Carol squints at her papers. “Well, yes, sort of. Here, I’ll show you.”
She places a map onto the table. It’s of the hotel.
“So here is the entryway.” She sets her wineglass down and points, reorienting the paper. “And if you walk through these doors, there’s this lobby that’s pretty stuffy.”
“The horse decor.”
“Right! Yes, the unfortunate horse decor. And then you keep going, and their terrace is—their terrace is probably the most beautiful place in all of Positano. Not just to have a drink, but to be at all. It’s connected to a restaurant called the Oyster Bar.”
“Sounds fancy.”
Carol nods. “It is. Very fancy. Expensive champagne, the whole thing. I have this mental image of myself as a five-year-old standing out there. Anyway, I think it would be interesting to bring some of the sunlight from outside into the lobby. If you just got rid of this one wall”—she circles with her pointer finger—“you could really make the whole entryway feel like one big terrace. And your welcome would be the ocean instead of some stuffy ottomans.”
I think about our own home. The way the kitchen spilled out onto a deck behind. The big glass windows. The sense of welcome, and nature, and light. Everyone who came to visit fell in love with our house. It’s where my mother hosted birthday parties and anniversary dinners. It’s where she made Shabbat on Fridays, for whoever wanted to come. On the open lawn is where I had both my bat mitzvah and my engagement party—in a tent lined with silk and stars, roses and candlelight.
“It sounds incredible,” I say.
“They’re hearing pitches tomorrow and Thursday,” she says. “I know it’s stupid, I really do. I’m not even Italian or professionally trained. But I feel like I could pull this off. I feel like I have a shot. That sounds ridiculous, right? I sound ridiculous.”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
She looks down into her wineglass. “Refill?”
“Yes, please.”
“And would you like some tea?”
“Sure,” I say. “I can make it.”
“Okay, so you’re not great in the kitchen, but boiling water is your strong suit.”
“My one and only.”
Carol smiles. She touches my arm. “Well, that’s certainly not true.”
I leave her in the living room and go into the kitchen. I put on the kettle. I open the cupboards. I see three different teas—green, English breakfast, and peppermint.
I take out three tea bags. I pop two into hers, the way I know she likes, and then I take out another and add two to mine, too. When the water boils, I fill the mugs three-quarters of the way up.
“Here you go,” I say. I set the hot cup down on the coffee table.
Carol peers inside the mug. “Two peppermint,” she says. “How did you know?”
I shrug. “It’s how I like it, too.”
We blow on the tea silently.
“Now tell me, who is this hotel guy?” Carol asks.
I take a small, scalding sip. It does taste better with two; she’s right. “He’s American.”
Carol cocks her head to the side. “And? What’s going on there? You’ve spent a lot of time with him recently. You just said he took you to the San Pietro. That place is romantic.”
“Nothing,” I say. But that isn’t true, of course. And here my mother is, alive, present. If I can’t be honest now, I’ll never be able to be. “I mean, we kissed.”
Carol’s eyes go wide. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I set the mug down and rub a hot hand back and forth across my forehead.
“I’m not divorced. I’m not even really separated, I don’t think. I just told Eric I needed some space on this trip.”
“Does it matter?”
Mom, I want to say. But instead I say, “Carol.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask. You’ve told me you don’t know if you’re happy. Isn’t seeing if you can be happy somewhere else a good way to figure that out?”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”
“Maybe it should.”
“Eric is a good person,” I say. “He doesn’t deserve this. Honestly, I don’t know what came over me.”
I think about Adam’s hands on my back by the pool. I think of his eyes looking at me down by the water’s edge. The trip to Capri, the afternoon in Naples.
“It’s possible actions only have the weight we give them,” she says. “We can decide what something means.”