Coast?” I said the name doubtfully, as if I’d never heard of it.
“Yes. Hold on just a second.” She reached for her iPad. “Here it is, La Figlia del Mare in Positano. It’s a fantastic hotel in one of the most picturesque comunes on the Amalfi Coast.”
“Have you been there?”
“No, but I have friends who rave about it.”
And would one of those friends be Frances Somerset, who will be there shortly, and whose anniversary date you probably checked now to make sure that it fell on the same weekend?
Zelda moved closer to me and played the slide show from the hotel’s website. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Used to be a small private palazzo before it was turned into a boutique establishment. And you can get a pretty decent rate this time of year. They aren’t officially open—February is when they train their staff for the season.”
“You know a lot about a hotel you’ve never stayed at.”
I’d met hotel aficionados who traveled with the express purpose of experiencing the best in hospitality, but Zelda had never been one of those: She was fine as long as a place was clean and convenient.
“Well, you hear things,” Zelda answered rather vaguely. “Anyway, I’ve sent you the link. Think about it.”
The kettle sang. Zelda set aside the iPad and went back to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with a teapot and a plate of dried apple rings. “You know, it’s a bit ironic how things have turned out.”
“You mean that the Somerset boy and I should have met after all.”
“And that he should be completely smitten with you.” Zelda sat down and poured. “I never told you this, but I suspected for years that the Somersets had something to do with your invitation to the Bal des Debutantes.”
I reached for my cup, forgetting that I’d already had plenty of hot liquids for the evening. “Why?”
“You know your father wanted it desperately for you—well, for the prestige of the Canterburys, if we’re being completely honest with ourselves. And I really wanted it for him, as a parting gift if nothing else. But it was always a long shot—the Canterburys aren’t what they were, and I’m just a lot of people’s third cousin.
“I remember telling all this to Frances—we were getting to know each other then. We talked about you and she came away impressed. Said she’d love for her son to meet you, except that he was all the way in England.
“No one knew anything then about the older woman—we thought he was at Eton because he wanted to be. So I told her that if you were selected for the Bal des Debutantes, he could hop over for a weekend and serve as your escort, and wouldn’t that be a fun way for the two of you to meet.
“Frances agreed with me. The moment I told her of your selection, she asked if she could still volunteer her son as your escort. I said yes, absolutely. Of course, he didn’t come, but it was only after a while that I put two and two together.
“Imagine that you are Frances and Rowland Somerset and you really, really want to remove your son from that awful older woman. But you know what young men in love are like—the more you bad-mouth their beloved, the more they dig in their heels. A much better fix would be to introduce him to someone else, someone who is essentially perfect—not to mention his own age—and hope that he’ll come to see what he’s been missing.”
Zelda had an exaggerated concept of my perfection, and I’d long ago given up trying to correct her. “So the Somersets wanted to dangle me as a lure?”
“That’s my theory, at least. It was too bad his eighteenth birthday fell on the day of the rehearsal and he bailed—could have saved himself and everybody else a lot of trouble.”
“You think he’d have taken one look at me and dropped all his plans for California?”
“I thought it was—what do Americans call it?—a Hail Mary pass. But now I’m not sure everything wouldn’t have worked exactly as they’d hoped. The
“Yes. Hold on just a second.” She reached for her iPad. “Here it is, La Figlia del Mare in Positano. It’s a fantastic hotel in one of the most picturesque comunes on the Amalfi Coast.”
“Have you been there?”
“No, but I have friends who rave about it.”
And would one of those friends be Frances Somerset, who will be there shortly, and whose anniversary date you probably checked now to make sure that it fell on the same weekend?
Zelda moved closer to me and played the slide show from the hotel’s website. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Used to be a small private palazzo before it was turned into a boutique establishment. And you can get a pretty decent rate this time of year. They aren’t officially open—February is when they train their staff for the season.”
“You know a lot about a hotel you’ve never stayed at.”
I’d met hotel aficionados who traveled with the express purpose of experiencing the best in hospitality, but Zelda had never been one of those: She was fine as long as a place was clean and convenient.
“Well, you hear things,” Zelda answered rather vaguely. “Anyway, I’ve sent you the link. Think about it.”
The kettle sang. Zelda set aside the iPad and went back to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with a teapot and a plate of dried apple rings. “You know, it’s a bit ironic how things have turned out.”
“You mean that the Somerset boy and I should have met after all.”
“And that he should be completely smitten with you.” Zelda sat down and poured. “I never told you this, but I suspected for years that the Somersets had something to do with your invitation to the Bal des Debutantes.”
I reached for my cup, forgetting that I’d already had plenty of hot liquids for the evening. “Why?”
“You know your father wanted it desperately for you—well, for the prestige of the Canterburys, if we’re being completely honest with ourselves. And I really wanted it for him, as a parting gift if nothing else. But it was always a long shot—the Canterburys aren’t what they were, and I’m just a lot of people’s third cousin.
“I remember telling all this to Frances—we were getting to know each other then. We talked about you and she came away impressed. Said she’d love for her son to meet you, except that he was all the way in England.
“No one knew anything then about the older woman—we thought he was at Eton because he wanted to be. So I told her that if you were selected for the Bal des Debutantes, he could hop over for a weekend and serve as your escort, and wouldn’t that be a fun way for the two of you to meet.
“Frances agreed with me. The moment I told her of your selection, she asked if she could still volunteer her son as your escort. I said yes, absolutely. Of course, he didn’t come, but it was only after a while that I put two and two together.
“Imagine that you are Frances and Rowland Somerset and you really, really want to remove your son from that awful older woman. But you know what young men in love are like—the more you bad-mouth their beloved, the more they dig in their heels. A much better fix would be to introduce him to someone else, someone who is essentially perfect—not to mention his own age—and hope that he’ll come to see what he’s been missing.”
Zelda had an exaggerated concept of my perfection, and I’d long ago given up trying to correct her. “So the Somersets wanted to dangle me as a lure?”
“That’s my theory, at least. It was too bad his eighteenth birthday fell on the day of the rehearsal and he bailed—could have saved himself and everybody else a lot of trouble.”
“You think he’d have taken one look at me and dropped all his plans for California?”
“I thought it was—what do Americans call it?—a Hail Mary pass. But now I’m not sure everything wouldn’t have worked exactly as they’d hoped. The
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