Carol keeps chopping with perfect precision. “I’m really very sorry to hear that,” she says. “You told me you lost someone close to you. I didn’t realize you meant your mother.”
I nod.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“We were supposed to come together.”
Carol swipes the chopped onion off the knife, wipes the side of one eye with her sleeve, and places the entirety in a saucepan with olive oil.
“She was the best,” I say. “She was my everything. She was good at whatever she did. Just a real, true mother. She was a decorator, too.”
Carol begins grating a lemon, collecting the zest in a small wooden bowl.
“What did she like?”
“Cooking,” I say, “to start.”
Carol laughs. She takes a sip of her wine.
“She could do anything. Roast a chicken to perfection, make a lemon meringue pie. She rarely used a recipe. She loved a good white button-down and a solid brimmed hat and a well-planned trip.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was.”
Carol fills a pot with water, turns over a palmful of salt, and sets it to boil. She turns back to me. “What did she think about your marriage?”
She keeps looking at me. I drop my gaze down to the uncut tomatoes. “I don’t know,” I say. “I made the mistake of never asking. Maybe because I knew what she’d say.”
Carol sets her elbows down on the counter. She leans forward toward me. “I think you still know.”
I think about Eric in my parents’ living room all those years ago, asking for my hand.
“I think she thought I wasn’t ready,” I say. “She thought it was too big of a commitment for someone to make at twenty-five.”
“To get married?”
I nod.
“But what did she think about your husband?”
I look at Carol now. She looks so much like her. Her concerned expression, her eyebrows knit together in a show of solidarity, support.
“What would you tell me?” I ask her.
Carol doesn’t blink. Her expression doesn’t change a molecule. “I’d tell you that no one knows your marriage or your heart better than you.”
She turns back to the stove. The water is humming now, dancing. Behind us from somewhere, Sinatra sings.
I did it my way.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The pasta is creamy and tangy. The pancetta is salty and fatty. And the tomatoes are plump and sweet. There is wine, and then there is chocolate cake, decorated with powdered sugar and cut fresh strawberries. It’s a dessert I know well, one she has made for me many times before, and there is a supreme comfort in that here tonight. It was a special occasion cake. Carol Silver did not believe in dessert every day. As time went on, my parents assumed a largely vegetarian diet but remained familiar in their habits nonetheless. Special nights were still for chocolate.
We settle on the floor by the sofa, our wineglasses and plates on the coffee table.
“Tell me about the plans for the hotel,” I say.
“The Sirenuse?”
I nod.
“Yes,” she says. “Actually, I already had a preliminary meeting and it went well.” She looks a little sheepish. “They’d like me to come in again.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s great.” Something pulls in my stomach, but I ignore it. “Do you want to show me? I mean, I’d love to see what you’re thinking.”
Carol smiles. “Only if you promise not to judge me.”
The idea of my mother being insecure is laughable, so I laugh. “Are you kidding?” I say. “You’re the most confident person I know. I’m sure whatever you’re doing is great.”
“That’s kind.”
She disappears into the bedroom and then returns with a box. It’s wooden, long, and flat, almost like a drawer. She lifts off the top and takes out papers—there are sketches inside, tons of them. Loose-leaf paper with pencil markings.
“So the first thing you need to know is that the Sirenuse is iconic. Classic old-world Italy. Really just the staple of luxury in Positano. I still have to bring you.”
“That guy at my hotel took me to Il San Pietro,” I say. “A few nights ago. Have you been?”
Carol smiles. “It’s beautiful there, but it’s like another world.”
“True.”
“The Sirenuse is Positano. Two entirely different experiences.”
“I know you said you wanted to make it more Mediterranean,” I say.