Marco shrugs. “He knows; he does not care. It is no matter, though. There is very little we must do that will not be done in time.”
I nod, although that is a blatant lie. If we had caught my mother’s cancer earlier, if we had done something about it, she wouldn’t be dead. She’d be here right now, with me, listening to Marco with a compassionate ear. She’d have the best advice for him, too.
I push back my chair.
“I have not upset you, Ms. Silver?”
“No, of course not,” I say. And then in a moment, a flash, a millisecond, I find myself crying. I cried up until my mother’s death, daily, hourly, even. Everything set me off. Touching the coffee maker before the sun came up, the elaborate one I had wanted but wouldn’t buy for myself, so she’d given it to us for our wedding. The gardenia soap in the shower we bought on a trip to Santa Barbara years ago, and which I now keep a steady supply of. The drawer of plastic forks from delivery and take-out meals, because she could never bear to throw away plastic. Everything was a reminder of what I was losing, of what was slipping away.
But after her death it was like something in me shut off. I was numb. Frozen. I couldn’t cry. Not when the hospice nurse declared her gone, not at her funeral, not when I heard my father, a stoic man, wailing in the kitchen below us. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was worried, maybe, that she had taken my heart with her.
Marco does not look surprised or uncomfortable. Instead, he puts a large, warm hand on my shoulder.
“It is hard,” he says.
I wipe my eyes. “What?”
“You have lost the one you were meant to come with, no?”
I think about my mother, radiant and alive, in a visor, white pants, and a loose open linen shirt, straw bag over her shoulder, laughing. I haven’t thought about her this way, so vibrant, in so long. The image nearly startles me.
I nod.
Marco smiles small. He tilts his head to the side. “Positano is a good place to let life return to you.”
I swallow. “I don’t know,” I say.
Marco’s face brightens. “In time,” he says. “In time, you will discover. And in the meantime, enjoy.”
He releases me and looks out over the balcony. The sun is now fully up. Things are light and clear.
“Have a lovely day, Ms. Silver. I suggest a walk to town. Take in the beach and have a lovely lunch at Chez Black.”
I’m startled by his suggestion. It’s the one place I’ve known by name for years.
“The caprese is excellent, and you can watch all the people go by,” he continues.
“Do I need a reservation?”
“For lunch? No. Just walk in and say you’re a guest of Hotel Poseidon. They will take care of you.”
“Thank you, Marco.”
“Pleasure. You need anything else, you ask. No hesitating.”
He leaves, and I head downstairs. I spot a young woman at the front desk. She’s stunning: dark hair, olive skin, probably in her mid-twenties. She has a beautiful turquoise pendant around her neck, held together by a leather chain.
She is helping a couple in their sixties plan a day trip.
“Is a small boat better for seasickness or a ferry?” the man asks.
The woman at the desk gives me a small wave, and I wave back.
I walk outside and am met with cheerful noise. A store across the street sells produce outside. Lemons sit next to plump tomatoes. Two young women spill out, speaking fast and furious Italian. They swig from sweating lemonade glasses.
I put my hat on and start following the sidewalk downward. Tiny Italian cars and Vespas pass, but the road isn’t super busy. When I get a few paces down, I spot a cluster of clothing boutiques. Dresses hand painted with oranges. White linen and lace cover-ups. I finger an ocean-blue slip dress with spaghetti straps and tiered hem.
I keep walking. Viale Pasitea is the main and only road that leads down to the ocean, unless you take the steps. In and around shops and pensiones, hotels and markets, there are staircases leading up into the hills of Positano and down to the sea. Hundreds and hundreds of stairs.
The dome in the center of town belongs to the church, where the bells ring out. Right now they are silent, but as I pass by the square where the Church of Santa Maria Assunta stands I see the ocean. It’s down one short flight of stairs and then a pathway filled with shops. When I get down, there is a clothing stand, then the restaurant, splayed out right in front of the sand.
I move quickly toward it, my heart rate accelerating. It is early, but there are still some customers sitting and smoking. Turquoise chairs are tucked under white-clothed tables. A seashell sign contains the words Chez Black.