waves near the shore.
Twenty minutes later, Rebecca spotted a small green island, the first of Li Galli , an archipelago which legend claims as the home of the mythical sirens. The island was just off the coast of Positano and it marked their arrival. She pointed and Peter leaned over to see, peering through the window. They’d gone swimming out there, not far from the island, when they’d last visited, but had never ventured all the way around. The place was private, the home of Rudolf Nureyev, the famed ballet dancer who’d defected from Russia in 1961, foiling the KGB. From the road atop the cliff, the dancer’s island was now almost hidden under decades of lush green foliage.
Just before reaching Positano, the car passed a familiar fruit stand built on a perilous point at the edge of the cliff. Rebecca squeezed Peter’s hand; the stand had been there the last time they’d come. Then the car hooked a right, leaving the coast road and dipping down toward the village, to Via Cristoforo Colombo, past a parking area at the top of the cliff, and then swinging around and up again to their hotel.
Hotel Le Sirenuse clung to the cliffs, as did every other building in Positano. The hotel car stopped at the entrance. The driver turned off the engine and came around to open the car door on the passenger side, and Peter slid out behind Rebecca. While the driver retrieved their luggage from the trunk and handed it off to a porter, Rebecca and Peter stretched and yawned in the warm May sunshine and looked about. The air was fragrant with the scent of lemons.
Shops across the street were bustling. At the rise of the road just ahead where it curved left on past the hotel, Rebecca saw the usual gathering of young mothers and their strollers and toddlers, all enjoying the sunshine, talking and laughing. One dark-haired woman balanced a baby on her hips, bouncing it gently as she leaned against an old stone wall between the road and the edge of the cliff. Rebecca’s eyes lingered on that one, wondering how old the baby was, wondering how she’d learned to hold the child like that. The other women leaned on the parapet, gossiping while they peered down at the beach far below, and the marina, and down the coast toward Sorrento.
Nothing had changed since their last visit, and that made her happy. Peter touched her arm and they strolled into the hotel. Their luggage had already disappeared, having been whisked off to their rooms by the porter. The tiled lobby they entered was open and airy and bright. While Peter checked them in, Rebecca wandered over to the long windows. To her left was an open archway leading to a terrace with white iron chairs and tables, still set up for lunch. Beyond that area she could see the swimming pool and white portico with tables, and past that, the emerald sea and the eternal blue sky.
Waiting for Peter, Rebecca wandered out onto the terrace looming high above the town. Turning her head to the right, she looked out over pastel roofs and the tops of flowering trees, and past the green and yellow dome of Santa Maria Assunta, the village Catholic church gleaming in the sun. The majolica tile on the dome of the church seemed sometimes to change colors in the light. Right now, it was a coppery-green, almost blending into the sea. Toward Sorrento she saw the white foaming waves crashing against the high cliffs. One rocky cliff jutted far into the sea.
Peter had reserved the suite for four nights. A porter took them up in the small elevator and unlocked the door. Looking around, Rebecca felt as though she’d never left and wondered if this might be the same set of rooms they’d had before. This hotel kept records of their clientele, she knew, so that was possible.
While Peter checked the luggage and tipped the porter, Rebecca strolled through the living room, looking ahead through the broad archway to the bedroom where French doors opened to the terrace. The blue and white tiled floors and the stark white
Twenty minutes later, Rebecca spotted a small green island, the first of Li Galli , an archipelago which legend claims as the home of the mythical sirens. The island was just off the coast of Positano and it marked their arrival. She pointed and Peter leaned over to see, peering through the window. They’d gone swimming out there, not far from the island, when they’d last visited, but had never ventured all the way around. The place was private, the home of Rudolf Nureyev, the famed ballet dancer who’d defected from Russia in 1961, foiling the KGB. From the road atop the cliff, the dancer’s island was now almost hidden under decades of lush green foliage.
Just before reaching Positano, the car passed a familiar fruit stand built on a perilous point at the edge of the cliff. Rebecca squeezed Peter’s hand; the stand had been there the last time they’d come. Then the car hooked a right, leaving the coast road and dipping down toward the village, to Via Cristoforo Colombo, past a parking area at the top of the cliff, and then swinging around and up again to their hotel.
Hotel Le Sirenuse clung to the cliffs, as did every other building in Positano. The hotel car stopped at the entrance. The driver turned off the engine and came around to open the car door on the passenger side, and Peter slid out behind Rebecca. While the driver retrieved their luggage from the trunk and handed it off to a porter, Rebecca and Peter stretched and yawned in the warm May sunshine and looked about. The air was fragrant with the scent of lemons.
Shops across the street were bustling. At the rise of the road just ahead where it curved left on past the hotel, Rebecca saw the usual gathering of young mothers and their strollers and toddlers, all enjoying the sunshine, talking and laughing. One dark-haired woman balanced a baby on her hips, bouncing it gently as she leaned against an old stone wall between the road and the edge of the cliff. Rebecca’s eyes lingered on that one, wondering how old the baby was, wondering how she’d learned to hold the child like that. The other women leaned on the parapet, gossiping while they peered down at the beach far below, and the marina, and down the coast toward Sorrento.
Nothing had changed since their last visit, and that made her happy. Peter touched her arm and they strolled into the hotel. Their luggage had already disappeared, having been whisked off to their rooms by the porter. The tiled lobby they entered was open and airy and bright. While Peter checked them in, Rebecca wandered over to the long windows. To her left was an open archway leading to a terrace with white iron chairs and tables, still set up for lunch. Beyond that area she could see the swimming pool and white portico with tables, and past that, the emerald sea and the eternal blue sky.
Waiting for Peter, Rebecca wandered out onto the terrace looming high above the town. Turning her head to the right, she looked out over pastel roofs and the tops of flowering trees, and past the green and yellow dome of Santa Maria Assunta, the village Catholic church gleaming in the sun. The majolica tile on the dome of the church seemed sometimes to change colors in the light. Right now, it was a coppery-green, almost blending into the sea. Toward Sorrento she saw the white foaming waves crashing against the high cliffs. One rocky cliff jutted far into the sea.
Peter had reserved the suite for four nights. A porter took them up in the small elevator and unlocked the door. Looking around, Rebecca felt as though she’d never left and wondered if this might be the same set of rooms they’d had before. This hotel kept records of their clientele, she knew, so that was possible.
While Peter checked the luggage and tipped the porter, Rebecca strolled through the living room, looking ahead through the broad archway to the bedroom where French doors opened to the terrace. The blue and white tiled floors and the stark white
Similar Books
