Italian girls. Are they initiates, too?
I only know this: that I could have been there. In that photo. If I’d wanted. But
I didn’t.
I close the website with a fierce pang of jealousy and melancholy, and a sense of
deep relief that it is over.
Ciao, bello.
T HREE DAYS LATER, my mother arrives from San Francisco.
She is happy and excited and jet-lagged and she almost runs out of the airport as
Jessica and I struggle along behind, half laughing, half grimacing, with her bags.
In the taxi to Santa Lucia she chatters about nothing and everything. Mom is booked
into a cheapish hotel near my apartment. We drop her in the dusty lobby, presuming
she’ll want a few hours to rest and relax, but ten minutes later, her gray hair still
damp from a shower, she is buzzing my bell and in my apartment and grabbing my arm
and saying, “Darling! Take me to the Caffè Gambrinus! I hear it’s The Place—it’s in
all the guidebooks!”
I might, ordinarily, be wary of this, for fear of running into Marc. But I know he
is out of the country. Mom and I can go anywhere.
Letting my mom take my arm, we step out onto Via Santa Lucia in the early evening
sun. My mom is still chit-chattering about Dad’s golf and his retirement and my brothers.
We walk. She talks. We walk and she talks and then I stare. My heart is somewhere
near my throat as I gaze ahead. We are crossing the wide empty pavements of Piazza
del Plebiscito, with the sun setting pinkly over Anacapri.
And Marc Roscarrick is walking directly toward us.
He hasn’t seen me. He is immersed in a phone call and gazing to the left.
“Quick, Mom—this way.”
“What?” She is startled. “But I can see the Gambrinus, darling. It’s over there.”
I tug her.
“Mom, this way!”
“What’s wrong?”
My mother is actually a little distressed. Oh God. Too late.
We are three meters apart. He is walking right into us. He looks up and sees me.
We cannot avoid each other.
C HAPTER T WELVE
H E SMILES AT me, and at my mother, as if nothing untoward has happened between him and me, ever.
It’s the same, confident, handsome-sad masculine smile. His manicured hand is extended.
His suit is an immaculately dark charcoal-gray, verging on black. The shirt is blinding
white; the silk tie aquamarine and primrose. I had forgotten how tall he is.
“ Buona sera , X.”
“Um . . .” I am flustered, stammering like a fool; glancing at both my mom and Marcus.
“Um . . . Ah . . . Uh . . .”
My mom. Oh God. She is staring up at Marc as if Jesus had just descended from the
heavens to give her a new Bulgari purse. Her expression is somewhere close to adoration,
mixed—incontrovertibly—with desire. My mom is experiencing urges .
Even worse, I am feeling a slight tinge of embarrassment for my mom; now I see her
from Marc’s perspective. This overweight American woman in her department-store clothes,
her Gap jeans, her mussed gray hair. What will Marc think?
But why should I damn well care what Marc thinks? This is my mom and I love her and he can go to hell with his stupid beautiful suits. What right
does he have to exude superiority?
And why am I so angry at myself if I don’t care about Marc?
“X?”
Marc’s voice interrupts my thoughts. Calm but firm.
I come to my senses with a jolt. I’ve been standing here vexing for twenty seconds.
Both Marc and my mom are looking at me.
“Sorry. Uh . . . Sorry.”
Come on, Alexandra, get a grip.
“ Mom, this is . . . Marc. Marc Roscarrick. He’s a . . . He’s a . . .” Spit it out . “He’s a friend, um . . . a friend I made here. In Naples, I mean.”
Excellent . . . not.
I hurry on.
“And this is my mom, Marc. Angela. From San Jose. She’s here on vacation. We’re going
to the Gambrinus, just for a coffee.”
Marc’s suntanned hand reaches out and takes my mother’s and he lifts it to his mouth
and imperceptibly kisses it, graciously and
I only know this: that I could have been there. In that photo. If I’d wanted. But
I didn’t.
I close the website with a fierce pang of jealousy and melancholy, and a sense of
deep relief that it is over.
Ciao, bello.
T HREE DAYS LATER, my mother arrives from San Francisco.
She is happy and excited and jet-lagged and she almost runs out of the airport as
Jessica and I struggle along behind, half laughing, half grimacing, with her bags.
In the taxi to Santa Lucia she chatters about nothing and everything. Mom is booked
into a cheapish hotel near my apartment. We drop her in the dusty lobby, presuming
she’ll want a few hours to rest and relax, but ten minutes later, her gray hair still
damp from a shower, she is buzzing my bell and in my apartment and grabbing my arm
and saying, “Darling! Take me to the Caffè Gambrinus! I hear it’s The Place—it’s in
all the guidebooks!”
I might, ordinarily, be wary of this, for fear of running into Marc. But I know he
is out of the country. Mom and I can go anywhere.
Letting my mom take my arm, we step out onto Via Santa Lucia in the early evening
sun. My mom is still chit-chattering about Dad’s golf and his retirement and my brothers.
We walk. She talks. We walk and she talks and then I stare. My heart is somewhere
near my throat as I gaze ahead. We are crossing the wide empty pavements of Piazza
del Plebiscito, with the sun setting pinkly over Anacapri.
And Marc Roscarrick is walking directly toward us.
He hasn’t seen me. He is immersed in a phone call and gazing to the left.
“Quick, Mom—this way.”
“What?” She is startled. “But I can see the Gambrinus, darling. It’s over there.”
I tug her.
“Mom, this way!”
“What’s wrong?”
My mother is actually a little distressed. Oh God. Too late.
We are three meters apart. He is walking right into us. He looks up and sees me.
We cannot avoid each other.
C HAPTER T WELVE
H E SMILES AT me, and at my mother, as if nothing untoward has happened between him and me, ever.
It’s the same, confident, handsome-sad masculine smile. His manicured hand is extended.
His suit is an immaculately dark charcoal-gray, verging on black. The shirt is blinding
white; the silk tie aquamarine and primrose. I had forgotten how tall he is.
“ Buona sera , X.”
“Um . . .” I am flustered, stammering like a fool; glancing at both my mom and Marcus.
“Um . . . Ah . . . Uh . . .”
My mom. Oh God. She is staring up at Marc as if Jesus had just descended from the
heavens to give her a new Bulgari purse. Her expression is somewhere close to adoration,
mixed—incontrovertibly—with desire. My mom is experiencing urges .
Even worse, I am feeling a slight tinge of embarrassment for my mom; now I see her
from Marc’s perspective. This overweight American woman in her department-store clothes,
her Gap jeans, her mussed gray hair. What will Marc think?
But why should I damn well care what Marc thinks? This is my mom and I love her and he can go to hell with his stupid beautiful suits. What right
does he have to exude superiority?
And why am I so angry at myself if I don’t care about Marc?
“X?”
Marc’s voice interrupts my thoughts. Calm but firm.
I come to my senses with a jolt. I’ve been standing here vexing for twenty seconds.
Both Marc and my mom are looking at me.
“Sorry. Uh . . . Sorry.”
Come on, Alexandra, get a grip.
“ Mom, this is . . . Marc. Marc Roscarrick. He’s a . . . He’s a . . .” Spit it out . “He’s a friend, um . . . a friend I made here. In Naples, I mean.”
Excellent . . . not.
I hurry on.
“And this is my mom, Marc. Angela. From San Jose. She’s here on vacation. We’re going
to the Gambrinus, just for a coffee.”
Marc’s suntanned hand reaches out and takes my mother’s and he lifts it to his mouth
and imperceptibly kisses it, graciously and
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