He smiles. “Tomato salad and the homemade ravioli. Simple. Perfect. You want wine, too, no?”
“Yes.” Definitely, yes.
“Excellent, signora. You will be very happy.”
He leaves, taking the menu with him, and I sit back into my chair. I think about my mother here, all those many years ago. Looking out over this same view. Young and carefree, with no idea what the future held for her or how things would turn out. I find myself wishing that I had a blank slate. That I hadn’t already entangled myself so deeply—marriage, a house, a life that is not movable, at least not without destruction.
“Ms. Silver.”
I hear a voice behind me. It’s the woman from the front desk. She stands, her hands held in front of her. She’s wearing a crisp white button-down and a pair of jeans.
“Hi, good evening,” I say.
“Yes, good evening. You look well. Positano is already good for you.”
I look down at my dress. “Oh, thank you.”
“Are you settling in?”
I nod. “Yes, it’s gorgeous here, thank you.”
She smiles. “Good. My name is Monica. I realize we did not get to properly meet downstairs. This is my hotel. Anything you need, you ask us, okay? We are your family here.”
“Okay,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”
“You have a boat ride for tomorrow. To Da Adolfo beach club, and a reservation for lunch. It is early in the season, so it will not be a problem if you want to schedule it for a different time. Perhaps you can rest here and explore the town a bit tomorrow.”
She smiles that warm, open smile. I look out over the remaining pool loungers.
“That would be great,” I say. “Thank you. That sounds better.”
“Perfetto,” she says. “Tony told me you are having the ricotta ravioli tonight. Excellent choice. I always put a little lemon in to brighten it up. I hope you enjoy.”
I laugh. It surprises me, it has been that long. “He chose for me.”
“One should always let waiters choose food, and builders choose wood,” she says. “Something my father used to say.”
She begins to back away, and I stop her. “Monica,” I say. “Thank you.”
She smiles. “You are most welcome.” She surveys the terrace. “It’s a beautiful night.” She turns her attention back to me. “Tomorrow I’m going to Roma on business for a few days, but anything you need, my staff will take care of. We hope you enjoy your stay, Ms. Silver. We are so very glad you have come to us here.”
She leaves.
Come to us here.
When my mother tells the story of when I was born, she says it was a freezing cold winter night. They were, at the time, living in an apartment in Silver Lake, not far from Sunset Boulevard. The apartment was more like a tree house, according to my mother. It had a steep flight of stairs and an oak tree that ran straight through the living room.
It had been her place, which my father had moved into right after they got married. I couldn’t imagine my mother on the other side of the 405, let alone in Silver Lake—an artsy, bohemian community even now, today. She’s a Westsider through and through—classic. But they brought me home from the hospital to that place, wrapped in a white wool blanket. My mom said that it was the only time in Los Angeles she’d ever seen it snow.
She’d labored for twenty-six hours at Cedars-Sinai hospital before I arrived. “All hair,” she told me.
“You looked like a baby ape,” my father would add.
“That’s how we knew you were ours,” my mother said.
Come to us here.
I no longer belong to my mother. I do not belong to my father, who no longer belongs to himself—shuffling around the house that was theirs, piecing together the schedule—on what days does Susanna come and clean? I do not belong to my husband, whom I’ve told I may no longer want to be my husband at all. I do not know where home is anymore. I do not know how to find my center without her, because that’s what she was. I was Carol Silver’s daughter. Now I am simply a stranger.
The tomatoes come out. Tony sets them down proudly.
“Buon appetito,” he says. “Enjoy.”
I pick up my fork, spear a tomato, and taste the most heavenly, sweetest, ripest, saltiest thing I’ve ever encountered. I swallow them, glorious and geranium red, along with my grief.
I devour the plate, along with another basket of bread. Then the ravioli arrives—creamy and light, ricotta clouds. Delicious. I add the lemon, as instructed.