I inhale the fresh air, this place that seems to be dripping in summer. There is so much beauty here; she was right.
I go back inside. I shower. I unpack everything right away, my mother’s daughter, and then I wander out onto the terrace again. I sit down on a lounger and tuck my feet underneath me. All around me Italy swells. I feel the air thick with heat and food and memory.
“I made it,” I say, but only I can hear.
Chapter Four
The city bells chime seven. It is evening in Positano. I remember my mother talking about the Church of Santa Maria Assunta, and the ringing bells that alert the town of the hour. They sound far-off, distant, dreamy, a far cry from the “Beacon” alarm setting on my iPhone.
I go to the closet and find the dresses I brought. I choose a short white ruffled dress and slip into a pair of gold flip-flops. My hair is dry from the shower and hangs in frizzy ringlets down my back. In my normal life, I blow it dry and begin the long process of straightening it, but in the past few weeks I’ve done little more than wash it twice a week. For a long time, it hung limp, unsure what to do without direction. But now the curl is starting to come back, reawakening to its original form.
I rub some tinted moisturizer into my skin, swipe blush across my cheeks. I apply lip gloss, grab my room key, and head downstairs.
I arrive on the second level, like the woman at reception instructed, and am met with the pool and a terraced restaurant. My mother told me about the terrace. The way it hangs over the whole town, like it’s suspended.
Couples sit in white chairs covered with red upholstery overlooking the scenery, and waiters in white collared shirts carry trays of bright Aperol spritzes and small ceramic dishes filled with snacks—plump green olives, hand-baked potato chips, salty cashews.
A young man approaches me. He wears black pants and a white shirt with Il Tridente, the hotel restaurant’s name, stitched in red lettering.
“Buonasera, signora,” he says. “Can I help you?”
I realize I left my itinerary upstairs. I have no idea if we had reservations for tonight here, or somewhere else, even, but I haven’t eaten since a panini at the train station, maybe seven hours ago.
“Is it possible to have dinner here?” I ask.
He smiles. “Of course,” he says. “Anything is possible. We are at your service.”
“Grazie,” I say. It sounds harsh and so American. “Thank you.”
He gestures for me to follow him out onto the terrace. “Right this way.”
Half of the terrace is the pool and lounge chairs, with a row of small tables for drinks and food, but to the right is a covered area, dripping in vines and flowers, with lanterns strung overhead like lights. There are white metal tables covered with white-and-red-checkered cloth, and waiters in slim ties weave in and out of the glass doors.
“For you,” he says. “The best table we have to offer.”
He leads me over to a two-top on the edge of the terrace, right up against the wrought iron fence. The view is breathtaking. A front-row seat to a sun that seems as if it will never set. All around the light is golden and liquid and heavy, like it’s just beginning on its second glass of wine.
“This is beautiful,” I say. “I’ve never seen a place like this before.” Every corner is just begging to be photographed. I think about the camera I have tucked away upstairs. Tomorrow.
He smiles. “I am so glad you are happy, Ms. Silver. We are here to help.”
He leaves, and another young waiter appears with a menu, a bottle of still water, and a basket of bread.
I unfold the white napkin and pull out a slice, still warm from the oven. I spill some olive oil into an oval plate, hand-painted with blue fish, and dip. The bread is delicious, the olive oil tangy. I eat two more slices immediately.
“Something to eat and drink?”
The waiter is back, hands tucked by his sides.
“What do you recommend?” I ask. I haven’t even opened the menu.
At home we don’t cook; we mostly order in or go to my parents’ house. Eric likes Italian food, but the vaguest remnants satisfy him. We get pizza from Pecorino, or even sometimes Fresh Brothers. Chinese takeout from Wokshop, salads from CPK. Once a week, I pick up a roast chicken from the market—Bristol Farms or Whole Foods—and some bags of broccoli and carrots. I have always felt a little bad for Eric that I did not inherit my mother’s skill in the kitchen, but he always says he’s just as happy with a sandwich as he’d be with a steak.
It strikes me that I’m not sure I’ve ever been out to eat alone. I cannot recall sitting down at a table, opening up a napkin, being poured a glass of wine, and picking up a fork without some level of conversation.