“Yes, I will take you to Villa Dolce Vita. But since you are hungry, maybe first I take you to the best restaurant in Positano?” offered the taxi driver Colette found at the Sorrento train station. “If you are hungry, trust Jacopo—I know the best places.”
He had a huge gap between his front teeth and his mustache covered half his upper lip as he smiled, yet it wasn’t Jacopo’s appearance that disarmed her. It was his effusive demeanor. Taxi drivers didn’t smile at you in England. They barely turned around to look at you. You were just a fare and they were just a means of transport. Seemed Italians saw things differently.
And Colette was indeed famished. The train journey from Naples had taken longer than she’d anticipated and while she was rapt by the magnificent winding coastal view as they traveled, she wished she’d thought to grab a sandwich back at the station.
But in all her excitement about being here—in Italy—she’d completely neglected her stomach.
“OK,” she answered politely. He looked friendly and certainly didn’t seem like the kind of person who would take unsuspecting British tourists off into the mountains to maim and bury, she joked to herself with an ironic smile.
This was all so new to her, though. The furthest from home she’d ever traveled was across the channel to Paris for a day. This was Italy. Fortunately, she did have one advantage, however: she knew conversational Italian.
Colette’s obsession with romantic languages had begun as a child. She loved stories of Ancient Rome and the Italian cadence was so beautiful and lyrical she wanted to learn the language.
She eventually did as part of her studies at university and had hoped to spend time abroad once she’d saved enough money, but her mother’s failing health had prevented that. Now, she was finally getting to see the country she’d spent all these years dreaming about.
Jacopo was like something out of a cartoon as he took her huge suitcase and hefted it into the boot of the taxi. Colette now wondered if she might have overpacked, but again she had never traveled before. What did you pack for three weeks in Italy? She’d put in everything she could think of, just in case.
As the car wound along the coast, Jacopo continued to amuse her with stories of his passengers. She asked him to intermittently chat to her in Italian so she could get her feet wet again with the language.
It had been some time since she’d been able to practice and she wanted to test herself before she interacted with the locals. Turned out she still remembered a lot.
“The best restaurant in Positano” was, apparently, a tiny trattoria tucked down the end of a nondescript lane that looked to be in the middle of nowhere.
Jacopo led her inside a place called Delfino and introduced her to whom Colette guessed must be the proprietor, a stout woman with black hair interspersed with streaks of gray, who spoke a mile a minute.
One moment she was behind the counter listening attentively to Jacopo, and the next she had Colette swept up into a warm bear hug.
“Any friend of Jacopo is a friend of mine,” she proclaimed in Italian. Colette realized he must have conveyed that she spoke a bit of the language. “I am Mama Elene. I fix a wonderful meal for you. You sit over here,” she instructed, leading her to a small table outside on a rear terrace that opened up to breathtaking waterfront views framed by a brightly tiled church dome.
It was...heaven. Everything she’d dreamed about and more.
Colette curled her red hair around her finger as she looked out across the quintessentially Mediterranean landscape, while the warm Italian afternoon sun beat down on the parasol above.
Mama Elene was making her a shot of espresso while she mulled over the menu. Everything looked so delicious she didn’t know what to try. She wanted to sample it all.
Thankfully the effusive Italian woman was more than helpful in that department. She set the espresso before her and promptly made her suggestions.
Having settled on her order, Colette sipped her drink and watched people on the myriad streets and laneways below.
Were all Italians so effortlessly stylish? The women who passed by were so impeccably turned out that it made her regard her own attire with a frown. Tousled Italian locks blowing seductively in the breeze also didn’t compare to her hair in its neat but rather severe bun.
She tended to keep things casual with her jeans, floral blouse and ballet flats. Noelle was always telling her she had to try and make more of herself, but Colette was never sure what exactly was expected. She wasn’t the type to wear short-shorts or revealing clothing in summer like her sister. She just liked things simple.
Simple was safe and with all the turmoil in her life over the past few years, safe was exactly what she needed.
It wasn’t long before Mama Elene was bringing out her primi choice: arancini. The fried cheese and rice balls were crunchy on the outside and gooey rich on the inside.
On the first bite, a string of cheese stretched from Colette’s mouth to the remnants on the fork. She chuckled as she caught the runaway strand, looking up just in time to find a pair of dark eyes boring into her gaze.
A handsome Italian man of about her age was standing at the espresso counter nearby, his face propped on an elbow as he leaned against the dark wood.
His pristinely ironed shirt clung to his muscles, the pale blue color accentuating his olive skin. With his jet-black hair and nonchalant hooded gaze, he looked like a character on the cover of one of those classic romance novels—dark and smoldering personified.
Colette couldn’t help but stare.
“Luca!” Mama Elene sang out as she emerged from the kitchen, another plate of food in hand. She smacked a kiss on his cheek as she rushed past him on her way to Colette’s table. “Where have you been?” she heard the older woman ask in rapid Italian. “And how’s your mama?”
This time a portion of steaming bruschetta appeared on the table as Colette sat silently listening to the exchange between the two.
“I’ve been busy,” Luca answered distractedly, still staring in Colette’s direction. Or maybe it was just out at the view, she couldn’t tell. Still, she could feel a flush rise automatically up her neck and looked down at her food, doing her best to avoid making eye contact for fear of being drawn even more into the conversation.
But she couldn’t help it.
“So busy you can’t come to visit your other mama Elene? Shame on you,” she said as she smacked his arm playfully. “And look at you. So skinny. Because you don’t have me to cook for you, or a wife,” she chided. “When are you going to get married, eh?”
Colette couldn’t help it, her curiosity got the best of her and her eyes immediately strayed in Luca’s direction. Yep, he was looking right at her.
“I can feed myself, so there is no rush to find a wife.” He smirked. “Or are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Never!” Mama Elene squeezed his chin and affectionately turned his handsome face toward hers. “You are my boy and always will be. I just want to see you happy.”
“Somebody talking about me?”
It was like watching an Italian soap opera. As if on cue, a stunning woman wearing impossibly high heels teetered into the restaurant with a smile on her face and a shock of lustrous blonde hair that reached to her behind. She was wearing a stylish but skimpy outfit that showed off her every attribute—and there was plenty to be admired.
Again comparing herself to yet another paragon of Italian style, and finding herself sorely lacking in that department, Colette promptly stuffed a slice of bruschetta into her mouth.
The flavor of the tomato was rich but not overpowering, the basil was fresh, and the hint of garlic was just the right mix. Heavenly...
“Lidia,” Mama Elene greeted as Colette continued to listen. As ever, she was a silent observer of the lives of others. It seemed that even in Italy she couldn’t escape it. Though she noticed this time that the older woman’s greeting was not quite so effusive to the latest arrival.
Or was she imagining it?
The trio talked animatedly for the entire time Colette was there (though Mama Elene remained prompt and indulgent in her service of her customers), and throughout three courses they still seemed to have plenty to talk about.
As she finished her grilled shrimp and bresaola, Colette sadly realized she was running out of time to listen as she heard Jacopo’s taxi horn from outside on the street, signaling it was time to leave.
She got to her feet and walked toward the trio at the counter. She hated having to interrupt them, but she needed to pay her bill and get going.
“Um, scusi,” she began politely.
“You’re ready to leave so soon? Jacopo is there already?” Mama Elene questioned as she turned to look at her. She rushed to the door. “Ah, yes, he is. I get you your bill.”
Colette’s finger automatically found its way to a strand of loose hair as she curled it self-consciously.
“So sorry to disturb you,” she apologized to the others at the counter as she took some money out to settle her bill. Jacopo was inside before it was paid, and from his exuberant greeting, it seemed the taxi driver was also familiar with the others present.
“You enjoyed your meal?” he asked Colette, hurrying over to her.
“It was wonderful,” she replied truthfully.
“What I tell you? Jacopo knows the best restaurant. You come here again, sì?”
Everyone’s eyes seemed to turn in her direction and Colette was sure her face was scarlet by now. “Of course.”
“Next time you bring a friend,” Mama Elene encouraged, smiling and presenting her with a shot of limoncello.
“Oh, I don’t actually know anyone here,” she said, staring at the glass, unsure if it would be rude not to drink it. She had no idea how potent these things were and she wasn’t really a drinker.
The older woman frowned. “What? You are here by yourself? No family? No boyfriend, even?”
“No,” Colette muttered, slightly embarrassed.
“How long is your stay here in Positano?”
“Just a few weeks. I’m not even sure if the place I’m staying is around here actually,” she said truthfully, as she had very little information on the villa other than the street address. But she sorely hoped so. The town was picture-postcard perfect and from what she’d seen already, she wanted to explore every inch of it.
“Yes, it is not far,” Jacopo told her, “just back up that way—closer to Fornillo.”
“And you’re here all alone?” Luca said disbelievingly in English.
Colette’s tongue twisted in her mouth. She wasn’t sure why she couldn’t answer, so she just nodded and picked up the limoncello shot, downing it in one.
“Well, now you know someone.” Mama Elene reached in for another hug. “You come here as much as you like. I let you taste everything on the menu.”
Colette had to smile, despite the tartness of the lemon hitting her tongue and the alcohol almost making her retch.
Mama Elene was the quintessential Italian matriarch she’d read about, there in the flesh.
Already Italy was living up to everything she’d dreamed about—perhaps even surpassing it. Though she didn’t think she’d be consuming any more limoncello.
“Thank you. I’d love to.”