LILY PRESSED HER FACE AGAINST the glass and saw the white sand beach and azure Mediterranean, and La Maddalena Archipelago in the distance. The Porto Cervo marina was lined with gleaming yachts, and above her, Sardinia’s green hills were dotted with myrtle bushes and juniper trees.
The taxi pulled up in front of Hotel Cervo, and Lily poked her head out the window. It was like an impossibly glamorous movie set, with men wearing dark sunglasses and pastel colored shirts and women draped in caftans and gold jewelry. She half expected James Bond to appear and ask her to climb into his sports car or take a ride on his Jet Ski.
The driver pointed to the fare box, and Lily opened her purse. She rummaged through her lipsticks and had a sinking feeling. She couldn’t have misplaced her credit cards. They must be buried under the paperback book she bought for the plane or the extra pair of stockings rolled up in the side compartment.
The driver tapped impatiently on the dashboard, and Lily’s stomach turned. Perhaps she’d left the credit cards on the metal counter when she went through customs. The customs officer had been so intimidating, tossing her underwear in the air. Lily had been tempted to leave her ivory slip behind and rush to the exit.
She picked up the phone to call Oliver and then put it down. Oliver had moved out of their restored Connecticut farmhouse six months ago. She could hardly ask his advice as if she were wondering if he could refill the espresso maker or see if they were out of chocolate croissants.
Anyway, she was a successful thirty-two-year-old businesswoman with home furnishing stores on three continents. She didn’t need her ex-husband to help her pay the taxi driver. She fiddled with her leather pump, the way she did when she was nervous. The sole was lumpy, and she peeled it back curiously. She felt a sharp edge, and a smile crossed her face. A Visa card was taped inside!
She hadn’t worn the pumps in months; Oliver must have taped it inside her shoe. She was notoriously absentminded when she traveled. Oliver insisted the only way to guarantee she didn’t get stranded at Heathrow Airport or the train station in Paris was to hide a credit card where she couldn’t forget it.
Now she peered at the hotel’s stucco walls and Moorish patio and wondered if she should be in Sardinia at all. She had only signed the divorce papers a week ago. All the magazines said she should be tucked under a down comforter with a stack of novels and a box of tissues.
And how could she leave Louisa? Louisa was six years old; surely she needed her mother. But Louisa was used to Lily being away. Lily often went on buying trips to discover a set of Chinese end tables or one perfect French armoire.
Lily’s parents were staying on the farm for a week, and Louisa adored being with her grandparents. Lily pictured them picking apples and baking sugar cookies and had to smile. Louisa was in heaven and wouldn’t miss her at all.
And she had been looking forward to this trip for months! In six days, her newest store, Lily Bristol Sardinia, was having its grand opening, and she had to be there. A silver cocktail dress was carefully folded in her suitcase, and she’d bought a new sequined evening bag.
The valet opened the car door, and Lily stepped onto the pavement. The breeze lifted her skirt, and a man whistled. Lily opened her mouth and then closed it. Why shouldn’t a man whistle? She had to start thinking differently; she was a young divorcée on one of the sexiest coastlines in the world. She shot him a brilliant smile and strode into the lobby.
“Oh, it is gorgeous,” Lily breathed, setting her purse on the ground.
The white marble floors were scattered with blue love seats. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the harbor, and it was as if she had entered an underwater cave. The wood shutters were blue, and the tiles behind the concierge desk were blue, and the abstract paintings on the walls were splashed with turquoise and gold. And the people! Women with metallic sandals and dangling earrings, and arms and legs the color of pennies. The men had cheekbones you only saw in magazines, and skin like honey.
“Hello, I’m Lily Bristol.” Lily approached the front desk. “I have a reservation.”
“Of course, Mrs. Bristol,” a man in a gold uniform greeted her. “Welcome to Sardinia’s Emerald Coast. I trust you had a pleasant trip?”
Lily flashed on her credit cards that were probably sitting in a bin at Olbia Airport and reminded herself to cancel them and order new ones.
“Yes, thank you. It was an eleven-hour flight, and I’m terribly thirsty.” She nodded. “I would do anything for a bath and a glass of orange juice.”
“Enzo, your butler, will escort you to your suite. He just started his shift, he’ll be here in a minute.” He consulted his computer. “You have the finest accommodation, with a private terrace and a view of the marina.”
“I don’t need a butler.” Lily shook her head. “I have a daughter and I’m used to putting things away. All I want is a soft bed and perhaps a piece of fruit.”
“Enzo will only do what you ask.” The man rang a silver bell and smiled. “You are our guest. We want everything about your stay to be perfect.”
* * *
Enzo opened the door of the suite and Lily walked straight to the terrace. The lush grounds were filled with lime trees and beds of daisies. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbor, and speedboats scudded over the waves. And the air! It was balmy and sweet and smelled like the most exotic perfume.
She turned back inside and glanced at the rounded walls and sea foam sofa and window seat scattered with silk cushions. There was a coffee table set with a ceramic fruit bowl and a pitcher of iced water.
“My daughter would love this suite. She would line all her dolls on that sofa and serve them lemonade and cookies,” she said to Enzo. “Do you have children?”
“Two girls.” Enzo nodded, setting her suitcase on the tile floor. “Maria is five and Gia is seven.”
“Louisa is six. It’s a wonderful age.” Lily slipped off her pumps. “One minute they’re curled up in your lap, reading Anne of Green Gables, the next they’re commenting on your shade of lipstick.” She paused. “That’s the thing you don’t realize you’ll miss in a divorce. It’s not the romantic dinners or the fact that there’s someone else who knows your health insurance information, it’s not having someone to talk to about your child.
“But we both tried to make it work. I’ve never tried so hard at anything since I played water polo in high school. No matter how much I practiced, every time I spiked the ball I felt like I might drown.” She peered into the bedroom.
“We’re going to have one of those terribly civilized divorces, where you spend holidays together and comment ‘how well you look’ and ‘being single must agree with you,’” she continued. “Louisa is going to have the undivided attention of each parent, and we’re both free to be happy. It is important to be happy, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what we teach our children. How can they learn from us, if we don’t show them how to do it?”
“I’m sure your daughter will be very happy,” Enzo offered.
“I’m behaving like a guest on an afternoon talk show.” Lily laughed. “It must be the dark coffee I drank at the airport. I’ve never tasted anything so strong. No wonder Sardinians swim in the ocean all day and dance at clubs at night.
“I’m not going to talk about my divorce anymore. You’ll help me, won’t you? If I mention divorce, you can give me a terse look; like when I was sixteen and borrowed my mother’s Mercedes without asking her.”
“That’s not exactly my place.” Enzo fiddled with is bow tie. “I make sure the water pitchers are full and you have fresh flowers and warm towels.”
“It would be so helpful,” Lily urged. “I’m not even going to think about divorce. I’m going to watch the yacht races at the Yacht Club and listen to music in the piazzetta and eat suckling pig and fish stew.” She paused. “God, I’m starving! I haven’t eaten anything since somewhere over Greenland. I’d give anything for some bread and cheese.”
“Of course.” Enzo beamed. “I will bring it right away.”
“I’m going to take a shower and put on something cool and pretty.” She stopped, and a smile lit up her face. “Thank you, Enzo. Having a private butler might be just what I need after all. I feel better already.”
* * *
Lily turned on the faucet and stepped under the hot water. The bathroom was gorgeous, with a mosaic ceiling and a tile counter lined with luxurious lotions. She rinsed her hair and noticed a man’s razor near the sink. She looked more closely and saw a jar of shaving cream and a leather case.
Perhaps the previous guest had forgotten his toiletries. It was so easy to leave things behind when you traveled. She had lost so many things: a bottle opener in a field in Tuscany where she and Oliver had a picnic, a raincoat in Brussels because the sun finally came out and she was so thrilled she tossed it on a bench and forgot it.
But Hotel Cervo was a five-star hotel. Surely the maids would have given the items to the front desk. She noticed a navy robe flung over the towel rack and pair of men’s slippers nestled on the bath mat.
What if she was in the wrong suite, and a German banker burst in while she was shampooing her hair? She turned off the shower and pulled on a cotton robe. She padded into the hallway to search for Enzo, and the door closed behind her. She turned the doorknob and gasped. She had locked herself out and would have to go down to the lobby with bare feet and a towel wrapped around her head.
“Mrs. Bristol,” the front desk manager said when she approached the desk. “Did something happen to your luggage? I’ll send Enzo to the gift shop to pick out a blouse and skirt.”
“I’m afraid I’m in the wrong suite,” she explained, pulling the robe around her waist. “There was a man’s shaving kit on the sink, and a silk robe hanging on the towel rack.”
“How strange, Mr. Bristol didn’t mention anything was amiss. He checked in three hours ago. He specifically requested a suite with a private terrace.” He showed her a registration card. “If it is not to your satisfaction, Enzo can bring extra pillows for the bed or replace the lotions in the bathroom.”
“What did you say?” Lily gasped.
She leaned forward and glanced at Oliver’s wavy signature on the ivory card. The lobby started spinning, and she clutched the marble counter,
“Are you all right?” he inquired. “Perhaps you should sit down.”
“It must be the jet lag,” Lily replied. “If I could have a glass of water, I’ll be fine.”
Lily’s heart raced, and she tried to think. Oliver had made the reservation months ago when they still thought their marriage could be saved by romantic dinners and trips to exotic destinations. And the dates were perfect! Lily’s new store was opening in Sardinia the first week of August, and Oliver had been asked to review the grand opening of Nero’s, Porto Cervo’s hottest new restaurant.
They had imagined lounging beside the infinity pool and swimming at the private beach and lingering over plates of scallops and tiramisu. They would rent a car and drive along the coast, and their tension would drift away like bark at high tide.
How could she not have known Oliver planned on using the reservation? But that was the thing about divorce. You went from being two people who stayed awake all night shelling pistachios and discussing the latest episode of Homeland, to strangers who stood silently on the front porch while Louisa tied her tennis shoes.
* * *
Lily had been in the attorney’s office the week before. She was flipping through a copy of Architectural Digest, when she looked up and noticed a man with dark curly hair and freshly shaved cheeks. He wore jeans and a blue blazer.
“Oliver!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Thank goodness she always dressed up when she took the train into Manhattan. Her white linen dress was paired with a navy tote. Her dark hair fell smoothly to her shoulders, and she wore Tory Burch sandals.
“You look well,” he said. “That color agrees with you.”
“It’s white.” She glanced down at her skirt. “It looks good on anyone.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He nodded, as if remembering where he was. “I’m doing the same thing you’re doing. I’m signing our divorce papers.”
Lily flushed and recalled when they had separated and agreed to use the same attorney. Why should they fund two attorneys’ tastes in Italian shoes and French wines, when they agreed on everything? Lily would buy Oliver out of the farmhouse, and Oliver would get Louisa on the weekends and every other Wednesday.
“Oh,” Lily said and tried to laugh. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”
“Getting a divorce is supposed to be painful. It’s like going to the dentist,” Oliver answered. “If the drill didn’t hurt, you wouldn’t be reminded that if you avoided M&M’S and Milk Duds, you wouldn’t be there in the first place.”
“Oliver, please.” Lily’s eyes darted around the reception area. “We promised we wouldn’t do this.”
“Do you remember our wedding day? You were so nervous you couldn’t eat a bite. I said you had to swallow something or you’d faint during the first dance. We went to a café in Big Sur, and I fed you cream of potato soup and French bread.”
Lily’s parents had wanted to hold the ceremony at Saints Peter and Paul Church in San Francisco, followed by a sit-down dinner at the Bohemian Club. But she and Oliver spent a weekend in Carmel and fell in love with a chapel on Ocean Avenue. It had a stone floor and stained-glass windows, and when you stepped outside you could smell the ocean.
“What’s your point?” Lily asked.
“It was so spectacular, with the waves crashing on the sand, we said maybe we should stay for dessert and get married another day,” Oliver continued. “I’m supposed to review a new tapas bar in Chelsea. Why don’t we go out to lunch and get divorced tomorrow?”
“Louisa’s summer camp has a field trip tomorrow. We’re going crabbing.”
“You do know we pay the camp counselors almost the price of their college tuition to go to the beach? You don’t need to accompany them.”
Lily noticed Oliver was wearing a pair of loafers she had never seen before, and he was using a different aftershave. She opened her mouth to say something and then changed her mind.
“I have to go to my appointment.” She approached the reception desk. “I’ll see you later.”
* * *
Now Lily glanced at the vases filled with calla lilies and thought she and Oliver couldn’t possibly stay at the same hotel. But she had been looking forward to playing tennis at the tennis club and shopping in the hotel’s boutiques and drinking Mirto at the Cervo Bar.
“I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding,” she said to the manager when he returned with a glass of water. “I must find another hotel.”
“It’s high season, all the hotels are booked.” He studied Lily’s slender cheekbones and gold necklace. “There isn’t a room available on the entire Emerald Coast.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Lily sighed, thinking she was being silly.
The Hotel Cervo had dozens of suites and rooms scattered over the grounds. She wouldn’t have to see Oliver at all. And there were so many ways to keep busy. She wanted to see the ancient stone towers and take the ferry to La Maddalena and visit the town of Arzachena high in the hills.
“Do you have a room in another wing? It doesn’t have to be a suite, anything will do. You see, my husband and I just got divorced. We can’t possibly share the same suite,” she said and gulped. “I’ll even give up Enzo.”
“My apologies.” He shook his head. “We are fully booked.”
She leaned forward, and her brown eyes glistened. “There must be something. All I need is a bed and a shower.”
“We had one cancellation.” He glanced at the screen. “It’s a one-bedroom suite with a view of the harbor.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Lily beamed. “If I could have the key, I’ll go there right now.”
“It will be Enzo’s pleasure to escort you.” He handed her a metallic key. “Suite 233.”
“But I was in 231.” Lily wavered.
“That is correct, Mrs. Bristol.” He nodded. “233 is the adjoining suite.”
* * *
Lily sat on the cotton bedspread and thought everything had gone wrong. First she’d arrived without her credit cards and now she was practically sharing a wall with Oliver. She wished she were in the farmhouse’s sunny kitchen, preparing waffles with blueberries for Louisa.
But she couldn’t live her life avoiding Oliver. They were going to have to attend sports days and piano recitals and graduations. And really, there was nowhere she wanted to be right now more than Sardinia. When she gazed at the turquoise ocean, she felt excited and alive.
“Is the new suite to your liking?” Enzo asked, opening the door to the balcony and rearranging the vase of yellow tulips on the side table.
“It’s lovely. I just wish it was on a different side of the hotel.” She paused. “I’m not complaining, I’m grateful the concierge could accommodate me. But the last person I want to see on my first trip abroad as a divorced woman is Oliver, my ex-husband.”
“Don’t think of yourself as a divorced woman,” Enzo offered, filling a pewter bowl with pistachios.
“How should I think of myself?” she wondered aloud.
Enzo noticed her dark hair and large brown eyes. “Think of yourself as a beautiful young American divorcée,” he suggested. “Arriving on the Emerald Coast to have a great adventure.”
“A beautiful young American divorcée,” Lily said and laughed. “I like that. Thank you, Enzo. I feel much better.”
Enzo left, and she slipped a caftan over her bathing suit and entered the hallway. The door closed, and she realized she’d forgotten her paperback book. She rummaged through her purse and thought that was the problem with hotel card keys: they were so thin, they were almost invisible.
She emptied her purse onto the wool rug and crouched on the floor. A door opened, and she heard footsteps.
“Can I help you?” a male voice asked.
“I lost my key,” she said, sifting through tubes of mascara. “I miss the days when hotels gave you keys the size of small tennis racquets. They were bulky to carry but impossible to misplace.”
“I’ll help you look.” The man kneeled beside her.
“You don’t need to do that,” she replied and thought his voice sounded familiar. She looked up and saw Oliver’s curly hair and blue eyes. Her cheeks flushed, and she waved the key. “You see, I found it.”
“Lily!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Her heart pounded, and she was tempted to run back into her room. She’d send him a text explaining what had happened, suggesting they invent a code for when the hallway was clear and either one could dash to the elevator.
“I’m doing the same thing you’re doing,” she said finally, taking off her sunglasses. “I’m using our reservation at Hotel Cervo on the Emerald Coast.”
Oliver’s cheeks were pale, and he rubbed his chin. Suddenly his face broke into a smile, and he laughed.
“I didn’t tell you I was coming to Sardinia, did I?” he asked.
“And I never mentioned I was going away, because my parents were coming to take care of Louisa.”
His eyes flickered, and he gasped. “We’re not staying in the same suite?”
“Don’t worry, I discovered a shaving kit on the sink and realized the mistake. I asked for a room on a different floor, but this was all they had.” She sighed. “You’re in 231 and I’m in 233.”
“Aren’t we a couple of geniuses.” He grinned. “We both travel nine thousand miles to forget those papers in their brown manila folder and end up in the same place. We could have saved ourselves an eleven-hour flight and a taxi ride with a driver who shouldn’t be allowed to steer a tricycle, and met at Per Se for lunch.”
“I didn’t come to Sardinia to forget the divorce.” She straightened her shoulders. “I came for the opening of Lily Bristol. The Emerald Coast has miles of beaches. I’m sure we can both go Jet Skiing without interfering with each other’s fun. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the pool.”
“Lily, wait.” He touched her arm. “We shared a closet for ten years, we can be in the same hallway.” His blue eyes sparkled. “I’ll tap on the wall when it’s safe for you to walk to the elevator.”
“I was thinking we could do the same thing. I don’t want to have to slink along the balcony like a cat burglar.” She laughed. “And I am excited to be here. Did you see the view on the drive from the airport? Rugged cliffs and cobalt blue inlets like on Louisa’s DVD of Finding Nemo.”
A door opened, and a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties entered the hallway. She had coppery hair and wore a knit dress and silver sandals.
“The gift shop didn’t have any Tylenol. I got some brand of Italian aspirin,” she said to Oliver. She carried an orange purse, and her mouth was the color of cherries.
Oliver jumped back and ran his hands through his hair. He glanced at the door as if he were planning an escape route.
“Lily, this is Angela,” he said stiffly. “She’s a floral designer in New York.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I got the most terrible headache on the plane,” Angela explained. “I might have to spend my first day in Porto Cervo under cotton sheets.”
“Floral designer?” Lily stammered.
“I do weddings, mostly.” Angela nodded. “It’s lovely to be part of the most important day of two people’s lives.”
“I’m sure it is.” Lily’s hands were cold, and she thought she might faint. “Is Oliver one of your clients?”
“Of course not. He just got divorced.” Angela laughed. “Have we met? I could swear I’ve seen your face somewhere.”
Oliver turned to Angela and looked like a small boy caught taking a Tootsie Pop from the corner market. His eyes watered, and his cheeks were the color of putty.
“This is Lily.” He wiped his brow. “She’s my ex-wife.”
* * *
Lily slid her key into the lock and stumbled into her suite. She had wanted to race to the pool, but her knees buckled and she could hardly breathe. Now she sank onto the sofa and slipped off her sandals.
She glanced at the marble bar and wondered if it was too early for a shot of vodka. What was Oliver doing with a woman in Sardinia? In the six months they’d been separated, he’d never mentioned having a girlfriend. She remembered when they’d run into each other at a wedding in East Hampton in June, and thought they were the only two single people left in New York.…
* * *
Summer weddings in the Hamptons were three days of sailing and shucking oysters and swimming in pools so big they belonged at the Olympics. Lily had skipped the rehearsal dinner and arrived mid-afternoon. She played croquet and drank gin fizzes and admired the bride’s sapphire-and-diamond ring.
Now the ceremony was over and guests gathered in the gazebo for cocktails. There were handcrafted martinis and an ice sculpture of the bride and groom. Lily nibbled canapés and was suddenly tired of listening to couples discuss their upcoming trips to Cancún and the benefits of couples massages. She slipped off her pumps and ran down to the lawn.
* * *
“You’re missing out on some delicious hors d’oeuvres,” a male voice said behind her. “The duck confit is perfect, and the smoked soft eggs are superb.”
“Oliver, what are you doing here!” Lily exclaimed.
Why hadn’t she realized Oliver would be at the wedding? They had known the bride and groom for years. But she promised herself she wouldn’t be one of those ex-wives who pored over the guest list. She glanced up at the huge house, with its gabled roof and wide porch, and wondered how they had ended up on the lawn alone.
“I suppose we should divide up this sort of thing.” Oliver stood beside her. It was early evening, and the sky was a muted purple. “You attend the weddings where the groom’s last name starts with A through K, and I’ll take the last half of the alphabet.”
“Why is everyone getting married all of a sudden?” Lily asked. “I can’t open the mailbox without an invitation the size of a novel falling out. And they want so much information: do you request the braised eggplant and are you bringing a plus one?” she continued. “We’re the only unattached people at the whole affair. The mother of the bride keeps giving me dirty looks, as if I’m going to jinx the bride and groom.”
“Tell her divorce isn’t contagious,” he said and then stopped. “Do you remember how smug our single friends were when we were married? They were all signing up for Mexican cooking classes while we took turns feeding Louisa SpaghettiOs. Now they’re registering at Barneys and jetting off to St. Croix for their honeymoon. What if we got it wrong?”
“We did get it wrong.” Lily clutched her glass. “That’s why we’re getting divorced.”
“What if we started the whole thing too soon? Sort of like that movie Back to the Future,” he urged. “Instead of giving up and getting a divorce, we should fast-forward to the present and try again.”
Lily studied his tan cheeks, and her heart beat a little faster.
“We pressed the restart button on our marriage more often than the ones on our iPhones,” she answered. “And it wasn’t the SpaghettiOs. We enjoyed feeding Louisa, she waved her spoon like an orchestra conductor.”
Oliver stared at Lily for so long, she was afraid the wedding party would come out to find them.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Quite sure.” She gulped her martini.
“Then we better go in to dinner,” he sighed. “The only reason I came was for the stuffed pigeon with chanterelle mushrooms. The groom’s cousin is a Cordon Bleu–trained chef, and it’s supposed to be as good as at the Ritz in Paris.”
* * *
Now Lily walked to the minibar of her suite and poured a glass of orange juice. That had been only two months ago, and Oliver was at the wedding alone. Surely he wouldn’t bring a woman he hardly knew to Sardinia.
She pictured Angela’s coppery hair and curvy figure, and thought she wasn’t going to assess Oliver’s girlfriends like a bookie making odds on a horse race. They were both free to date whomever they liked.
Lily had had a crush on a single father in Louisa’s art class just last week. It had only lasted a day because the next afternoon he’d smelled faintly of cigarettes and she could never date anyone who smoked. But it had been lovely to feel that frisson of excitement while they examined their daughters’ papier mâché.
It didn’t bother her to imagine Oliver entertaining women in his new apartment in the West Village. She had only been there once to pick up Louisa and had barely poked her head inside the entry. It did seem quite modern, and the chintz sofa Oliver took from the farmhouse looked out of place with the sleek bookshelves and chrome furniture.
But it was different to inhale the other woman’s perfume when they passed in the hallway. And what if she heard things through the walls?
She noticed her purse on the tile coffee table and remembered her credit cards. How could she call the credit card company when the phone number was on the card that was missing? Oliver would know, but she had to figure out how to do these kinds of things herself.
It couldn’t be that difficult. People lost their credit cards when they traveled all the time. It was so easy to do when you were juggling documents like a circus performer. She would ask Enzo! Guests must forget their credit cards at the pool or while paying the bill at the bar. She picked up the phone and pressed the buzzer. She waited, and there was a knock at the door.
“Enzo, you came!” She opened the door.
Enzo carried a silver tray with a glass of pineapple juice, and Lily felt a flash of joy. She wasn’t all alone in Sardinia; there was someone she could count on. “I wasn’t sure the buzzer would call you directly. It’s like the bat phone on those Batman reruns on classic TV.”
“I am always at your service.” Enzo noticed the fresh flowers on the coffee table and the sideboard set with fruits and cheeses. “It looks like the maids have completely done the room. Is there something they missed?”
“I have a problem. I lost my credit cards, and Oliver used to handle ordering new ones,” she explained. “How are you supposed to call to get a new card if you don’t have the number?”
“I’m sure we have a card on file from when you made the initial reservation,” he suggested. “I’ll ask the concierge to call and put you through to the right department.”
“Aren’t you clever!” Lily beamed. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
Enzo walked to the door, and she realized she didn’t want to be alone.
“Can I ask you something else?” she stopped him. “Does your wife work? I mean, besides taking care of Maria and Gia. I’m sure they keep her busy. I can spend all day cleaning Louisa’s closet and listening to her tell me about the snails she found in the garden.”
“Carmella takes in sewing,” Enzo said. “Before we were married, she wanted to be a dress designer.”
“She must be talented. I’ll pick up some fabric and pay her to make a dress for Louisa.” She paused thoughtfully. “What if suddenly she had the chance to work for a designer in Paris or Milan? Do you think it would be right for her to leave you and the girls for weeks at a time?”
“I don’t understand the question.” He frowned.
“I mean, if she found something that made her so happy but took her away from the family…” She leaned forward. “Should she do it? Or should she stay in Porto Cervo to make sure Maria and Gia don’t wear dresses to school with tears in the hem?”
Enzo stopped to think. “Of course she should go. Maria and Gia would be proud to have a mother who designed dresses for important clients. And think of all the things she could tell them about the cities she visited.”
Lily took a sip of juice and asked the question that pressed on her chest like a cold compress. “And would you trust her completely when she was away? Even if something odd happened and you couldn’t reach her?”
“We’ve been together since we were seventeen.” He shrugged. “Trust is the most important ingredient in a marriage.”
“Thank you, Enzo.” Lily sank back onto the silk cushions. “I knew you would agree.”
“I still don’t understand the question, but I’m glad I helped,” he offered. “Is there anything else I can do?”
She suddenly pictured Angela standing next to Oliver in the hallway and felt a pang of loneliness.
“I enjoy our conversations and I’d like us to be friends.” She looked up. “Perhaps you can call me Lily.”
“I’m afraid that’s against hotel protocol.” He shook his head.
“Think about it, Enzo,” Lily said and smiled. “You did say you’d do anything I ask.”
* * *
Enzo walked out and Lily stood at the window. The sea was a brilliant azure, and yachts lined the port like a fantastic string of pearls. If things had turned out differently, she and Oliver would be sharing a bottle of champagne and a plate of mangoes and peaches. But what was the point of thinking about that now? The divorce papers were signed, and Oliver was here with another woman.
The sun touched her shoulders, and she remembered when she and Oliver had met, ten years ago. It was the end of July, and the sun was so hot, she could have been in the Sahara Desert instead of Southern Italy. She’d gazed up at the train station’s revolving board with names like Roma and Venezia and wondered how she’d ended up at the train station in Naples.…
* * *
Lily gazed around the train station and bit her lip. Posters advertised fizzy sodas, and kiosks sold buffalo mozzarella and lemon gelato. She set her suitcase on the pavement and was so hungry she longed for a spinach calzone or orange sorbet.
She still couldn’t understand how she ended up on the wrong train. The taxi ride to Roma Termini train station took forever, and when she arrived, the platforms were as confusing as some elaborate labyrinth. She asked the ticket-taker for directions, but he spoke so quickly she only caught the first word.
That was the problem with Italians. You couldn’t understand a thing they said, and when you asked them to repeat themselves, they just talked faster. Finally she gave up and maneuvered through the terminal herself.
Now she had to get to Florence by the day after tomorrow or she would miss her flight to San Francisco. But she wasn’t going anywhere without money, and her wallet with her credit cards had disappeared.
She remembered entering the restaurant compartment of the train and trying to decide between the pizza Napolitana and the Tuscan bread roll with prosciutto and formaggio. She should have ordered the pizza. The bread roll was soggy, the prosciutto fell on the floor, and the formaggio was one slice of white cheese.
She must have left her wallet on the counter when she paid for her sandwich. A pit formed in her stomach and she tried not to panic. The station was full of people, and someone would help her.
She noticed a young man in his early twenties leaning against the wall. He had dark hair and ate a ripe peach.
“Scusami,” she began, wishing she had memorized her Italian phrase book. “Dove uno telefono pagamento, per favore?”
“Your Italian is worse than mine.” The man grinned. “I’ve learned one is much better off speaking English and flashing a wad of euros.”
“Oh, you’re American,” Lily said, and her shoulders relaxed.
That was the wonderful thing about traveling. A complete stranger seemed like an old friend because your passports had an eagle on the cover and you both watched American Idol.
“Oliver Bristol.” He nodded. “I’d shake your hand, but I’d get peach juice all over it.”
“That looks delicious.” Lily sighed. “I haven’t eaten a thing since a hard-boiled egg in Rome. I was supposed to be on the train to Florence, but I was late getting to the station. When I did arrive, I ended up on the wrong platform. If I don’t catch a train to Florence, I’ll miss my flight home.”
“There are plenty of trains to Florence.” Oliver waved at the ticket booth. “Just purchase a new ticket.”
“That’s the thing. I lost my credit card.” She flushed. “I must have left it on the counter when I paid for my sandwich. The sandwich fell on the floor, and the whole day has been a disaster. Do you know if there’s a pay phone nearby? I need to call my parents and ask them to wire money.”
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck. It’s Sunday, and the banks are closed.” Oliver shook his head. “And in Naples, you have to allow an extra day for any transaction. No one is in a hurry, and the locals enjoy saying ‘no’ more than eating spaghetti alle vongole.”
Lily’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned away. How could she have forgotten it was Sunday? But she wasn’t going to fall apart in front of a curly-haired stranger.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I always get emotional when I’m hungry.” She wiped her eyes. “I’ll figure something out. I’m sure there’s an American Express office or American consulate nearby.”
“Here.” He reached into a paper sack and took out a peach. He handed it to Lily and picked up her suitcase. “I’m from Michigan, and we were taught never to abandon a woman in distress. Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” Lily asked.
“You’ll see.” Oliver smiled, and she noticed his eyes were blue as the summer sky. “I promise it will be more pleasant than the Naples train station.”
* * *
They crossed a piazza with stone fountains and crumbling statues. Teenage boys on Vespas swerved between wrought-iron tables, and it was like a scene in an Italian movie.
Oliver turned onto a cobblestone lane with brightly colored window boxes. They passed a pasticceria with trays of orange sponge cake and vanilla custard.
“Follow me.” He led her to the back of a stucco building. He took a key from under the flowerpot and opened the door into a kitchen.
“What are we doing here?” Lily glanced at the huge pots and industrial-sized stove. There was a set of carving knives and a pantry filled with spices.
“We’re going to eat the best meal you’ve had in Italy.” Oliver walked through a hallway.
Round tables were set with checkered tablecloths and ceramic vases. The walls were lined with abstract paintings and wine casks hung from the ceiling.
“We can’t just break into a restaurant and help ourselves to whatever is in the kitchen,” Lily protested.
“We can when I work here.” He pulled out her chair. “Umberto’s has been in the same family for a century, and the owner treats the employees like family. Giuseppe would be furious if I didn’t feed a pretty young tourist.”
Oliver disappeared into the kitchen, and Lily bit her lip. She was alone with a man in an empty restaurant. But Oliver had a bright smile, and the smells wafting from the kitchen were intoxicating.
He reappeared with plates of eggplant parmigiana and mussels cooked in their own broth. There were bowls of minestrone and a green salad.
“You couldn’t have cooked all this so quickly,” Lily said, eating a forkful of eggplant.
“I didn’t cook any of it.” Oliver dipped a focaccia in olive oil. “The chef always leaves plates for the waiters to eat before their shifts. You can’t serve spaghetti alla puttanesca and ravioli caprese when you’re starving.”
“Are you a waiter?” Lily asked.
“It’s not what I got my degree for, but it will do for now.” Oliver nodded. “I love to travel but I don’t like moving through cities so fast, all you remember is where to find the cheapest coffee. I’ve been in Naples for a month and visited the Catacombs and Castel dell’Ovo and Vesuvius.”
“I know what you mean. I visited five countries in three weeks,” Lily agreed. “It seemed I always carried the wrong currency and just when I learned to say ‘good night,’ I had to speak a new language. But I saw wonderful things: poppy fields near Amsterdam and Lipizzaner horses in Vienna and medieval castles in Prague.”
“What do you do when you aren’t getting stranded in train stations?” Oliver asked.
“I want to collect furnishings from all over the world and open my own store. It won’t be a jumble of items like someone’s attic. It will have different areas: leather armchairs and walnut bookshelves, so you think you’re in an English library, and silk ottomans scattered with gold cushions like an Indian palace.”
“That’s quite ambitious,” Oliver said and smiled. “I thought you were a just a girl who couldn’t find the right train.”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Lily flushed. “Though there was the time I left my straw hat on top of the canopy on a gondola in Venice, and it fell into the canal. The gondolier fished it out and said he wouldn’t have had a hook if it didn’t happen all the time.”
“I’m glad you took the wrong train,” Oliver said.
“You are?” Lily looked up.
“If you hadn’t, I’d be haggling with my landlady over how much she owed me for the peaches I bought at the market.” Oliver’s blue eyes sparkled. “Instead, I’m eating eggplant parmigiana and drinking Chianti with a beautiful American.”
* * *
They ate lemon sponge cake for dessert, and Lily used the phone in the kitchen. She returned to the table and pulled out her chair.
“You’ve been very kind. I feel much better.” She sipped a cup of inky coffee. “If you tell me how to get to the train station, I’ll wait there until the money arrives.”
“You can’t sleep at the train station,” Oliver spluttered.
“I once spent twenty-four hours at Oslo Airport because the plane needed a part and was stuck in Iceland.” Lily shrugged. “I’ll use my suitcase as a pillow and cover myself with my sweater.”
“You’ll get arrested, and someone will have to bribe the police to release you.” He shook his head. “The Italian police can practically smell money—even if it belongs to your parents in another country.”
“I don’t have a choice,” she explained.
“You can have my room at the hostel, and I’ll sleep in the pantry at the restaurant.”
“I can’t kick you out of your hostel,” she protested.
“Giuseppe sleeps in the pantry whenever his wife is angry with him for flirting with the hostess.” He grinned. “There’s an air mattress and blanket.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Perfectly sure.” He nodded “But there’s somewhere I want to take you first.”
“I’m terribly tired.” She hesitated. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“You just drank Italian espresso.” He stood up and smiled. “You won’t sleep for hours.”
* * *
They took the metro to Mergellina and climbed a winding road flanked by fir trees. Villas stood behind iron gates, and the air smelled of hibiscus and hyacinths.
“Tour buses take tourists to Castel Sant’Elmo to see the sunset, but it’s so crowded, you worry about being elbowed in the stomach,” Oliver said when they reached the top. “Posillipo is a residential neighborhood, so it’s completely private. And it has the best views in Naples.”
Lily turned around and gasped. Mount Vesuvius rose in the distance, and the Bay of Naples was a turquoise horseshoe. White sailboats bobbed in the harbor, and she felt like she had stepped into an Impressionist painting.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” she breathed.
“Naples doesn’t have ornate fountains like Rome or palaces like Venice, or museums filled with Renaissance paintings like Florence.” Oliver waved his hand. “But when you stand up here, you feel like a god on Mount Olympus.”
Lily glanced at the buildings bathed in a golden light and felt warm and happy. Oliver’s hand brushed her arm, and a shiver ran down her spine.
“You didn’t tell me why you were at the train station,” she said.
“I was seeing off a friend.” He shrugged.
“A male friend or female friend?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Oliver said and looked at Lily. “Whoever it was is gone.”
* * *
Lily stood on the balcony of her suite at Hotel Cervo and tipped her face to the sun. She remembered bumping into Oliver in the hallway and shuddered. That was one of the perils of divorce. You romanticized everything about your marriage: the early years when you’d rather have eaten takeout than attended a glamorous cocktail party, the Sundays you spent in bed and never got dressed at all.
She and Oliver were twenty-two when they met. Of course, they fell in love! You fell in love with everything at that age: Michelangelo’s David or a pair of Italian loafers. It was the later years that were impossible. The silly mistakes and betrayals and pain that wouldn’t go away. Toward the end, she felt like she was buried under ash in Pompeii.
But all that was over. She entered the suite and slipped on her sandals. She scooped up her book and took a deep breath. She was a single woman on the Emerald Coast, and nothing was going to stop her from enjoying herself.