Emerald Coast

by Anita Hughes

  “Don’t think of yourself as a divorced woman,” Enzo offered, filling a pewter bowl with pistachios.

  “How should I think of myself?” she wondered aloud.

  Enzo noticed her dark hair and large brown eyes. “Think of yourself as a beautiful young American divorcée,” he suggested. “Arriving on the Emerald Coast to have a great adventure.”

  “A beautiful young American divorcée,” Lily said and laughed. “I like that. Thank you, Enzo. I feel much better.”

  Enzo left, and she slipped a caftan over her bathing suit and entered the hallway. The door closed, and she realized she’d forgotten her paperback book. She rummaged through her purse and thought that was the problem with hotel card keys: they were so thin, they were almost invisible.

  She emptied her purse onto the wool rug and crouched on the floor. A door opened, and she heard footsteps.

  “Can I help you?” a male voice asked.

  “I lost my key,” she said, sifting through tubes of mascara. “I miss the days when hotels gave you keys the size of small tennis racquets. They were bulky to carry but impossible to misplace.”

  “I’ll help you look.” The man kneeled beside her.

  “You don’t need to do that,” she replied and thought his voice sounded familiar. She looked up and saw Oliver’s curly hair and blue eyes. Her cheeks flushed, and she waved the key. “You see, I found it.”

  “Lily!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Her heart pounded, and she was tempted to run back into her room. She’d send him a text explaining what had happened, suggesting they invent a code for when the hallway was clear and either one could dash to the elevator.

  “I’m doing the same thing you’re doing,” she said finally, taking off her sunglasses. “I’m using our reservation at Hotel Cervo on the Emerald Coast.”

  Oliver’s cheeks were pale, and he rubbed his chin. Suddenly his face broke into a smile, and he laughed.

  “I didn’t tell you I was coming to Sardinia, did I?” he asked.

  “And I never mentioned I was going away, because my parents were coming to take care of Louisa.”

  His eyes flickered, and he gasped. “We’re not staying in the same suite?”

  “Don’t worry, I discovered a shaving kit on the sink and realized the mistake. I asked for a room on a different floor, but this was all they had.” She sighed. “You’re in 231 and I’m in 233.”

  “Aren’t we a couple of geniuses.” He grinned. “We both travel nine thousand miles to forget those papers in their brown manila folder and end up in the same place. We could have saved ourselves an eleven-hour flight and a taxi ride with a driver who shouldn’t be allowed to steer a tricycle, and met at Per Se for lunch.”

  “I didn’t come to Sardinia to forget the divorce.” She straightened her shoulders. “I came for the opening of Lily Bristol. The Emerald Coast has miles of beaches. I’m sure we can both go Jet Skiing without interfering with each other’s fun. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the pool.”

  “Lily, wait.” He touched her arm. “We shared a closet for ten years, we can be in the same hallway.” His blue eyes sparkled. “I’ll tap on the wall when it’s safe for you to walk to the elevator.”

  “I was thinking we could do the same thing. I don’t want to have to slink along the balcony like a cat burglar.” She laughed. “And I am excited to be here. Did you see the view on the drive from the airport? Rugged cliffs and cobalt blue inlets like on Louisa’s DVD of Finding Nemo.”

  A door opened, and a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties entered the hallway. She had coppery hair and wore a knit dress and silver sandals.

  “The gift shop didn’t have any Tylenol. I got some brand of Italian aspirin,” she said to Oliver. She carried an orange purse, and her mouth was the color of cherries.

  Oliver jumped back and ran his hands through his hair. He glanced at the door as if he were planning an escape route.

  “Lily, this is Angela,” he said stiffly. “She’s a floral designer in New York.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I got the most terrible headache on the plane,” Angela explained. “I might have to spend my first day in Porto Cervo under cotton sheets.”

  “Floral designer?” Lily stammered.

  “I do weddings, mostly.” Angela nodded. “It’s lovely to be part of the most important day of two people’s lives.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Lily’s hands were cold, and she thought she might faint. “Is Oliver one of your clients?”

  “Of course not. He just got divorced.” Angela laughed. “Have we met? I could swear I’ve seen your face somewhere.”

  Oliver turned to Angela and looked like a small boy caught taking a Tootsie Pop from the corner market. His eyes watered, and his cheeks were the color of putty.

  “This is Lily.” He wiped his brow. “She’s my ex-wife.”

  * * *

  Lily slid her key into the lock and stumbled into her suite. She had wanted to race to the pool, but her knees buckled and she could hardly breathe. Now she sank onto the sofa and slipped off her sandals.

  She glanced at the marble bar and wondered if it was too early for a shot of vodka. What was Oliver doing with a woman in Sardinia? In the six months they’d been separated, he’d never mentioned having a girlfriend. She remembered when they’d run into each other at a wedding in East Hampton in June, and thought they were the only two single people left in New York.…

  * * *

  Summer weddings in the Hamptons were three days of sailing and shucking oysters and swimming in pools so big they belonged at the Olympics. Lily had skipped the rehearsal dinner and arrived mid-afternoon. She played croquet and drank gin fizzes and admired the bride’s sapphire-and-diamond ring.

  Now the ceremony was over and guests gathered in the gazebo for cocktails. There were handcrafted martinis and an ice sculpture of the bride and groom. Lily nibbled canapés and was suddenly tired of listening to couples discuss their upcoming trips to Cancún and the benefits of couples massages. She slipped off her pumps and ran down to the lawn.

  * * *

  “You’re missing out on some delicious hors d’oeuvres,” a male voice said behind her. “The duck confit is perfect, and the smoked soft eggs are superb.”

  “Oliver, what are you doing here!” Lily exclaimed.

  Why hadn’t she realized Oliver would be at the wedding? They had known the bride and groom for years. But she promised herself she wouldn’t be one of those ex-wives who pored over the guest list. She glanced up at the huge house, with its gabled roof and wide porch, and wondered how they had ended up on the lawn alone.

  “I suppose we should divide up this sort of thing.” Oliver stood beside her. It was early evening, and the sky was a muted purple. “You attend the weddings where the groom’s last name starts with A through K, and I’ll take the last half of the alphabet.”

  “Why is everyone getting married all of a sudden?” Lily asked. “I can’t open the mailbox without an invitation the size of a novel falling out. And they want so much information: do you request the braised eggplant and are you bringing a plus one?” she continued. “We’re the only unattached people at the whole affair. The mother of the bride keeps giving me dirty looks, as if I’m going to jinx the bride and groom.”

  “Tell her divorce isn’t contagious,” he said and then stopped. “Do you remember how smug our single friends were when we were married? They were all signing up for Mexican cooking classes while we took turns feeding Louisa SpaghettiOs. Now they’re registering at Barneys and jetting off to St. Croix for their honeymoon. What if we got it wrong?”

  “We did get it wrong.” Lily clutched her glass. “That’s why we’re getting divorced.”

  “What if we started the whole thing too soon? Sort of like that movie Back to the Future,” he urged. “Instead of giving up and getting a divorce, we should fast-forward to the present and try again.”

  Lily studied hi
s tan cheeks, and her heart beat a little faster.

  “We pressed the restart button on our marriage more often than the ones on our iPhones,” she answered. “And it wasn’t the SpaghettiOs. We enjoyed feeding Louisa, she waved her spoon like an orchestra conductor.”

  Oliver stared at Lily for so long, she was afraid the wedding party would come out to find them.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Quite sure.” She gulped her martini.

  “Then we better go in to dinner,” he sighed. “The only reason I came was for the stuffed pigeon with chanterelle mushrooms. The groom’s cousin is a Cordon Bleu–trained chef, and it’s supposed to be as good as at the Ritz in Paris.”

  * * *

  Now Lily walked to the minibar of her suite and poured a glass of orange juice. That had been only two months ago, and Oliver was at the wedding alone. Surely he wouldn’t bring a woman he hardly knew to Sardinia.

  She pictured Angela’s coppery hair and curvy figure, and thought she wasn’t going to assess Oliver’s girlfriends like a bookie making odds on a horse race. They were both free to date whomever they liked.

  Lily had had a crush on a single father in Louisa’s art class just last week. It had only lasted a day because the next afternoon he’d smelled faintly of cigarettes and she could never date anyone who smoked. But it had been lovely to feel that frisson of excitement while they examined their daughters’ papier mâché.

  It didn’t bother her to imagine Oliver entertaining women in his new apartment in the West Village. She had only been there once to pick up Louisa and had barely poked her head inside the entry. It did seem quite modern, and the chintz sofa Oliver took from the farmhouse looked out of place with the sleek bookshelves and chrome furniture.

  But it was different to inhale the other woman’s perfume when they passed in the hallway. And what if she heard things through the walls?

  She noticed her purse on the tile coffee table and remembered her credit cards. How could she call the credit card company when the phone number was on the card that was missing? Oliver would know, but she had to figure out how to do these kinds of things herself.

  It couldn’t be that difficult. People lost their credit cards when they traveled all the time. It was so easy to do when you were juggling documents like a circus performer. She would ask Enzo! Guests must forget their credit cards at the pool or while paying the bill at the bar. She picked up the phone and pressed the buzzer. She waited, and there was a knock at the door.

  “Enzo, you came!” She opened the door.

  Enzo carried a silver tray with a glass of pineapple juice, and Lily felt a flash of joy. She wasn’t all alone in Sardinia; there was someone she could count on. “I wasn’t sure the buzzer would call you directly. It’s like the bat phone on those Batman reruns on classic TV.”

  “I am always at your service.” Enzo noticed the fresh flowers on the coffee table and the sideboard set with fruits and cheeses. “It looks like the maids have completely done the room. Is there something they missed?”

  “I have a problem. I lost my credit cards, and Oliver used to handle ordering new ones,” she explained. “How are you supposed to call to get a new card if you don’t have the number?”

  “I’m sure we have a card on file from when you made the initial reservation,” he suggested. “I’ll ask the concierge to call and put you through to the right department.”

  “Aren’t you clever!” Lily beamed. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

  Enzo walked to the door, and she realized she didn’t want to be alone.

  “Can I ask you something else?” she stopped him. “Does your wife work? I mean, besides taking care of Maria and Gia. I’m sure they keep her busy. I can spend all day cleaning Louisa’s closet and listening to her tell me about the snails she found in the garden.”

  “Carmella takes in sewing,” Enzo said. “Before we were married, she wanted to be a dress designer.”

  “She must be talented. I’ll pick up some fabric and pay her to make a dress for Louisa.” She paused thoughtfully. “What if suddenly she had the chance to work for a designer in Paris or Milan? Do you think it would be right for her to leave you and the girls for weeks at a time?”

  “I don’t understand the question.” He frowned.

  “I mean, if she found something that made her so happy but took her away from the family…” She leaned forward. “Should she do it? Or should she stay in Porto Cervo to make sure Maria and Gia don’t wear dresses to school with tears in the hem?”

  Enzo stopped to think. “Of course she should go. Maria and Gia would be proud to have a mother who designed dresses for important clients. And think of all the things she could tell them about the cities she visited.”

  Lily took a sip of juice and asked the question that pressed on her chest like a cold compress. “And would you trust her completely when she was away? Even if something odd happened and you couldn’t reach her?”

  “We’ve been together since we were seventeen.” He shrugged. “Trust is the most important ingredient in a marriage.”

  “Thank you, Enzo.” Lily sank back onto the silk cushions. “I knew you would agree.”

  “I still don’t understand the question, but I’m glad I helped,” he offered. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  She suddenly pictured Angela standing next to Oliver in the hallway and felt a pang of loneliness.

  “I enjoy our conversations and I’d like us to be friends.” She looked up. “Perhaps you can call me Lily.”

  “I’m afraid that’s against hotel protocol.” He shook his head.

  “Think about it, Enzo,” Lily said and smiled. “You did say you’d do anything I ask.”

  * * *

  Enzo walked out and Lily stood at the window. The sea was a brilliant azure, and yachts lined the port like a fantastic string of pearls. If things had turned out differently, she and Oliver would be sharing a bottle of champagne and a plate of mangoes and peaches. But what was the point of thinking about that now? The divorce papers were signed, and Oliver was here with another woman.

  The sun touched her shoulders, and she remembered when she and Oliver had met, ten years ago. It was the end of July, and the sun was so hot, she could have been in the Sahara Desert instead of Southern Italy. She’d gazed up at the train station’s revolving board with names like Roma and Venezia and wondered how she’d ended up at the train station in Naples.…

  * * *

  Lily gazed around the train station and bit her lip. Posters advertised fizzy sodas, and kiosks sold buffalo mozzarella and lemon gelato. She set her suitcase on the pavement and was so hungry she longed for a spinach calzone or orange sorbet.

  She still couldn’t understand how she ended up on the wrong train. The taxi ride to Roma Termini train station took forever, and when she arrived, the platforms were as confusing as some elaborate labyrinth. She asked the ticket-taker for directions, but he spoke so quickly she only caught the first word.

  That was the problem with Italians. You couldn’t understand a thing they said, and when you asked them to repeat themselves, they just talked faster. Finally she gave up and maneuvered through the terminal herself.

  Now she had to get to Florence by the day after tomorrow or she would miss her flight to San Francisco. But she wasn’t going anywhere without money, and her wallet with her credit cards had disappeared.

  She remembered entering the restaurant compartment of the train and trying to decide between the pizza Napolitana and the Tuscan bread roll with prosciutto and formaggio. She should have ordered the pizza. The bread roll was soggy, the prosciutto fell on the floor, and the formaggio was one slice of white cheese.

  She must have left her wallet on the counter when she paid for her sandwich. A pit formed in her stomach and she tried not to panic. The station was full of people, and someone would help her.

  She noticed a young man in his early twenties leaning against the wall. He had dark hair and
ate a ripe peach.

  “Scusami,” she began, wishing she had memorized her Italian phrase book. “Dove uno telefono pagamento, per favore?”

  “Your Italian is worse than mine.” The man grinned. “I’ve learned one is much better off speaking English and flashing a wad of euros.”

  “Oh, you’re American,” Lily said, and her shoulders relaxed.

  That was the wonderful thing about traveling. A complete stranger seemed like an old friend because your passports had an eagle on the cover and you both watched American Idol.

  “Oliver Bristol.” He nodded. “I’d shake your hand, but I’d get peach juice all over it.”

  “That looks delicious.” Lily sighed. “I haven’t eaten a thing since a hard-boiled egg in Rome. I was supposed to be on the train to Florence, but I was late getting to the station. When I did arrive, I ended up on the wrong platform. If I don’t catch a train to Florence, I’ll miss my flight home.”

  “There are plenty of trains to Florence.” Oliver waved at the ticket booth. “Just purchase a new ticket.”

  “That’s the thing. I lost my credit card.” She flushed. “I must have left it on the counter when I paid for my sandwich. The sandwich fell on the floor, and the whole day has been a disaster. Do you know if there’s a pay phone nearby? I need to call my parents and ask them to wire money.”

  “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. It’s Sunday, and the banks are closed.” Oliver shook his head. “And in Naples, you have to allow an extra day for any transaction. No one is in a hurry, and the locals enjoy saying ‘no’ more than eating spaghetti alle vongole.”

  Lily’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned away. How could she have forgotten it was Sunday? But she wasn’t going to fall apart in front of a curly-haired stranger.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I always get emotional when I’m hungry.” She wiped her eyes. “I’ll figure something out. I’m sure there’s an American Express office or American consulate nearby.”