We look out over the water for another moment. And then he taps me twice on the arm. It’s sporty, maybe even friendly, but I feel it down in my stomach. “I’m impressed with your speed,” he says.
“I’d say let’s keep going, but I don’t want us to die of dehydration.”
“We can turn around,” Adam says. “And we’ll hit this lemonade stand on the way down. No water, but I do have cash.”
“I feel like that might be your tagline.”
“My tagline?”
“LikeThe Real Housewives? Tagline?” He looks at me blankly. “Never mind.”
We walk in silence. It feels comfortable, familiar, even. Like we’ve known each other a lot longer than the few days since I arrived. We stop at a lemonade stand, and Adam buys us both one. It’s sweet and syrupy and sticky and delicious. I down it and then pop an ice cube in my mouth, sucking on the cold until it melts. We wander back to the hotel through side steps. We stop at the landing and look down at the water. There is no rush. It is somehow, impossibly, still morning.
“I feel like there are more hours in the day here,” I say to Adam.
“That’s why I love it,” he says.
Everything is longer in Positano. Even time.
Chapter Twenty
Over breakfast I ask Adam if he wants to go to Capri today. The weather is glorious—wide-open, bright blue skies. I look out over the water that looks like crystal. Spending the day going to an island paradise is a perfect plan.
“Sounds like fun, Silver,” he says. “I think you’ll like it there, and I’d be honored as ever to show you around.”
“I asked you.”
“Trust me,” he says. “You want me in charge.”
Adam has a connection for a day boat, and an hour later we’re back at the Positano dock, loading into a small private yacht.
“This is Amelio,” Adam says. He introduces me to the captain—a man who looks to be in his late thirties with a ponytail and a white cotton polo.
“Hi,” I say. “Thank you for taking us.”
“Watch your step,” Amelio says. He speaks with an accent that sounds half-Italian and half-Australian.
He takes my hand and helps me onto the small yacht. Theentire front of the boat is padded, like a giant lounge chair. All browns and creams and whites. It’s so old-school beautiful.
“Tornado, right?” I ask Amelio.
He smiles appreciatively and nods. The tiny yacht is a throwback to the sixties in its style. It looks brand-new, impeccably maintained.
“Some of the most stunning boats in the world,” I say. “I love this one. Is it yours?”
Amelio nods. “Sì, è della mia famiglia.”
I grab a beach towel. Adam raises his eyebrow at me.
“What?” I say. “My father loves boats.”
When I was little, he used to take me down to the marina in Huntington Beach and show me the boats. Small catamaran yachts, like the one we’re on, are his favorites. Mine too.
We settle down on neighboring beach towels as Amelio revs the engine. Then we’re speeding away, toward Capri. The wind kicks up, and the air around us is salty and wet.
The trip to Capri is no more than forty-five minutes. The island emerges out of the sea like a giant perched rock—all jagged, dramatic cliffs. As we get closer I see a cove, then the rocks of a shore. There are about twenty swimmers bobbing their heads in the ocean.
The deep blue water gives way to a turquoise that seems fake, almost clear.
