Amelio nods. “No worry!”
He gestures out to sea, out to the blue water that surrounds us, miles of it in every direction.
Once we’re on land, I take in our surroundings.
Blue-and-white-striped umbrellas dot the scenery like camera flashes. Underneath them beachgoers lounge in chairs. Some linger on the rocks; others swim. The beach club isn’t crowded—more pleasantly populated. Beyond the rocks, there is a thatched building with the wordsLa Fontelinaon a wooden sign.
“I’ve heard of this place,” I say, remembering. My mother and I had reservations at the neighboring beach club, Da Luigi.
“Welcome to heaven,” Adam says. “Come on.”
We check in at a stand and are handed two beach towels. A porter guides us over to two lounge chairs, a stone’s throw away from the water. He sets up an umbrella overhead.
“This is spectacular,” I say.
I haven’t bothered to put my cover-up back on, and I toss my towel down, then plop onto the lounge chair.
“Just wait until lunch,” Adam says. “They have one of my favorite restaurants in Amalfi.”
I stretch out, feeling the sun on my legs.
Adam takes out a book. It’s his copy ofA Moveable Feast, the one he traded at the lending library by my room the day I met him.
“Is it good?” I ask.
“It’s a classic.”
“And?”
“Yes,” he says. “It’s very good. It reminds me of the best and worst of Paris. The romantic tragedy of that place.”
“Does your mom go back often?” I ask.
“Yes, about once a year. Her sister still lives there, my aunt. They are close, and I think it’s hard for my mother, being so far away from her.” He pauses, looks down at my bag. “Did you bring anything to read?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I’m very content.”
I say it, and I realize I mean it. I feel a strange calm take over my body. I close my eyes. There’s a breeze off the water, and the umbrella overhead keeps me well shaded.
We sun for a little while. I doze in and out of sleep—lulled by the sounds of the ocean, the peace of this place.
“Are you interested in heading up to the restaurant?” Adam asks me after about an hour. “We can order some wine before lunch.”
“Sounds great.”
I toss my cover-up on, and we climb the steps into the breezy building.
We’re seated out on the deck, overlooking the rocks, the whole ocean splayed out in front of us.
Adam orders us an ice-cold bottle of Sancerre. It’s sweet and delicious. I gobble down a glass.
From our perched spot you can see all blue, clear water and the three rocks of Faraglioni. They rise out of the ocean like Viking warriors, stacks of the sea. A hundred meters high, like cliffs themselves. The middle rock is an archway, where you can pass through. It’s impossible not to recognize them from thousands of photographs—on Instagram, or otherwise.
Adam follows my gaze. “You know the story about those, right?”
I nod.
If you kiss while entering through the archway of the middle rock, you will be happy in love for the next thirty years.
