Amanda returns my nod and the others smile affably when I make my way back through the kitchen. I switch out my shorts for a pair of dress khakis and head out to my favorite Italian restaurant in Kauai, in all of Hawaii, even. Luca’s, on the southwest edge of the island, is owned and operated by Luca Cantore and his wife Paloma. I discovered them shortly after I moved here and have been a regular ever since.
Within the hour, Paloma has greeted me with a kiss on each cheek and has me installed at my favorite table near a front window. Very few people recognize my face more than my artwork, so I never worry about being out in plain sight when I’m in public.
“Damon, always so glad to see you,” says Luca when he comes to my table. I haven’t been waited on by a regular server since about my third visit. “But we weren’t expecting you back for a while. Aren’t you supposed to be in New York?”
“Ah, well, my show was cancelled. You mean you haven’t read about it?”
“Actually, I did,” he admits. “I was just being polite. I hope that gallery had a good reason for pulling the rug out from under your show like that.”
“It’s a long story, Luca. But it’s actually put me in higher demand, so I’m working on some new pieces for an even bigger show.”
“And what about your renters?”
“That’s a long story too.”
“Okay. If you’re still here at closing, I’ll lock the doors and open a bottle of my best port, and you can tell me both stories. Veal scallopini tonight?”
Luca’s veal is like none I’ve ever tasted before. He and Paloma won’t tell me their secret, to insure I’ll come back and not try to recreate the dish at home. But I’ve been a creature of habit too long.
“You know, I think I’ll try something new tonight, Luca. Surprise me.”
“Molto, bene, Damon. I think I have something you’re really going to enjoy.”
A little later, as I’m tasting some of the best branzino I’ve ever had—because Luca never makes a misstep in the kitchen—I’m thinking that I’m one lucky man. I’m about to turn a disaster into a huge leap forward in my career, and I have a home and studio in one of the most beautiful places on earth. The only thing my life is missing, as it has been for the past five years, is Amanda.
13
Amanda
I hopemy face doesn’t look as flushed as it feels, because that means my thoughts are written all over my face. Thoughts of how warm and comforting Damon’s hands can be on my body when he doesn’t have a death grip on my arm. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t have to touch him, but part of meneededto.
“Well, that was interesting,” Margot says.
“Yes, but can we please go back to the ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ status?”
“I’m just saying, he was being very nice and polite. I mean he has a right to do his own laundry.”
“I know,” I say. “And he apologized for our.. disagreement the other day on the beach.”
“What’s this?” Stirling asks. “A disagreement?”
The two of them are really getting too close for comfort now.
“I have an idea,” I say, “Instead of continuing to ask me questions about what happened between me and Damon, maybe you two could explain why you failed to warn me that he was in the laundry room just now.”
“Um, pass the salad will you, darling?” says Stirling. Cammie giggles and I chuckle, which at least breaks the tension. But no more is said about it for the rest of the meal.
After dinner, I head back to the laundry room. Damon’s clothes, of course are finished washing, but what to do now? Should I just leave them and wait until tomorrow like I told him I probably would? Or do I take another chance? It wouldn’t be the same as when I got in his face before on the beach. This would be much more like when I interrupted his sessions at the laundromat back in New York just in time to keep him from dying all of his underwear pink by washing it with a red towel, or from shrinking his favorite sweater by putting it in the dryer. Yes, it would be just like those times. He trusted me to finish his laundry then, and I hope he trusts me now. I pull the clothes out of the washer, and while it’s a mixed load, there’s nothing that will be damaged by a normal heat setting on the dryer. I load them in and toss a dryer sheet in at the end.
I skip a game of gin with Margot and Stirling, opting instead dive into a Proust novel I found on the bookshelf in the living room. I take it up to my room, along with a cup of jasmine chamomile tea. Four chapters and forty-five minutes later, the timer I’d set on my phone based on the dryer cycle for Damon’s clothes goes off. I take the book and empty mug of tea with me, and head back to the laundry room.
I pull Damon’s clothes out of the dryer and put them on the long counter while I put mine in and start the cycle again. I begin to fold Damon’s clothes and stack them as lovingly and tenderly as I did when we were together. Everyone has gone to bed, so I dart to the office to find a pen and a piece of scratch paper. I dash off a note, tear it off the pad, and leave it on top of the stack of folded clothes. Since I’m alone on the first floor, I make another cup of tea and curl up with my book on the couch to wait for my own clothes to dry.
* * *
I wakeup the next morning wrapped in a blanket, wondering who put it on me. Margot comes into the kitchen first.
“Good morning sleepyhead,” she says, and makes a beeline for the coffee maker.
