Summer in Tuscany (20 page)

The Amalfi coastline south of Naples is a narrow torture of hairpin bends hanging over a sheer drop into the sea, but I hardly had a chance to see its beauty. It was hell just avoiding those trumpeting
camion
tearing along the road as though they owned it, as well as the tour buses plodding down the very middle, though I did manage to eyeball the half-naked, sun-browned youths on old Vespas heading for the beach. Even in my state I noticed them, so you can imagine how gorgeous they were.

Crazy Italian drivers in small Fiats darted past us on the bends, cars swung in front to park, pedestrians walked nonchalantly under my wheels; ice cream vendors jutted their carts into the road, and dogs ambled lazily through the traffic. Many, I noticed, were limping.

Livvie and Nonna were asleep in the backseat. The drive had taken hours, and now we were stuck in traffic in a small coastal town, a one-lane crawl in the heat. We had been nose to tail forever, it seemed. I wound down my window and hung my elbow out, praying for a breeze, glancing in the rearview mirror at my mother and my daughter.

I looked anxiously at Nonna. There was a grayness to her face I hadn’t noticed before, a waxiness to her skin. I told myself it had been a long drive; it was probably just fatigue and the heat.

I was leaning wearily on the wheel, waiting for the traffic to move through the little Italian beach town, dwelling on what was wrong with my life, when I noticed an old man. He was hobbling down the broken sidewalk carrying a magnificent white Persian cat.

His walnut face cracked in a toothless smile as he held the cat up high for the passing motorists to admire. The cat’s hair was pure white, thick and soft; the old man’s was straggly, sparse, streaked in shades of gray. The cat’s huge blue eyes surveyed us languidly; the old man’s boot-button eyes gleamed with pride in a face of a thousand wrinkles. He was gnarled, stooped, a peasant and poor, yet he had tied a red ribbon bow around his cat’s neck and brushed her long fur until it was satin. As I watched, he placed the cat carefully on the seawall.

He turned, beaming, to face the snarled traffic.
“Guardate,”
he called out to us.
“Guardate tutti, la mia principessa. Vedete quanto bella è.”
Look, everybody, at my princess. See how beautiful she is.

Heads stuck out the windows of crawling cars, and eyes widened as people looked. The old peasant waved an arm, pointing proudly at his cat, and people laughed and called out to him,
“Quanto bello, è allinare una principessa.”
How lovely, she is truly a princess.

The old man took his bow humbly.
“Grazie, grazie, signori.”

And the cat stared calmly back at us, her admirers. She extended a languid front paw as though inspecting her manicure, yawning as she accepted her applause.

I was suddenly stricken by the pathos of this little vignette, by the old man’s pride, his love, his need to share the only beautiful thing in his poor life. He was not holding out his cap. He was not begging. He asked nothing in return, only our acknowledgment of his cat’s beauty.

As the traffic moved slowly on, leaving the old man and his
principessa
behind, tears slid down my hot cheeks. I was crying for the old peasant and his beautiful cat, and for all my own accumulated sadnesses: the daily struggle, the emotional letdown of the emergency room when a life had slipped away from me and I had to acknowledge that I was only human, only a doctor, not a god. I was crying for the loneliness I had striven to push away as though it didn’t exist and that now, because of Ben, I knew was a fact. And I was crying for Cash and for Ben and my own lost loves.

It was a kind of epiphany. Because of an old man and his love for his beautiful white cat, I was finally able to see my own life in its reality. And for the first time I asked myself, Is this all there is?

If there were only one good reason to come to Italy, I knew this might have been it.

We were at the San Pietro, a small, luxurious country-style hotel miraculously pinned to a steep cliffside in Positano. This was a simple kind of luxury: a cool white interior, masses of fresh flowers, and a jaw-dropping fall into the sea hundreds of feet below. My spacious bedroom, its floor tiled for coolness, led onto a flowery balcony and a sunlit panorama of blue sea. The bathroom window was part of the tumbling green cliffside so you could lie in the tub and watch little boats whizzing by far below.

It was that magical time just before dusk slides into night, with the sea a deep underlit blue and the sky an opaque chrome gray. We were sitting on a beautiful bougainvillea-covered, lamp-lit dining terrace, but I noticed that Livvie was not looking at the view. She was staring morosely into her glass of lemonade, looking suddenly lost.

I realized that for Livvie this scene, all this beauty, was not enough. She was bored; she needed other young people; she needed action. I sighed, not knowing what to do.

The charming headwaiter beamed at us; he told us we need not simply choose from the menu. “Please,
signore,
” he said, waving his arms wide to demonstrate what he meant, “tell me what it is you want, and you will have it. We are here to make your dreams come true.”

I wish,
I thought somberly, but Livvie said, “Okay, I would like some Cream of Wheat, please.” I glared at her. I knew she was putting them to the test.

“But of course, if that is your dream.” He looked sad that Cream of Wheat was all she desired, and Livvie’s own face fell. I could tell she was already regretting it.

“Well, maybe I’ll have pizza,” she said in a small voice, and he smiled at her and said, “Your wish is my command,
signorina.
” Minutes later he appeared bearing a thin, biscuity pizza margherita, fresh from the glowing wood-fired oven at the end of the terrace. I could tell Livvie was impressed, and she smiled and said thank you, remembering her manners for once.

I don’t recall what I ate, only that it was delicious. And that there were fireworks over the bay as we dined, reminding us of the Fourth of July party at the Villa Piacere, and reminding me of Ben. As if I needed reminding.

Later I climbed exhausted into my huge bed. The beautiful linens smelled of the fresh wind and sunshine, and the cicadas made a racket outside my open window that somehow I found soothing. It was a hot night, and I was naked under the sheet. I pushed it back, lying there in the starlit dark with only the sound of the sea and the crickets and my own thoughts for company. I wasn’t used to sleeping naked; I hadn’t done it in a long time. Well, not since last week…with Ben.

And that was a lifetime ago.

Livvie

The morning was sunlit, with a promise of heat to come. Bougainvillea crisscrossed over Livvie’s head in a blaze of purple and hot pink and salmony orange, and below, the sea sparkled with a cool blue glitter that looked tempting. She was on Nonna’s terrace, breakfasting on a feast of fresh fruit, tiny croissants, and crusty bread with freshly squeezed orange juice. Nonna was pouring coffee, hot and strong, from a large silver pot, and Livvie noticed that all her mom wanted was coffee. Nonna had said she was still in a funk, and it was about love again, only this time it was Ben as well as Cash.

She thought about Muffie. She wished the kid could have come with them; at least then she would have had someone to talk to, because right now she was going out of her mind with boredom. She and Muffie weren’t exactly friends—more like allies—but she liked that Muffie had had the guts to do what she did
and
to stand up to her father, though she was willing to bet Muffie wouldn’t have done it had her society mother been around.

She stared gloomily at the translucent blue sea. Even the thought of swimming in it was no fun, not without someone her own age to share it with, someone to dunk under the miniwaves, someone to float on a raft with, the way she could see people doing far below their terrace. Maybe she should just get on one of those rafts and float away on her own sea of loneliness. Is that what she was feeling? Lonely? Bored? Restless? Who knew? She didn’t know herself what was wrong with her.

None of them had brought bathing suits, so now they had to go into Positano to buy some. Livvie thought at least that would be a diversion: shopping was always good. Maybe they’d have some real funky stuff in the village. Ha, some hope!

It was already hot when they took the hotel shuttle the couple of kilometers into Positano. The village sprawled down the hill in a series of charming narrow cobbled streets, with stone archways spilling peach- and rose-colored blossoms. Holidaymakers were already sipping coffee under yellow umbrellas in terraced cafés, and tourist shops had hung out their wares: sun hats, bathing suits, cotton sarongs, and T-shirts that said
POSITANO
on them. There were ceramic shops with the local blue and yellow pottery; craft shops with carved olive-wood bowls and napkin holders; art shops with large paintings of the Bay of Salerno, glittering and even more blue than the reality below them; and fun little shoe stores and boutiques.

Livvie bought a minuscule red bikini that she knew Nonna disapproved of; her mother bought a blue one-piece tank suit that Livvie said was boring; and Nonna bought a white strapless little number with draping over the stomach that her mother said made Nonna look like fifties movie star Rita Hayworth. Then Livvie said, “Omigod,
red, white,
and
blue
! We’ll look like
the flag
!”

While Nonna and her mother fortified themselves with more espresso in one of the outdoor cafés, Livvie mooched alone down to the harbor. And it was there she saw him. Balanced on the hull of a Riva speedboat, lazily polishing its brasswork.

He looked, she thought breathlessly, exactly like his speedboat: slender, sleek, lithe.
Omigod,
all those words she had never thought applied to a man surely did now. All the guys she knew at home were sort of geeky, still growing into themselves. Everybody knew girls were much more advanced than boys the same age. But this one was older.
And
he was a golden boy: blond sun-bleached hair to his shoulders; lean golden-tan body with muscles that rippled as he moved; a dusting of golden hairs along his arms, his legs, his chest, even on his taut tan stomach.

He turned, caught her looking at him, and stared back at her with eyes the color of the sea behind him.
“Ciao,”
he said, and Livvie thought it was the most wonderful word in the world.

“Ciao,”
she said back, suddenly shy and also suddenly too aware of her long skinny body with its as yet too small breasts. She only hoped she wasn’t going to be like her mom and have to stuff her bra with panty hose. For once she felt uncertain about the way she looked.

He was still staring at her.
“Che bella,”
he called, doing that kissy thing with his fingers and smiling with a flash of terrific white teeth. Livvie bit her bottom lip and stared down at the ground, embarrassed. Compared with the guys she knew, this one was A MAN.

“You wanna rent?” he said, waving his arm to indicate the glossy speedboat. “I take you to Capri, only half an hour.”

She edged closer, shading her eyes with her hand as she looked up at him. “You go to Capri?”

“I go anywhere—with you,” he said, giving her that smile again. “To Capri for the shopping—everybody goes.”

A whole half hour in his company—a half hour there—
plus
a half hour back again. Whatever it cost, it was worth it. “How much?” Livvie said. She gasped, though, when he told her the number with all the zeros. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

“Gotta ask Mamma,” he called mockingly after her as she fled up the steep, narrow street back to the café.

“We’ve got to go to Capri,” she informed her mother and Nonna, still breathless. Almost as breathless as they were when she told them the price of the Riva and its captain. She looked pleadingly at her mother and saw the sudden softness in her eyes that meant she was about to give in. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Mom,” she cried, hugging her.

“Tell him to pick us up at two o’clock at the San Pietro,” her mother said, smiling at her.

“Two o’clock at the San Pietro,” Livvie told him, even more breathless from the run back down the hill.

“Okay.” He was still polishing his brasswork, and she watched for a minute. He was, she decided, Absolutely Perfect.

“What’s your name?” she said at last.

“Tomaso.” He flicked her a knowing little smile.
“E tu?”

“Livvie.”

He nodded. “Okay, Livvie, two o’clock.”

“Okay,” she said, still lingering. “Well,
ciao
then.”

“Ciao.”
He whistled as he worked.

Back at the hotel, Livvie changed into her new bikini and sarong, then, with her mom and Nonna, took the outside elevator eighty-eight long meters down through sheer rock to the tiny cove with a sunbathing platform built out over the sea. A huge shallow cave was in back of them, with a bar and a beach attendant who bullied the guests, deciding, like a miniemperor allotting his lands, who got the prime spots along the edge of the sea and who had to sit two or three rows back. Of course, when Nonna informed him in Italian who she was, they were given three sun loungers on the water’s edge. Crisp white towels were spread over their loungers, orders were taken for lunch, which had to be sent down from the kitchen upstairs, and requests for cold drinks were filled.

Feeling as if the work of the day had been done, Livvie arranged herself on her cushioned lounger. She lay on her stomach, staring at the glittering bay, idly playing with the fringe on the towel, and thinking about Tomaso. TOMASO. Two o’clock seemed an eternity away.

Gemma

Why did I agree to go to Capri this afternoon? All I really wanted to do was lie here and stare at the sea and think about absolutely nothing.
Zero
. My mind is too full to cope anymore. Numb would be the right word to describe my feelings right now. And I need to stay that way.

I glanced worriedly at Livvie; I so wanted her to enjoy this trip, and in a way she was, but she was lonesome and, I guess, lost. Lost in the young teen way of longing for something but not knowing exactly what; of knowing things but not knowing enough; of longing for experiences and being afraid of them; of presenting a streetwise facade to the world, when she was really just as vulnerable as any other kid. Life was so tough when you were a teen.

Did it get any easier when you were older? I asked myself. Look at the mess I was making of things. I was hardly a great example.

I watched as Livvie and Nonna went off to the beach bar to have lunch. I wasn’t hungry. Mostly I was just running on high-octane caffeine. I saw Livvie slip her arm through Nonna’s. They smiled at each other, and I felt a little better. I wondered what the speedboat ride would be like, and Capri. I hoped the trip would perk Livvie up a bit, snap her out of her boredom.

I needn’t have worried. Livvie was waiting on the edge of the little jetty at one fifty-five, hands shading her eyes, staring out to sea like a New England sea captain’s wife waiting for her man to return from a long journey.

We had changed from our bathing suits into shorts and shirts and sun hats, and I was looking around at the Italian women, so chic and somehow “together,” every sleek hair in place, red lipstick perfect, golden tan smooth, wondering where I’d gone wrong. I recalled the icy Scandinavian blonde on Ben’s terrace with her perfect peach-polished toes and her cool white dress, and jealousy stabbed me again. I hate jealousy. It was beneath me to feel this way, but damn it, that’s how I felt.

I turned to Nonna. “I need to go shopping,” I said firmly.

She flashed me an astonished glance. “Well, it’s about time.”

Livvie leaned forward eagerly as the speedboat hove into sight. The engine cut, and it slid silently alongside. I saw her face fall as she stared at the person piloting it.

He looked like Hemingway’s Old Man of the Sea: long, wild, curly gray hair and burned-bronze muscles, eyes permanently narrowed from years of gazing over tempestuous oceans, and a face worn into creases from the sun and the wind.

Livvie said, “But I thought—”

What had she thought? I wondered. And then I saw what. Or rather
whom
.

Blond, beautiful, and
sexy
. A lethal combination. I looked worriedly at my daughter.

“Ciao,
Tomaso.” She smiled, and he nodded
ciao
back to her as we walked carefully down the slippery little steps. Tomaso helped us into the boat, the Old Man of the Sea revved his engines, and we slid away from the jetty with a throaty roar. He gave it full throttle, and we were speeding across the glittering blue sea past a panorama of towering cliffs matted with greenery, past secluded sandy coves and tiny seaside villages with seemingly no road leading down to them, past giant rock formations and deep dark caves and a cruise ship, with its sails unfurled, sleeking grandly across our path.

Tomaso, who I now realized was the reason we were in this boat and on our way to Capri, climbed like a monkey along the side. Spray dotted his golden body with crystal. He balanced like a circus performer on the hull of the speeding Riva. Then he stripped off his shorts.

He wasn’t
exactly
naked; I mean, he had on one of those brief little bathing suits European men sometimes wear, the kind that leave nothing to your imagination. He posed there for a second, then lay down on the front of the boat, legs stretched out, arms propped behind his head, as he gave himself up to the sun and the wind, the spray and the speed.

Livvie’s eyes met mine, and we smiled, the kind of smile that said we had a little secret between us and that I knew where she was at and she knew what I was thinking.

We were in Capri in a flash, hair whipped by the wind that had also put a sparkle in our eyes. Although in Livvie’s case, it was probably just Tomaso. The Old Man of the Sea cut back his engine to a muted purr, and Tomaso rose from the deck. He posed for a second, then dived into the blue, blue sea. He emerged seconds later, climbing back onto the deck, shaking drops of water from his golden body, sleek as any dolphin.

I glanced at my daughter and saw that helpless lost-puppy look in her eyes that I knew from my own teen years. And I knew she was in love, for the very first time.