Emerald Coast

by Anita Hughes

  “I’m glad you like it.” He arranged blouses on a table. “Sardinia is a wonderful blend of the old and new. Farmers have been tending sheep in the hills for centuries, and the fishermen pass their boats on to their children. But in the summer, the yachts arrive, and the marina is filled with European royalty and American movie stars.”

  “I’ve never seen such glamorous people,” Lily agreed. “I feel completely underdressed. I thought I’d be all right in cotton caftans and sandals, but everyone looks like they just came from the runway shows in Milan.”

  He studied Lily’s dark hair and round sunglasses. He pulled a dress from the rack and handed it to her. “Try this on, it’s from Pucci’s summer collection.”

  Lily took the dress into the dressing room and slipped it over her shoulders. She stepped outside and studied herself in the mirror.

  “You see, now you look like a native.” The man beamed. “You just need a smart hat and you can have lunch at Cala di Volpe with all the fashionable people.”

  “I’m sure you say that to all your customers.” Lily laughed. “I’m from New York. The summers are so humid you can’t wear a dress without the fabric sticking to your thighs.”

  “In Sardinia, we are lucky.” He nodded. “A cool breeze wafts in from the ocean, and the climate is perfect.”

  “I’m having a wonderful time,” Lily agreed. “I wish I had brought my daughter. She’d spend all day building sand castles and splashing in the waves.”

  “And your husband?” he asked. “Does he like the Emerald Coast?”

  “I’m not married. Well, I was married, but I’m divorced.” She flushed. “Louisa is only six, and I thought she might get bored. But I was wrong, the piazzetta is filled with quaint shops and the hills are covered with beds of flowers. We could have had picnics and made daisy chains.”

  The man walked to a display case and took out a straw purse. He wrapped it in tissue paper and handed it to Lily.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  “It’s for your daughter,” he replied.

  “I can’t take this.” She shook her head.

  “In Sardinia, men are taught to give gifts to beautiful women, and women are taught to accept them.” He smiled. “It makes for a civilized society.”

  “Thank you.” Lily took the purse. “Louisa will love it.”

  “Here’s my card.” He reached into his shirt pocket. “Please call if I can make your stay more pleasant.”

  Lily slipped the card into her purse and held out her hand. “Lily Bristol.”

  He shook her hand, and she noticed his palms were smooth and he smelled of citrus cologne. “Ricky Pirelli. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  * * *

  Lily sat at an outdoor table at Cala di Volpe and thought Ricky was right; she had never seen such glamorous people. Women wore wraparound sunglasses and jeweled sandals. The men had their hair slicked back and fiddled with gold cigarette cases.

  Lily ate steamed lobster salad and felt light and happy. Maybe she didn’t need a man. She was perfectly content sitting with the sun warming her shoulders.

  But it wouldn’t hurt to ask Ricky to dinner. After all, he had given her his card. She wondered what would they talk about. She didn’t know anything about him.

  That was a funny thing about divorce. You had to learn everything about someone new. She knew Oliver loved peanut butter and was terrified of horror movies and refused to sleep with the window open.

  Of course, there were things she wished she hadn’t learned about Oliver. They had both betrayed each other, and no matter how they tried to forget, it didn’t work. Marriage was like a coloring book filled in with Magic Marker. The only way to erase it was to rip out the pages.

  It was like Enzo said, trust was the most important ingredient in a marriage. She wondered again if things would have turned out differently if she hadn’t opened Lily Bristol stores on different continents. But that was silly. Distance had nothing to do with it. Astronauts spent half their time in space and had happy marriages. It was about telling the truth.

  If Oliver hadn’t lied to her about where he was that night, she never would have had let down her guard and done something she regretted. You couldn’t lie in a marriage; it made the whole thing unravel like the hem of her new Pucci dress.

  Or was she wrong? Had they started to drift apart because she was often on an airplane, and he spent almost every night reviewing restaurants in Manhattan? It was all so easy in the beginning. They were like barnacles on the ocean floor. They didn’t need anything except each other, and all they wanted was to be together.

  She nibbled flat bread and remembered the first evening they’d spent in Florence. They’d strolled along the Arno and talked about music and politics until their feet ached and she fell asleep on Oliver’s shoulder.

  * * *

  The Fiat pulled into the Piazza del Duomo and Lily gazed up at the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. It was more dramatic than in the photos, with its pink marble panels and wide dome. The sun set over the clock tower, and the whole piazza was bathed in a golden light.

  “I can’t believe we’re in Florence.” She rolled down the window. “Dante used to walk down this very street, and Donatello and Brunelleschi met for coffee in the Piazza della Signoria.”

  “I should go.” Oliver rubbed his forehead. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t reach Naples until midnight.”

  “You can’t turn around and drive back to Naples,” Lily protested. “That’s like skipping the Sistine Chapel in Rome or leaving Paris without seeing the Eiffel Tower.”

  “I don’t have a choice. The rental car needs to be returned, and I have to work in the morning.”

  “What’s the point of being in Italy if you spend all your time in a restaurant kitchen?” she asked. “Giuseppe won’t mind if you stay an extra day.”

  “I suppose I could drive back in the morning.” He wavered. “But I don’t have anywhere to sleep and I can’t afford a hostel.”

  “Giuseppe’s cousin said you were welcome to stay at his restaurant,” she reminded him. “We’ll visit the Pitti Palace and see the view from Piazzale Michelangelo. Tomorrow morning we’ll have cappuccinos and cornettos at Caffè Gilli. It opened in the eighteenth century and is the oldest café in Florence.”

  “Why not?” Oliver relented. “I hate driving at night. Italian drivers act as if they’re practicing for the Grand Prix.”

  They marveled at Michelangelo’s David at the Galleria dell’Accademia. They bought roasted chestnuts in the San Lorenzo market and soaked up the Titians and Bronzinos at the Uffizi Gallery. The guard tapped his watch and said if they stayed any longer, they’d be locked inside with the paintings.

  Now they strolled along the Ponte Vecchio, and silver lights flickered on the Arno. The city was bathed in a warm glow, and Lily had never seen anything more beautiful.

  “Tell me,” Oliver said, licking a gelato cone. “What makes you happy?”

  “Why do you ask?” Lily asked.

  “You said you only wanted to be happy,” he answered. “Most people don’t even know what it means.”

  “I know exactly what makes me happy.” She leaned against the railing. “Rereading the books I loved as a girl: Little Women and To Kill a Mockingbird. February in San Francisco, when the apple blossoms are in bloom. Discovering a piece of furniture at an estate sale that I can’t live without.”

  “What about love?” Oliver asked.

  “Love is wonderful in books and movies but it doesn’t make you happy in real life.” She shook her head.

  “I thought young women went to sleep with visions of wedding dresses swirling in their heads.” He laughed.

  “That’s the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard,” Lily retorted. “Whoever said marriage makes you happy? In my experience, it’s the reverse.”

  “Let me guess: your father ran off with his secretary and left your mother the mansion with the view of the San Francisco Bay,” Oliver re
plied. “He feels so guilty he sends you money, even when you don’t ask for it, and your mother begs you not to move out, because what would she do with all that space?”

  “You wouldn’t make a good psychologist.” She smiled. “My parents have been married for twenty-five years, but they rarely talk to each other. Of course, they are lovely in public; they host the most exclusive dinners and are invited to all the best parties.”

  “Why don’t they talk to each other?” he asked.

  “I tried to find out when I was younger, but getting either of them to open up was harder than opening a jar of pickles.” She paused. “But if I get married, I’m going to marry my best friend. You can’t get mad at your best friend; then you wouldn’t have anyone at all.”

  Lily finished her cone and turned to Oliver.

  “Enough about me, what makes you happy?”

  “The usual things.” He shrugged. “Pretty girls, a good book, delicious food.”

  “The usual things! Is that your best answer?” she demanded. “Surely some unusual things make you happy.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said slowly. “I know a very unusual girl. She has the figure of a bird but eats like a horse. She can be absentminded but says the cleverest things.” He looked at Lily. “For some reason, when I’m with her, I feel happy.”

  A wooden barchetto drifted down the Arno and Lily suddenly felt unsteady.

  “That is unusual,” she whispered. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  They strolled to the Piazza Santa Croce and stopped in front of a brick building. Oliver peered at a sign in the window and ran his hands through his hair.

  “I’m afraid the restaurant is closed. Giuseppe’s cousin went to visit his sister in Pisa,” he said. “We can’t have dinner, and I don’t have a place to stay. I’ll have to drive to Naples after all.”

  “How can the restaurant be closed?” Lily asked. “Surely he has a staff.”

  “All the employees are family, and it’s his sister’s fiftieth birthday.”

  “He can’t turn people away!” she exclaimed. “He’ll go out of business.”

  “In Italy, family is more important than work.” He shrugged. “His sister would be furious if he missed her birthday. But the customers will return.”

  “There are dozens of cafés close by.” Lily consulted her guidebook. “We’ll find a trattoria along the Via Andrea del Verrocchio.”

  “I can’t afford to eat anywhere else.”

  “It will be my treat,” she offered. “I may as well spend my euros, they won’t do me any good in America. And you can share my room at the Hotel degli Orafi. It was built in the sixteenth century and has a view of Giotto’s Campanile.”

  “Share a room?” Oliver raised his eyebrow.

  “You can sleep on the roll-out, and I’ll take the bed,” she said and smiled. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a coed sleepover?”

  “Not since I was in seventh grade.” Oliver shifted his feet. “I was so nervous. I drank warm milk with honey and fell asleep when my head hit the pillow.”

  * * *

  Lily opened the door of the hotel room and took a deep breath. What was she thinking, inviting Oliver to share her room? But he was warm and sincere, and there was something about him that made her feel like she had known him forever.

  Was the real reason she’d asked him to stay that she didn’t want him to drive back to Naples? The thought of never seeing him again made her slightly dizzy.

  “This is certainly not Signora Giannini’s hostel.” Oliver whistled, picking an apple from the fruit bowl.

  Lily put down her suitcase and noticed the green carpet and chintz sofa. There was a double bed with a floral bedspread and wooden headboard.

  “Oh, look at the view.” She ran to the balcony. The sky was black velvet and the Duomo was lit up with pink and yellow lights.

  “The view is stunning. But if I don’t get some sleep, I won’t wake up and leave early,” Oliver said. “Where should I change? I told the concierge I lost my bag, and he lent me pajamas.”

  “In the bathroom.” Lily pointed at the door and laughed. “We’re young Americans in Italy. We are supposed to be going to nightclubs and drinking Campari. And you want to be in bed by midnight.”

  “I was never one of those college students who thought a good time was one you couldn’t remember.” Oliver disappeared into the bathroom.

  Lily scooped up a handful of cashew nuts and turned around. Oliver’s pajama top was too small and the pants barely reached his calves. His hair was rumpled and she had the urge to kiss him.

  “If you kissed me, people would think you were taking advantage of a young woman in a hotel room,” she said, dusting her hands on her skirt.

  “Absolutely.” Oliver nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “But if I kissed you, it would just be a girl kissing a boy. No one would say anything at all.”

  She walked over to Oliver and kissed him. He kissed her back and tasted of caramello gelato.

  “I knew you were clever,” he whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  Lily closed her eyes and kissed him again.

  * * *

  Lily ate the last bite of lobster salad and fiddled with her sunglasses. So what if she had to learn new things about Ricky? Enzo said he was well educated and traveled. For all she knew, they both loved modern art and cheese soufflé and romantic movies.

  That was the thing about divorce; you had to be courageous. And she was on one of the most exciting coasts in the world. Why shouldn’t she have fun?

  She fished his card out of her purse and picked up her phone. The sun glinted on the screen, and she found Ricky’s number. She typed out a quick text inviting him to dinner and pressed send.

  Chapter Four

  OLIVER WRAPPED A TOWEL AROUND his waist and entered the suite’s bedroom. The wood table held a basket of fruit, and the air smelled of orchids and berries.

  He and Angela had spent hours at the pool, lying on chaise longues and nibbling ceviche. On their way back, she stopped in the hotel’s gift shop to buy a magazine, and he went up to the suite to take a shower.

  Now he picked up a paperback book and thought it would be nice to take an afternoon nap. Perhaps he could suggest they make love before dinner. He pictured Angela in her bandeau bikini and decided bringing her to Sardinia was a good idea.

  The bedspread was neatly folded, and he froze. What if Angela liked the right side of the bed? He could never sleep facing the window.

  They had slept together, of course. On the third date, he accepted her invitation to come upstairs, and they made love like teenagers. God! The joy of sex with someone new and fresh and inventive. He got dizzy thinking about it.

  Her lotions had been arranged on her bedside table, so he naturally slid into the other side of the bed. And he rarely spent the night. He didn’t want to go to work smelling of Ivory soap and potpourri.

  But sharing a hotel bed was a different experience. How did they pick sides, and what if he chose the wrong one? He didn’t want Angela harboring a grudge because she had to sleep on the left.

  Of course, he could just ask her. But that seemed too serious, like asking if she would empty out a drawer for his socks. That was the thing about dating postdivorce: just when you thought things were progressing at the correct pace, you felt like you were tossed into a high-speed dryer.

  He sank onto the bed and rubbed his forehead. During the first weeks they were dating, everything about being together was new and thrilling and confusing.

  * * *

  Oliver sat at a table at Totto Ramen and ate chicken paitan with kikurage mushroom. He glanced at his phone and wondered if he should call Angela. Did one call during work hours or should he send a text? There were so many ways to communicate these days. He didn’t want to give the wrong signal about their relationship.

  He thought about making love on Angela’s satin sheets and felt a rush of desire. Married se
x had been constrained by train schedules and Louisa’s bedtime stories and taking out the garbage. With Angela, their only concern was whether her downstairs neighbor heard them through the floorboards.

  Were they exclusive, and should he know her birthday and the name of her first pet? And what kind of a term was exclusive, anyway? He felt like a teenager wondering if a prom kiss meant they were going steady.

  He skewered noodles with his fork and realized he had no clue what he wanted. All he knew was that for the first time since he’d moved out of the farmhouse, he had jogged five miles without getting winded and devoured a six-egg omelet for breakfast.

  “Oliver!” a female voice called. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Angela! What are you doing here?” Oliver asked. “Did I leave my wallet at your apartment? I swore I grabbed it from the dresser.”

  “I stopped by to see you, and the receptionist said you often eat here.” She sat across from him. Her hair coiled down her back, and she wore an orange dress and cork sandals. “I thought I’d join you for lunch.”

  “You want to have lunch?” Oliver repeated, wondering if he had sauce on his chin.

  “It’s a gorgeous day.” She took off her sunglasses. “It would be nice to spend time together.”

  Oliver’s gaze traveled down her legs, and he adjusted his collar. Their dinners had been extended versions of some delicious foreplay. They’d sat across from each other at a Thai restaurant in Midtown or a trattoria in Chelsea, and Oliver tried to concentrate on his bean sprouts or spaghetti Bolognese. But all he was conscious of was Angela’s mouth wrapped around her pasta or the small mole on her neck.

  “I don’t really have time to go to your apartment.” He hesitated. “I have a deadline and I’m having trouble saying something new about Kobe sliders.”

  “Why would we go to my apartment? We can eat here.” Angela picked up the menu. “The char siu pork sounds perfect.”

  “Of course we can eat here.” He paused. “I just thought…”

  “Thought what, Oliver?” she prompted. “That every meal has to end with sex?”