grainy. (No, we aren’t stalkers . . . much.)
On the way back home from our trip, I had bad luck with the planes, as usual . . . and by bad luck, I mean there were always delays. (They didn’t crash, thankfully.) I got stuck overnight in Dublin, Ireland, which was so not part of the plan (especially as I was supposed to be in New York for a signing). The airline comped us food and hotel, though (unlike some airlines, cough, Westjet) and at dinner I sat with a fellow traveler who had also been uprooted on her journey. While we ate and drank, she told me she had just been in Positano, too, and that she had met a girl there who had gone on a whim and fallen in love with a local Italian police officer. She had to leave Positano when her time was up but was moving back once her visa was secure. It was mad, passionate love at first sight.
Obviously, you’ll recognize that I put part of that in the book—authors are the ultimate opportunists. But what really struck me, and what always strikes me about traveling, is that when you’re out there on your own, in a new culture, you open yourself up to so many things—love included. People may roll their eyes at the love-at-first-sight stories, or the ones where someone takes a chance on someone they don’t really know, or the ones where people move overseas for someone. And the thing is . . . it happens in real life! And that’s why I love writing about love and travel, because I believe when you put yourself out there in the world and embrace it whole-heartedly—like Amber in Racing the Sun, Josh in Where Sea Meets Sky, and Vera in Love, In English—you open yourself up to a world of possibilities, including a love you might only have dreamed of.
So, if you’re not inspired by Love, in English, Where Sea Meets Sky, or Racing the Sun, go out there and travel. See the world for yourself. And find love . . . not just with someone else, but within yourself and within the world.
CHAPTER ONE
We’ve all thought about how we’re going to die. My friend Angela Kemp, whom I’ve known since we played in saggy diapers together, is convinced she’s going to choke to death on something. Every time we go out to eat, she searches the restaurant for the person most likely to know the Heimlich maneuver and tries to sit by them. It doesn’t seem to matter that I know the Heimlich maneuver; she just wants to know she’ll be safe if it happens.
Personally, I’ve always thought I’d fall to my death. I think it all started when I was seven or eight years old and had dreams of my house turning over and me falling from the floor to the ceiling, dodging couches and tables. After that, my dreams turned to me falling off of balconies, getting trapped in collapsing elevators, and being in horrific plane crashes. Actually, it was never the crash that killed me, nor was it the scariest part of the dream; I was always sucked out of the airplane before the impact and fell to my death in a horrible rush of cold air and mortality.
It shouldn’t surprise me, then, that I think I’m about to die in this moment, and by falling, no less.
In fact, I’m sure there’s no way I can possibly survive this. It’s not just that I’m in a taxi that seems to be coughing black fumes out of its tailpipe every two seconds, or the fact that the driver, with a mustache so big that he looks like a walrus, is looking more at me and the two other backpackers in the backseat than at the road. No, it’s because, as we round the corners of the “highway” toward the postcard-worthy town of Positano, we’re going full speed and there’s nothing but a sheer cliff on my side of the vehicle.
“Shit,” I swear, trying to hold on to something, anything, that would keep me in the car and prevent me from falling to my death, like my sordid dreams foretell. I look over at Ana and Hendrik, my Danish traveling companions for this leg of Southern Italy, and they don’t seem all that concerned. I’m especially not going to grab on to big, blond Hendrik since Ana has a problem with random girls touching him.
Not that I’m random at this point. I met up with the couple in Rome and spent a few days with them there before we took the train down south. I know they have plans to keep going all the way to Sicily and hunker down in some beach hut with a bunch of goats (I don’t know, but whenever Hendrik talks about their plans, goats are involved somehow), but I’m starting to believe that Positano is the end of the line for me.
And it’s not just because I’m certain I’m going to die on the way there. It’s because I am flat fuc
king broke. We all knew this day would come (and by we, I mean my parents and I). After all, I’ve been traveling for six months around the world and even though I’ve been trying to spend as little as possible, the world isn’t as cheap as you’d think.
It probably doesn’t help that I went a little overboard in Europe and had a mini shopping spree in every city I was in. But I like to think of my new shawls and sandals and jewelry as souvenirs, not just clothes. I mean, do you get to wear your postcards or ceramic doodads or tiny calendars with pictures of the Eiffel Tower on them? No. But you can wear a scarf you picked up from a market in Berlin.
But, of course, in hindsight, maybe I should have managed my money a bit better. I just thought that my savings were enough. And then, when my parents started bailing me out, I thought I could coast by on that. Just for a little while. Until I found out they sold my shitty 1982 Mustang convertible to help pay for this trip. After that, they just stopped putting money in my account.
I’ve now eaten into the money that was supposed to pay for my return ticket home, a ticket I didn’t think I’d have to buy until I got down to Morocco, or even Turkey.
So, Positano, Italy, on the Amalfi Coast, might just be the end for me.
If I even make it out of this cab. As we round another bend, I can see crazy people parked on the road and selling flowers. Not the side of the road, but parked on the actual road. So now people are swerving around them, but when Italians swerve they don’t slow down—they actually speed up.
I decide to close my eyes for the rest of the journey and hope I get there in one piece.
Even though the journey from Sorrento to Positano doesn’t translate into many miles, it still feels like it takes forever for us to finally get there.
The walrus-mustached cab driver pulls to a sudden stop, abrupt enough that I fling forward, my curly blonde hair flying all over the place.
“Amber,” Ana says in her deep accent. “We’re here.”
“I gathered that,” I say, and awkwardly pretend to search through my messenger bag for euros, though I don’t really have any euros to spare. Thankfully, Ana thrusts some bills into the driver’s hand and we clamber out of the cab.
And so here is Positano. I’d been so busy closing my eyes and praying that I’d never really gotten a good look at the town.
It’s fucking charming. I mean, it’s beautiful and stunning and photogenic as all hell, but its charm is the first thing that comes to mind. The cab dropped us off at the top of a hill and you can see just how packed the town is, with building after colorful building crammed below the cliffs, staggered down the hillsides, tucked into every nook and cranny. It makes you wonder what crazy person decided to put a town here, of all places.
The one-way road leading down to the beach is narrow, with cars and pedestrians and patio seating vying for space, and lined with stores that beckon you to come inside. Actually, knowing Italy, the minute you walk past, some shopkeeper will come out and literally beckon you to come inside. Like, you can’t say no (maybe that’s how I’ve ended up with so much stuff). In the distance, the Mediterranean Sea sparkles from the sunlight—glitter on water—and hydrofoil ferries glide over it with ease.
“Wow,” I say softly, trying to take it all in. “This is like the movies.”
“Yes, it’s very nice,” Hendrik says blankly. He’s never really impressed with anything. When we saw the Colosseum, he said he thought it would be bigger. Well, I thought it would be bigger, too, but that didn’t stop me from being overwhelmed by the structure and history of it all. “Luckily the hostel is at the top of the hill.”
That is lucky, considering if it were at the bottom of the hill on this one-way road, I’d have to lug my overflowing backpack and duffel bag uphill to catch a cab or bus when it’s time to leave. Then again . . . I have a feeling I’m going to be here awhile. I have enough money to stay at this hostel for a week, and then I’m officially fucked.
I try not to dwell on that as I follow the Danes down the road for a few minutes as cars and the ubiquitous motorcycle zoom past, narrowly missing me. Even being on foot and walking at your own pace, there’s something so dizzying about this place. All these houses, the color of burnt orange and pastel yellow and faded rose, looking down on each other. When I turn around and look behind me, the steep, rocky hills rise up into the sky.
It feels like the entire town could topple over at any minute.
This could be a metaphor for my life at the moment.
After we’ve settled into a rather pleasant-looking dorm room (pleasant compared to the fleabag we stayed at in Rome), Ana and Hendrik invite me to go with them down to the beach. I really do want to go and explore, but I have a feeling they’ll want to eat at some restaurant, and that would cost more euros than I can afford. As much as I hate it, I have to stick to my weird Italian granola bars and fruit for as long as I can. Besides, I’m sure the lovebirds would rather stroll on the Positano beach with each other and not have some broke, frazzle-haired American girl tagging along.
So they leave and I take my time exploring the hostel. It’s small, but even though it’s the only one in town, it’s not as packed as I thought it would be. It’s the beginning of June, too, so I thought all college kids and post-college kids (like myself) would be flocking to this area. I guess not.
That’s fine with me. After living out of a backpack for months on end and never really having any time for myself, strolling around a quaint but quiet hostel would be awesome—just one of the many little pleasures of a traveler’s life.
I end up back at the reception desk where a girl with shiny, poker-straight, chocolate-brown hair is sipping some lemon drink. I get major hair envy over anyone with straight strands.
“Buongiorno,” the girl says with a smile once she notices I’m there. Then she remembers I checked in a moment ago. “I mean, hello. Amber, right? From San Francisco?”
“San Jose,” I correct her, finding her easy to talk to already. I’ve always been a fairly quiet girl, but that changed real quick once I started traveling by myself. “Listen, I was just wondering. Well, I mean, I know you work here, right?”
She nods. “I hope so, otherwise I’ll be in a lot of trouble.”
“Right. I was just wondering, how did that happen?”
“Oh,” she says and leans back in her stool. I notice how sun-browned her skin is and gather she must have been in Italy, or at least someplace warm, for a long time. She breaks into a wide smile. “It’s kind of a long story.”
I lean against the counter. “I’ve got time.”
And so the girl—Amanda—launches into the story of her current life. She came here on a whim with a friend of hers but fell in love with Positano so badly that she didn’t want to leave. Her friend ended up going back home and she asked the owners of the hostel if there were any way she could work for them. They told her she could work the front desk full-time in exchange for room, board, and little bit of extra money—all under the table, of course. She jumped at the chance.
“So how long are you staying here for?” I ask.
“My three months is up in a month.”
I make a frowny face. “That sucks.”
She shoots me an impish smile. “I’ll be back. Luca is making sure of that.”
“Who is Luca?”
“The man I’m going to marry.”
And then she launches into another story, this one far more exciting than the last one. On her second week of working here, she ended up running into a local cop. He was hot, and it was love at first sight. Now that she has to leave the country (Americans can only be here for three months at a time), Luca is building a case to bring her back in seven months. If they can prove they’re serious about each other and intend to marry one day, she can get a permit to work here for longer.
“Wow,” I tell her when she’s finished. “I was just thinking this town was like a movie set, and now this is like movie love.”
She blushes. “I know it’s rath
er fast. No one takes our relationship seriously, not even his mother. But I do love him and he loves me and I know this is the right thing to do. So why not take the chance, you know? If it doesn’t work out, at least I’ll have a hell of a story.”
“You already do have a hell of a story.” I’ll admit that even though I think it’s sweet and romantic, the jaded and cynical side of me thinks it is a bit ridiculous that she’s doing all of this for a man, that you could even fall in love that fast. But that’s probably because I’ve been screwed over by men a few times already on my travels.
“See,” she says, pulling out her phone and showing me a picture. “This is Luca. You’d stay for him, wouldn’t you?”
I let out a low whistle. Luca is hot. Dark-skinned with piercing, light eyes. And he’s tall, too. Not that that’s too out of the ordinary—it’s just that everyone warned me that Italian men would be short and hairy. So far, I haven’t found that to be the case at all.
“Nice,” I say to her. “Well, I wish you both the best and hope it all works out.”
She shrugs. “Life works out the way it wants to.”
“Uh-huh.” And then I remember the real reason why I came to talk to her. “Listen, I’m having some financial difficulties at the moment. You know, overdid it a bit in London and all that. Anyway, I was wondering if you knew if there was any work available for someone like me?”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Well, there’s no work here.”
Relax, I think. I’m not after your job.
“Oh, I don’t mean here, per se. I just meant in town. Or in the area. Even Sorrento or Salerno.”
She purses her lips and thinks. “Well, there would be jobs in Salerno, but you don’t want to work there. Have you tried the English café down the street? Sometimes they need English speakers. There’s also a work notice board for foreigners. Usually the jobs posted are one-offs for guys, like a day spent painting a house or something like that. But sometimes you can get lucky.”
