Emerald Coast

by Anita Hughes

  Oliver noticed a fisherman dragging his boat onto the shore. He hurried across the sand and reached into his pocket. He ran back to Lily and took her hand.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, clutching her hat against her head.

  “We’re going fishing.” He lifted her into the boat and climbed in beside her.

  “You can’t just take someone’s boat.” Lily sat on the wood bench. “What if we get stuck and can’t paddle back in?”

  “I paid him more than he’ll make selling fish,” Oliver said. “And I spent a dozen summers on Lake Michigan. I know how to handle a boat.”

  He rowed until they were surrounded by turquoise water and the harbor was a hazy blur. He tossed the anchor over the side and sat next to Lily.

  “How do you know this is the right place to fish?” She shielded her eyes from the sun. “And I hardly took one lesson, I don’t know how to fish at all.”

  Oliver pulled her into his arms and kissed her. God, she was beautiful! Her breasts were high and her legs were smooth and she wore a floral perfume.

  “That’s not the kind of fishing I’m talking about,” he said softly.

  He found a blanket and spread it over the planks. He took off his shirt and tossed it on the bench. Her skin was warm, and her breath was sweet, and he’d never wanted anything more.

  “What if someone sees us?” she whispered into his ear.

  Oliver glanced at the blue sky and orange sun and high white clouds. He lay on the blanket and pulled her down beside him.

  “We’re perfectly safe.” He grinned. “I doubt the seagulls are interested.”

  He kissed her neck and breasts and the curve of her thigh. Her body twisted, and he wondered how he could have let anything get between them.

  “I love you,” she said. “I’m very glad I married you.”

  “You better be,” he whispered. “Because you’re never getting rid of me.”

  She opened her legs, and Oliver slid inside her. Lily wrapped her arms around him and urged him to go faster. The boat rocked, and their bodies moved together, and he came with an incredible force.

  “We were both being stupid,” Lily said when they lay with their heads propped against the bench. Oliver’s heart raced, and he felt like he could do anything.

  “That didn’t feel stupid,” he answered. “That was fantastic.”

  “I mean before; worrying about other people.” Lily turned to him. “I’m in love with you, and we’re perfect together.”

  “There’s only one thing we have to worry about.” He pulled her onto the blanket and covered her body with his.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Not getting a sunburn,” he murmured. “I want to stay here and make love to you all day.”

  “A little sunburn might be worth it.” Lily kissed him. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  * * *

  “Everything smells divine.” Lily put down the menu. “I don’t know how to choose.”

  Oliver sipped a glass of sangria and thought it had been a wonderful day. After they’d returned the boat, they explored the narrow alleys and vibrant piazzas. There were galleries and quaint shops and cottages with painted front doors.

  Now they were having dinner at the finest restaurant in Salema. Agua Na Boca was perched above the village and had views of the whole coastline. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling, and waiters carried platters of clams with cilantro and melted butter.

  “You could let me choose,” Oliver suggested. “I am the new restaurant critic at the San Francisco Chronicle.”

  “What do you mean?” Lily asked.

  “I received an email while you were in the shower,” he explained. “I start full time when we return. I’ll have a weekly column and my own office and an expense account.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard! We’ll get invited to all kinds of openings and have so much fun.” She dipped a focaccia into olive oil. “If I’m not careful, I’ll get fat.”

  “I doubt that could happen.” Oliver studied her brown eyes and small pink mouth and wondered how he got so lucky.

  He reached into his pocket and brought out a package wrapped in tissue paper.

  “I bought you a present.” He handed it to her.

  Lily untied the bow and discovered a bolt of colored fabric.

  “I found it at the market this morning,” Oliver said. “It will be the first item in your store.”

  “It’s gorgeous, but it will be ages before I open a store.” Lily hesitated. “We have to save up the money.”

  “I also have this.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “It’s my bank statement. I saved almost everything Guido paid me, and he added a little extra. His children are grown, and he doesn’t know what to do with his money.”

  Lily glanced at the deposits on the bank statement and gasped. “Guido gave you ten thousand dollars! We can’t accept that.”

  “Apparently a real-estate developer offered to buy the restaurant,” Oliver explained. “Guido is going to sell it and move back to Italy.”

  Lily leaned over the checkered tablecloth and kissed him. “I’ll start looking for spaces when we get home. The store will be stocked with linens from Spain and earthenware from Tuscany and antique furniture bought at estate sales in Provence.”

  “What will you call it?” Oliver asked, eating potato and kale soup.

  “Lily Bristol, of course.” She traced the rim of her wineglass. “It will have black awnings and Lily Bristol written in gold letters in the window.”

  The waiter served octopus baked in garlic and onions. There was rice cooked with white wine and tomatoes. They talked about visiting castles in Lisbon, and Oliver felt light and happy.

  “Here’s the check.” He handed her the bill. “I’m going to use the restroom.”

  “Why are you giving me the bill?” Lily finished the last spoonful of rice pudding.

  “I didn’t want to carry my wallet, so I put a fifty euro in your purse.” Oliver stood up. “Don’t tip too much. They already charge a fortune because we’re tourists.”

  Oliver returned from the restroom, and they stood up to leave. They walked outside and strolled along the cobblestones. Lily stopped and frowned. “I’m sorry, I forgot my purse. I must have left it on the table when I paid the bill.”

  “I’ll get it.” He kissed her. “Wait here, and I’ll be right back.”

  Lily’s purse lay on the table, and he picked it up. It fell on the floor, and he gathered the contents. There was a piece of paper, and he noticed it was the bill. On the bottom was the note: “To the beautiful American. Please come tomorrow night, and we will finish our conversation. You must sit in my station, and I promise you a delightful evening.”

  He crumpled the note and strode onto the street. As he reached Lily, his hands shook.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “Did you find my purse?”

  “Your purse is right here.” He handed it to her. “And there was a note inside. Apparently you made an impression on the waiter when I was in the restroom.”

  Lily scanned the paper and looked up. “He happened to speak English, and we talked for a minute. He asked where I was from, and I complimented the cooking.”

  “It sounds like he wanted to make a date,” Oliver stormed. “Maybe you should take him up on it.”

  “I can’t help what he wrote, but I didn’t give him any encouragement.” She handed him the paper. “Let’s forget about it.”

  “Waiters don’t hit on diners for no reason,” he persisted. “If he did that all the time, he’d get fired.”

  “I told you it was nothing, but if you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself,” she said, and her eyes blazed. “Good-bye, Oliver. I’m going home.”

  * * *

  Oliver waited until he had cooled off and then walked along the alley. As soon as Lily left, he realized he had overreacted. Lily was hardly going to make a date with a Portuguese waiter, even if
he did have a physique like a bullfighter. He had been upset and said the first thing that came out of his mouth. But what did she mean, she was going home?

  He turned the corner and saw a young woman huddled on the hotel steps. She wore a linen dress and carried a beige purse. He recognized Lily’s brown hair and realized she was crying.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten so upset,” he began. “The waiter had those chiseled cheeks and white teeth that belong in a toothpaste commercial.”

  “How could you accuse me of making a date?” Lily looked up. “I have no interest in other men.”

  “I apologized,” Oliver pleaded. “You’re so beautiful, I think every man wants you.”

  “We promised we’d trust each other, and you went back on your word.”

  “I’m very sorry.” Oliver touched her hand. “It will never happen again.”

  Lily’s eyes were huge, and she took a deep breath. “Maybe this isn’t working, and we should stop now.”

  “What are you talking about? We’re on our honeymoon.”

  “Maybe we’re not good at being married, not everyone is, you know. My parents have made each other miserable for years.” She looked at Oliver. “We should end it before someone gets hurt.”

  “We don’t give up on the whole thing because of a few hiccups.” Oliver waved his hand. “Of course, being married takes adjusting; it’s like buying a new car. You have to learn how to work the windshield wipers and use the air-conditioner. But once you take it out on the freeway, it’s the best feeling in the world.”

  “Do you really think I’m a car?” she said and suddenly laughed.

  “You’re the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met, and I’m lucky to be your husband.”

  “And we won’t doubt each other anymore?” she asked.

  He crossed his heart, and his face broke into a smile. “Scout’s honor. Now let’s go upstairs.” He pulled her up. “Checkout is nine AM. We may as well get a lot of use out of that bed.”

  He picked her up and carried her into the hotel. He entered their room and fumbled with her zipper.

  “You shouldn’t have carried me up the stairs.” She laughed. “You’ll hurt your back.”

  Oliver tore off his shirt and drew her onto the quilted bedspread. He kissed her and whispered, “Let me show you what I can do.”

  * * *

  Oliver glanced around the Hotel Cervo’s lobby and sighed. Of course he had been jealous. What twentysomething male didn’t act like a bull in heat? And in the end, he had reason to be jealous; what Lily had done in San Francisco was unbearable. But of course it didn’t excuse what he did next. He had been like a wounded animal; he needed female reassurance. If only he hadn’t lied to her about that night in Manhattan in the first place, he never would have set off the chain of events that ended their marriage. He was as sure of that now as he was that the tasting menu at Eleven Madison Park was worth it, even when he had to pay for it himself.

  The double doors opened, and Angela appeared. She wore a crepe blouse and pleated skirt. Her hair was tied in a knot, and she wore leather sandals.

  “I thought you were going to the suite to change.” Oliver rushed across the lobby.

  “I did change,” Angela answered. “I bought the skirt at a boutique on Via La Passeggiata. It’s Roberto Cavalli; it cost me one hundred euros.”

  “But we’re going to the beach.” Oliver pointed to his board shorts and thongs. “You’re dressed for an afternoon performance at Carnegie Hall.”

  “Not Carnegie Hall, Stella Maris Church. It was built in the 1960s by a famous Italian architect and contains a seventeenth-century pipe organ.” She paused. “The beach sounds lovely, but we spent all day yesterday at the pool. I thought it would be interesting to visit local monuments.”

  “The only times I go to church are on Easter Sunday and Christmas,” he protested. “We’re here to lie on the sand and eat overpriced seafood linguini.”

  “That may be why you’re here, but you never asked why I came.” Angela pursed her lips. “I like being with you, and the Jacuzzi tub in the suite is appealing. But I’ve been crazy about Sardinia since I did a project about it in the eighth grade. I eat Sardinian malloreddus at Arco Cafe on the Upper West Side and buy Sardinian wine at Eli’s List on Third Avenue, and I attended the gallery opening for a Sardinian artist in Chelsea.”

  “When do you have time to do those things?” Oliver asked.

  “We only see each other a few times a week.” She shrugged. “What do you think I do the other nights? Put on pajamas and reheat Chinese takeout?”

  “You could have said something.” Oliver wondered why he felt cheated. Wasn’t it good that Angela wanted to explore the culture of Sardinia? But he thought of the bikini on Angela’s bedside table and grimaced.

  “Said what, Oliver?” she demanded. “That I’m not a live Barbie doll who’s only interested in floral bouquets and drinking Blue Jasmines at the Flatiron Lounge? We’ve never attended the ballet or seen an Off-Broadway play.”

  Off-Broadway plays were often boring, and the theater never had comfortable seats. And he couldn’t afford an evening at the ballet; the champagne at intermission was so expensive.

  But Angela was gorgeous and sexy, and he enjoyed her company.

  “Every New Yorker dreams of drinking limoncello and sailing on the Emerald Coast.” He sighed. “But we’ll go to Stella Maris Church. We can even drive to Arzachena to see the ancient Nuragic sites if you like.”

  “That might be too much history for one day.” She took his arm. “Let’s start with the church and see how we do.”

  * * *

  “You see, Oliver,” Angela said, sitting on a wood bench, “churches can be interesting.”

  Oliver sat beside her and thought it had been a fabulous afternoon. The church was perched on a cliff, with views of the green hills and the jagged coastline. Myrtle bushes were scattered over the grounds, and there were oleander trees and beds of lavender.

  The best part was when Angela had kneeled down at the altar to blow out a candle. There was something about seeing her making the sign of the cross that was incredibly sexy.

  “It says here that the church was designed by Michele Busiri Vici,” Oliver said, leafing through the brochure.

  “Didn’t you hear the guide?” Angela asked. “Prince Aga Khan hired noted architects to build villas and hotels and churches. The church’s pews are made of juniper wood, and the bronze doors were created by the Bolognese sculptor Luciano Minguzzi.”

  Oliver had been too busy admiring Angela’s legs to listen to the tour guide. Now he wondered how she remembered everything the guide had said.

  “You’re looking at me like I’m speaking a foreign language.” Angela inspected her fingernails. “Ohio isn’t all barns and cornfields. Toledo has many fine churches and museums.”

  “But you don’t like museums. And how do you know so much history? You told me you didn’t go to college.”

  “You asked me once if I wanted to spend the afternoon at the Guggenheim. I said no because I had a summer cold,” she explained. “And not everyone has the money to go to college. That doesn’t mean I don’t like to learn.”

  He hadn’t assumed Angela was uneducated; he hadn’t thought about it all. Angela was like a delicious meal presented at a Michelin-starred restaurant. You didn’t ask where the bamboo shoots were grown; you were just grateful they arrive stuffed with curry and smothered in butter.

  But now he felt shame mixed with a sudden joy. Maybe he and Angela could have a future together. He pictured weekends with Angela and Louisa at the Natural History Museum. They could drive to Poughkeepsie to see the leaves change without running out of things to say.

  “I forgot to get Louisa a present at the souvenir stand.” He stood up. “Would you like to come?”

  “No, thank you.” Angela stretched out her legs in front of her. “I’ll stay here and soak up the sun.”

  * * *

  Oliver cl
utched his parcel and ran down the stone steps. He searched the garden, but Angela had disappeared.

  “Oliver, I need you.” She waved at a man standing across from her. “That man whistled and tried to look up my skirt. Then he asked my name, and I told him to leave me alone.”

  Oliver glanced at the man’s thick chest and gulped. He was at least six foot two, and looked like he spent his free time splitting tree trunks. If Oliver threatened him, the man could knock him out.

  “He’s not bothering you now, we should probably leave,” Oliver suggested.

  “We can’t leave, or he’ll do it to someone else,” Angela insisted. “A woman should be able to wear a miniskirt without being harassed.”

  “You’re right, and if this was Manhattan, I’d go and tell him that’s no way to treat a woman.” He looked up nervously to see if the man was walking in their direction. “But what if he doesn’t speak English and takes it the wrong way? I could end up with his fist in my mouth.”

  “It’s still not right.” Angela fumed. “Somebody needs to tell him how to behave.”

  “Perhaps he was only trying to compliment you. In Sardinia, men are taught to admire women,” he tried again. “And you’re so unusual, with your copper hair and alabaster skin. Maybe he’s an artist and needed inspiration.”

  “Do you think so?” Angela patted her hair.

  “I’m positive. I saw paint splotches on his shirt.” Oliver took her hand. “I’ve had enough of churches, let’s go to the beach. We’ll take an evening dip in the ocean.”

  Angela adjusted her sunglasses and smiled. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll wear the maillot I bought at Missoni.”

  * * *

  Oliver filled two glasses with champagne and waited for Angela to step out of the shower. The beach at sunset had been magnificent. They lay on striped towels and drank vodka gimlets. The sand was tinged with gold, and sailboats skimmed along the waves.

  Now Angela entered the bedroom and shook out her hair. She wore a peach robe, and her toenails were painted pink.

  “Back at the church”—she tied the robe around her waist—“why weren’t you jealous of the man who tried to pick me up?”