If he were here, he’d go right up to their table. He’d offer to take a few more shots, if they wanted that. Then he’d inquire as to where they were from. In ten minutes’ time, he’d be asking them to join us, and then we’d be spending the rest of this holiday on a double date. Eric talks to everyone—the checkout clerk at Ralphs, the lady in line in front of him at the movie theater, the vendors at the farmers market. He knows the detailed family tree of our postman, George, and most people who come within a ten-foot radius of him on a Tuesday. It drives me nuts, because it means we’re never alone. Also, I hate small talk. I’m not good at it. Eric is a professional. I like to disappear in my day, be anonymous. Eric would wear a T-shirt that hadFREE TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR EAR DOCTOR APPOINTMENT FOR THE NEXT FOUR AND A HALF HOURSin bold lettering.
I told Eric I’d never go on a cruise with him because by the second day there would be nowhere to hide. I’ve often wondered why he can’t just keep to himself. Why he’s always insisting on interjecting into everyone’s day, making himself known, taking up space with inane conversation.
The couple thanks Tony and goes back to their meal. I realize suddenly that if I stay down here any longer, I will run the risk of falling asleep at the table.
I go upstairs, pulled by the food and wine and night air. I take my cell phone out onto the balcony and call Eric. The phone rings three times, and then his familiar voicemail picks up:Hi, it’s Eric. Leave me a message, shoot me a text, and I’ll get right back to you. Thanks, bye.
“I made it,” I tell him. “I’m here.”
My voice hovers as I wonder if there is more to say, if I should try and describe this place, if I should give him some guidance, some direction, something to plant in my absence. But I do not know what that would be. I hang up before the exhale.
I put my phone along with my jewelry in the safe.
When I sleep, I dream of her—here with me, vibrant and alive.
Chapter Five
The ringing of the bells begins early, and it is this that, despite the jet lag, pulls me out of bed and onto the terrace, to greet the day.
Morning in Positano is reminiscent of the evening, but even lovelier. The marina is swathed in blue light—the day hasn’t fully broken open yet. A hint of a chill still hangs in the air, ready to be blown away by the first speck of sun.
I stand on the terrace in my striped poplin pajamas emblazoned withKS. We all have the monogrammed set—me, Eric, my mom, and my dad. They were for a holiday card we did two years ago. I remember my mother delivered them to our house. Eric’s are blue; mine are yellow; hers and my father’s are red. A family of primary colors.
“Carol, these won’t fit,” Eric said, holding them up. They looked a little truncated, and Eric is not a short guy.
“They’ll be perfect,” she said. “It’s one picture.” She smiled at him, which meant:Try them on.
“Now?” he asked her.
“Why not?”
Eric did a half eye roll, half laugh and went into thepowder room. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Eric! It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before!” I remember my mother calling after him playfully. It was true, she’d seen him in various stages of undress—when he got his appendix out, every holiday in a bathing suit, Saturdays at their pool.
“We’ll take the photos Saturday,” she said to me while he changed. “I want to get them done early this year.”
It was October. A bright, lingering summer day.
I should have known then that something was wrong. I should have known when she called the following week, after the pictures, to ask if Eric and I could come for dinner. I should have known when she said, over our pumpkin soup, “I have some news.”
The pajamas fit, incidentally. She was right.
I change, into a plain pink cotton sundress and sandals and a wide-brimmed hat. I tuck sunscreen and a wallet into my small Clare V. cross-body bag and leave the room. When I open the door, there is a man standing a foot away from me.
I scream and jump back. He yelps.
“Ay!”
“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry.”
His hands are held up in surrender, and in one he is holdingA Moveable Feast. I realize he has been browsing the small lending library outside my door. A nook of books, tucked into the side wall. I usually bring two to three books with me on a trip, and even if they don’t get read, I leave them behind. I have paperbacks I’ve picked up along the way, too.The Girl in the Flammable Skirtfrom an Airbnb in Joshua Tree,Lulu Meets God and Doubts Himfrom the Fontainebleau in Miami. This is the first trip I can remember that I didn’t pack a single novel. Ironic, as there’s no one else to keep me company.
“Just making a trade,” he says. “Crichton for Hemingway. Not a fair one, but not meant to do bodily harm, either.”
He takes a copy ofJurassic Parkoff the shelf and shows it to me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I already saw the movie.”
He cocks his head at me and smiles. “Never heard of it.”
