“La Tagliata?” I say.
“Sì, sì.”
I don’t know whether to get on or not. My heart rate is sky-high, I can feel my pulse in my ears.Where is she?
“You come or you go?” the man asks me. I look up into the bus, trying to see inside, but the windows are black. I arch around, and the man steps forward, blocking my gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I say, craning my neck. “I’m just looking for my…”
“Sì o no?” the man asks.
I look across the street at the hotel. There’s no sign of her. “Sì,” I say, and then in an instant, I get on the bus.
Once I do, I see rickety seats, torn-up leather. There are no more than seven or eight people. And toward the back, lifting out of her seat, waving, is Carol.
Relief floods my veins.
“Katy, here!”
I make my way back to her. “Hi,” I say. “I didn’t see you at the hotel, and…”
She gets up and launches herself at me, her arms around my neck. I breathe her in. The smell of the ocean and just,her.
“Oh my god, hi. I’m so happy you’re here. There was a whole thing with the pickup, I was late and they made a stop by me, so I got on, and then he wouldn’t let me off the bus!” She pulls back and holds me at an arm’s length. “Italians!” she says, and releases me. “See, Francesco, this is my friend!” She gestures to the man from the door, clearly the driver, and then rolls her eyes.
Francesco gives her a curt nod.
I think about my mother’s color-coded calendar. Pink for errands, blue for my father, green for me, and gold for social obligations. I look at the bursting, bubbling mess of a woman before me. It’s almost impossible that this is the same person.
She’s so cool, I think as we take our seats.Your mother is so fucking cool.
She has on ripped jeans and a white lace top. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and she has just a glint of lip gloss on.
“You look great,” I say.
“Thanks!” she says, not a hint of modesty. “So do you.”
The bus starts to move, and I lean back against the sticky leather seat.
“This place is amazing. I can’t wait for you to see,” she says. “What have I told you about it?”
“Just that it’s high up,” I say. I point outside. To where thetown keeps ascending, even though, currently, we’re headed downhill. There is only one road in Positano, and that road is a one-way street. One must go down before one goes up.
“La Tagliata,” she says. “It’s run by Don Luigi and his wife, Mama. All their food is from their own farm. They don’t have a menu, so you just drink the chilled white wine and wait for whatever they’re serving up tonight.” Carol turns her head to me. “I really hope you’re hungry.”
I think about my marathon breakfast, and wine with Adam, which feels like days ago now. Hunger rolls through me. There’s always room here.
“Definitely.”
The bus makes a hard left by the Hotel Eden Roc, and we start climbing upward.
“How did you find this place?” I ask her.
“Remo took me a few nights into my trip,” she says. Some hair sticks to her face, and she brushes it away. “He tells me it’s hardly changed in twenty years. How many places can you say that about?”
“Definitely not anywhere in LA,” I say. The Coffee Bean a few blocks over used to be a Walgreens.
“That’s true.”
