She told me it was gorgeous, though.
“I didn’t know that,” I say.
“We just met! But no one does, really. Design is kind of a passion project of mine. I was an art history major, and I work in a gallery now, but it is—it’s not really what I want to do. I want to design interiors. This hotel would be a dream.”
She doesn’t know yet, I think. She doesn’t know that she’ll do it.
I think about walking into my mother’s office at home in Brentwood. The floor was soft white carpeting, and there were all sorts of movie posters framed on the walls—like she wasn’t a decorator but instead a producer. They were films whose sets she loved. “Your home is your set” is a thing she’d often tell clients. I knew what she meant. That the homes in movies have to work—they have to show the audience who these characters are; they have to be revealing. She wanted people’s homes to be reflections of them. She wanted you to be able towalk inside and say “No one else but Carol Silver could possibly live here.”
“I’ve heard it’s beautiful,” I say.
She nods. “I stayed there when I came with my parents so many years ago. I never forgot that place.”
“I can see why,” I say.
She smiles. “So anyway, I should get going. But thank you for the major exercise. It completely cleared my head. I need to remember that!” She turns and walks off before I can stop her. “See you later!” she calls over her shoulder.
I watch her disappear down the steeply descending staircase.I am watching her becoming, I think. Here she is, at the start.
Chapter Twelve
I’m a sweaty mess and nearing dehydration when I get back to the lobby. Marco is gone, but Carlo is at the desk.
“Hot morning,” he says. “Water?”
“Yes, please.”
He hands me a bottle, and I down it in one long swig.
“Thanks, Carlo.”
I turn to head upstairs, and he calls after me.
“You have a message, Ms. Silver,” he says.
My first thought is my mother. Not Carol, not the woman I just left on the stairs, but my mom. That she’s at home, arranging flowers and sending me a telegraph all the way to Italy:How is the shopping? Buy me something for the house, I miss you. Xx.
But of course there are no such things as telegraphs anymore, to start.
The second is Eric.
“Oh?” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “A gentleman named Adam who is a guest here wanted to know if you were free for lunch.”
I laugh. It comes out like a snort. Carlo notices.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll track him down.”
I take the stairs up to the restaurant, where breakfast is in full swing. Nika is talking to a well-dressed couple in their sixties. They look French, impeccably matched up in white linen.
“Look who it is!”
Adam is bright and cheerful this morning, in striped swim trunks and a gray T-shirt. His hands are empty, and I glance over to see his room key perched on his usual table.
“Hey,” I say. “I just got your message.”
He looks me over. “You look worked.”
