“No,” Marco says. “She has gone tonight. She is crazy, that girl. She does not stop bothering me.”
“Because of Adam and the hotel?” I ask.
“Sì, certo.”
“I understand her point,” I say. “If you need the help—”
“This hotel—” Marco starts. “It’s my family’s proudest moment. Our whole history, everything, is here.” He moves his hands in an arc, making a circle. “Hotel Poseidon. Do you understand?”
My father retired three years ago. At the time of hisretirement, he had five clothing stores, seventy-two employees, and a corporate office close to my house in Culver City.
He did not want to retire, but my mother wanted him to. Or rather, she wanted to.
“As long as your father works, I work,” she said. “And I’m finished with that phase of my life. We don’t live beyond our means. We can afford it. I want to do other things now.”
My mother wanted to travel more, to read outside, to garden, to spend time with my father that didn’t orient itself around cost models.
“But your father loves the business,” Eric said to me. “Things are going well, and they’re still young. I just don’t understand what they’re going to do.”
I agreed with him. I didn’t think it was a smart move for them, either. My father needed to be engaged, and my mother was used to a partner who had something outside their relationship. What would happen if that changed?
I confronted my mother about it, one Friday night after dinner. Eric and my father were in the family room, watching a game he had recorded. My mom was making us fresh mint tea in the kitchen. There was some strawberry cobbler. I remember because usually she made apple.
“I think it’s a bad idea for Dad to stop working,” I said. “He’s going to drive you crazy if he’s around all the time. He needs structure. What’s he going to do all day long? I don’t think it’s smart. Eric agrees.”
My mother stuffed the glass pot full of mint and let it steep for a full five minutes. She liked a strong brew.
“I don’t agree,” she said. “I think we both need a change.”
“I don’t think Dad does,” I said. “He loves the business. He thrives on having a place to go and people who rely on him.”
She set my cup down in front of me. I touched my fingertips to the ceramic edges. It was burning hot.
“He does,” she said. “But he’s also curious to see what could come next. We’ve talked about this for years now. This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. You act like we don’t speak to one another. It’s our relationship; not everything has to make sense to you. It’s what we both want.”
I never thought about my parents’ marriage as being a separate entity from our family unit—we were one. This sentiment was new from my mother, or at least, it had gone unexpressed before.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Something different,” she said. “There is more to life than just continuing to do what we know.”
I didn’t understand it at the time, but I do now. They didn’t get much time to travel, but in that one year they had, they did a lot—they went to Mexico and Nashville and the Bahamas. My dad learned how to play the guitar. My mother learned how to make pottery and pound cake and redecorated the family room, then my dad’s home office. They were constantly in motion.
There is more to life than just continuing to do what we know.
What got you here won’t get you there.
“Are you married, Marco?”
Marco’s face erupts into emotion. “I am too old for you!”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Marco laughs. “Yes, yes, of course I am married.”
“Where is your wife?”
“She does not love the life in Positano. She stays in Naples, quite often. I see her seldom in the summer.”
