At the gate, Richard gives me his first-class seat and he takes the one in coach. “I’m just going to pop a pill or two and pass out anyway,” he says. “You enjoy yourself.”
As the plane backs off from the gate I feel a stirring in my heart. Yes, I am excited, but I’ve never been to Europe on my own. Richard feels more like a friend and less like a parental figure. What will life be like there? Will I fit in seamlessly? The man next to me smiles and reminds me to put on my seat belt. I strap myself in, knowing somehow that this trip will be all about the opposite. Loosening, letting go, feeling free. Still, there’s the pit of my stomach saying, Are you ready for this?
For the rest of the flight I watch two movies, eat steak with a Diet Coke, and listen to the new Imogen Heap.
Everybody says that time heals everything.
But what of the wretched hollow?
The endless in-between?
Are we just going to wait it out?
When the plane starts to descend, I picture all the drama from New York falling off me piece by piece, like petals off a flower.
The ride to Richard’s house is bumpy, or at least the part I wake up for. There are people on the side of the road selling fruit that looks bigger, stronger, and more colorful than the fruit they sell on Central Park West. Finally, we follow the long driveway to Richard’s house, nestled in the nook of a small hill. The house is made of weathered brick and there’s a major smell that I can’t place. It’s sweet, and very strong.
“He’s basically planted a country of basil in the garden,” Richard says while pulling our bags out of the trunk. “We’re supplying all of Thailand.”
I’m still very groggy, and I’ve yet to see Julian, who’s on one of his bike tours. Richard leads me to a small room on the second floor. The walls are painted a deep red and there’s a little window that looks over the pool. I sit on the bed and before Richard can even come back with my bag, I fall asleep. I wake up at four in the morning and see a pitcher of water on the table by my bed, along with two small plums. I’m famished, so I devour the plums while staring out the window at the first sign of light creeping over the hill. I’ve seen pictures, but now that I’m here I realize I could never imagine a place so beautiful. How did Richard and Julian do it? They just found each other, moved here, planted basil and plums and tomatoes, and bought the cutest little house in the world that happened to have a pool? I go downstairs and find my way out to the deck. I have never skinny-dipped when it’s light out, but something tells me this is the time. The water is cool but not too shocking, and glides over my skin as I swim to the end and back. I see an orange towel that had been used by someone the day before, and I step out to dry myself off. The sun is now actually peeking over the hill, shining immense rays over the valley. I’m in Italy!
I go inside to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. There’s so much food in it that my mouth drops open for a bit. Everything seems to be homemade, yummy leftovers in Tupperware. Before I can even choose something, a voice startles me.
“Early bird has arrived. How was the water?”
I realize my hair is dripping onto the floor and for a moment I feel like an intruder, caught in a strange house. Julian’s friendly gaze immediately diminishes my fear. Instead of scrutinizing me, his eyes drape me with kindness. His body is long and lean and from what I can see, doesn’t have an inch of body fat. I smile back and he tells me to sit down, hands me a mug of tea.
He beams proudly for a moment, then starts picking some fruit out of a giant bowl. As he expertly arranges a fruit salad, I try to picture myself living here, but it doesn’t really work. I go upstairs to get dressed, and when I come back down Julian is still chopping fruit.
“I hear you’re a photography sensation now.”
Coming from Julian, this makes me blush. From what I know, he used to be a Gucci model, and then he toured the world as Van Morrison’s piano player. During that time he developed an exercise regime that was a combination of yoga and Pilates, which he taught privately to people like Meg Ryan and Sandra Bullock in L.A. Now he runs bike tours here for people in the British aristocracy. Suddenly my Brooklyn photography show sounds like I starred in a grade-school play. I promptly turn red, smile, and put up my hands.
“I like the one that the Times printed. The sidewalk art? It has this animated quality, almost like you could step into it and watch it come to life.”
I blush even more. He serves me a bowl of the finely chopped fruit with a dollop of yogurt, topped off with thin almond slices. It’s simple, but it tastes like heaven.
“One of the great things about living here is the produce. Even the processed food is not as processed as it is in the States. I get the yogurt from a family up the road, and the oranges are from our tree.”
“So you’re a cook, too?”
“I dabble. I’m making some lasagna for the villagers tonight. In your honor, of course.”
“The villagers?”
“That’s what we call our close group of friends. They’re quite the bunch.”
Richard comes down the stairs in a robe with his hair ruffled and his eyes watery. Despite his disheveled appearance, he still looks totally handsome. He kisses Julian on the cheek and starts a pot of coffee. They speak a few words to each other in Italian.
“Okay,” Julian says, seeing that I’ve finished. “Next course.”
Richard stands behind me and rubs my shoulders while Julian fries an egg in olive oil, topping it with black pepper and what looks like fresh Parmesan cheese. He puts it in front of me and I take the first bite.
“So,” Julian says as he cooks himself and Richard eggs, “you said things were crazy in New York. How do you mean?”
“Well, I get the feeling I’m far too young to be learning some of the things I did, and to have my heart broken, but that’s the way it worked, so …”
The two of them sit down with their eggs on the other side of the breakfast island, and suddenly I feel like I’m at a job interview.
“I don’t know, I guess you could say it was a lot to take in.”
Richard turns to Julian and says, “Nostra ragazza granda sta imparando che le relazioni sono complicate. All but ours, of course.”
“English at the breakfast table, please,” I say.
“Richard was just saying how lovely you look today,” Julian says.
“Yeah, right. Anyway, even though Dad lied to me, I feel so bad for him. As far as I knew he was a mostly perfect husband.”
They give each other what is supposed to be a clandestine look, Richard slightly rolling his eyes, and I wonder if they’re holding something back. If there’s more, I might just lose it.
After we finish, Richard heads to Rome for his weekly conference, and Julian goes on a “private” ride, taking an Australian couple on a thirty-two-mile loop through Tuscany. I spend the day relaxing by the pool with my iPod and the latest Twilight book. I doze off, swim, read, tan, doze off again, then go inside for Julian’s famous tuna salad with cranberry and walnuts.
In the late afternoon I decide to take a walk along the road toward the square. When a car goes by, it kicks up dust in the afternoon light and it strikes me as romantic. I think about Richard and Julian’s secret look when I mentioned my father.
You hurt me, but I love you.
I know it’s strange, but I wish Oliver were here. He and Julian could jam together. We could laugh in the pool and splash each other like they do in the movies. If only.
I get to the small square, where some old men sit smoking pipes in the shade of a tree. A woman walks her baby in a stroller that looks like it was built in 1920. There’s a small store, and I see what Julian was saying about the produce. It looks so colorful and fresh, like it all just fell off a tree into these cute little wooden boxes. I try to buy a peach but have only a five-dollar bill in my pocket. The shopkeeper lady is wearing some kind of bonnet that actually looks cool. Only an Italian woman can pull off a bonnet. She smiles and waves her hand, giving me the peach for free.
I sit in the square and watch the world go by: mostly little European cars, a couple of kids in what look like school uniforms, a hippie guy strumming a ukulele. On my way home, I pass a man on a pony. He looks at me like everything is totally normal, just taking his pony to the store.
When I get back to the house, I go into Richard’s den and email Janine, describing the town and the house and the man with the pony. I email Daria basically the same thing, except I go easier on the exclamation marks. Then I call my dad.
“Yes, I made it safe. Richard and Julian are so nice. And everything is … just right.” Well, almost everything. “How’s Tile?”
“He’s okay. Lucky he’ll have the distraction of camp soon.”
Whenever anyone says the word camp, my heart breaks a little. That was where I found out Mom was gone, almost a year ago. On a dock, on a lake, the sun almost down, the water reflecting the trees, the sky a swirl of colorful clouds. A beautiful, terrible night.
“Where is he now?”
“I’m not sure, but I think he may be hanging out with your friend from across the street.”
My breath cuts short.
“Oliver?”
“Bingo.”
“What?”
“I think they have something in common.”
I sink down to the floor, unable to fight gravity.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Missing you.”