Emerald Coast Page 3

  “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.
r />   Chapter Two

  OLIVER SIPPED A SPREMUTA MADE with blood oranges and sugar and adjusted his sunglasses. Angela lathered lotion on her shoulders, and he felt like a boy discovering his teenage neighbor sunbathing in the garden. She really was lovely, with her wavy hair and full breasts and toned thighs.

  That was the funny thing about divorce. All of a sudden, you were allowed to look at other women. Not that he’d had much desire when he was married to Lily. She was perfect, with her glossy brown hair and white smile. But now when he walked down Fifth Avenue, there were blondes with shapely calves and brunettes with curvy waists and the occasional redhead with alabaster skin.

  He pictured bumping into Lily in the hallway and shuddered. Angela had brushed it off with a flick of her coppery hair, but he could tell she was unsettled. And he couldn’t blame her. Who would have thought they would be practically sharing a terrace with his ex-wife?

  He should have checked with Lily before he used the reservation, but they were like two fencers who forgot to wear their protective padding. They had to keep a distance from each other for fear of getting hurt.

  And he knew exactly what Lily was thinking. She was as easy to read as the side of a cereal box. They had only signed the divorce papers a week ago; what was he doing with another woman in Sardinia?

  He’d only met Angela two months ago, at the opening of a fusion restaurant in SoHo. She was arranging flowers in a crystal vase, and her lips were the color of plums. He squinted into the sun and remembered how he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  * * *

  Oliver sipped a lemon-berry martini and glanced at his watch. He almost never arrived at restaurant openings early. He usually had to squeeze them in between picking up pumpkin soup for Lily at Zabar’s and running to the train. But that was one of the things about divorce; suddenly, he had so much free time.

  At first, he loved being alone in Manhattan on summer evenings. He visited the Guggenheim and listened to concerts in Central Park. But lately, time seemed to hang on him like an oversized suit.

  Sometimes, rather than taking a cab, he walked from his office at the New York Times to his apartment in the West Village just so he didn’t arrive home while it was still light. He hadn’t had time to buy window coverings, and the late afternoon sun kept his living room like a sauna.

  Now he nibbled rice balls and noticed a young woman arranging tulips. Her reddish hair cascaded down her back, and she wore shimmering lipstick.

  “You’re staring at me.” She looked up. She wore an orange dress and beige pumps.

  “I was admiring your lipstick.” Oliver flushed. “My daughter is six and she’s obsessed with lip gloss. She would love that color.”

  “Tell your wife it’s called Estée Lauder crimson rose,” she replied.

  “I’m not married,” Oliver said, shaking his head.

  “You’re wearing a wedding ring.” She pointed to his finger.

  “I mean, we’re separated, but we’re trying to ease our daughter into the idea,” he continued. “Like when you start talking to her about the dentist weeks before her appointment. We thought we’d take off our wedding rings when the divorce is final.”

  “That probably puts a cramp in your dating style.” She laughed, fiddling with a stem.

  “I haven’t dated in ten years. I don’t know where to start.” Oliver sighed. “These days, the whole thing happens on smartphones. And I was used to ordering for Lily at a restaurant. If I do that on a date, I’ll offend someone.”

  “Most women are capable of choosing between cream of asparagus soup and a spinach salad.”

  “I’m a restaurant critic for the New York Times. I’m paid to choose the best thing on the menu,” he explained. “And I know what Lily likes. She adores soufflé and won’t eat any fish with bones.”

  “Would you like dating advice?” The woman placed the vase on a pink tablecloth. “You have lovely eyes and you look handsome in that sports coat, but you should stop mentioning your ex-wife.”

  She drifted away, and Oliver wanted to stuff the cocktail napkin in his mouth. When he and Lily had been together, he had no trouble talking to women. But now when he met an attractive woman, he behaved like a schoolboy with a crush on his teacher.

  He sampled prawn dumplings and sticky rice in lettuce leaves and thought he would leave early, catch the latest James Bond movie or pick up hair ribbons for Louisa at Duane Reade. He turned, and the woman with coppery hair walked toward him. She took her lipstick out of her purse and grabbed his hand.

  “You can’t give me your lipstick,” he protested.

  “I’m not. I’m giving you something much better.” She scribbled her name and phone number on his palm in purple lipstick. “I dare you to use it.”

  * * *

  It took Oliver a week to gather the courage to call her and another two days to choose the restaurant. He changed his blazer three times and threw out the bouquet of lilacs he bought at Scott’s Flowers. What was he thinking? She was a floral designer; giving her flowers would be like bringing truffles to a French chef.

  Now they sat across from each other at a Korean restaurant in Midtown, and Oliver looked miserably at the menu. Going to Danfi’s had seemed like a good idea when he made the reservation. The owners were friendly, the prices were reasonable, and the food was superb.

  But he and Lily loved ordering the spiciest dishes: scallion pancakes with chili peppers and spicy yellow sashimi. He could hardly sit across from a complete stranger with tears pricking his eyes. He finally settled on the eggs over rice and sweet potato noodles.

  “It’s a little warm in here,” Angela said, sipping a guava margarita.

  “It’s the kitchen vents,” Oliver explained. “They open into the dining room. It’s clever because the room always smells of delicious spices, but in the summer, it gets quite hot.” He paused. “If you don’t like it, we can go somewhere else.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, removing her jacket. “I’ve never had Korean food before. You’ll have to tell me what to order.”

  Oliver looked up and saw her low-cut dress and full breasts. Those breasts! They were like tender peaches, round and pink and covered with the slightest fuzz.

  Suddenly he felt like a scientist who had been stationed in Antarctica and hadn’t seen the sun in months. The pinpoint lighting danced before his eyes, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said to the waiter, and his shoulders relaxed. “We’ll have the spicy pork belly and Korean fire chicken wings, and black cod with spicy daikon.”

  * * *

  Oliver walked the last block to Angela’s apartment and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Dinner had been surprisingly pleasant. They talked about Angela’s work and how Manhattan in the summer was as stifling as her hometown in Ohio.

  Oliver listened to her describe the poodle she left in Toledo and imagined caressing those breasts. But now that they were bouncing beside him instead of safely on the other side of the table, he felt suddenly clammy. He wasn’t ready to go up to a woman’s apartment, and he could hardly stroke them on her front steps.

  And he wasn’t that kind of guy. He’d never hidden girly magazines under his bed as a teenager or spent hours surfing the Internet in college.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” she said when they reached her building. “Would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.” He shifted on the sidewalk. “My daughter’s coming tomorrow, and I have to stop at Whole Foods. She refuses to eat Honey Nut Cheerios or Frosted Mini-Wheats.”

  “Perhaps another time.” Angela fiddled with her key. “You know, you have real dating potential. You make good conversation and have the sexiest smile. But you forgot one thing.”

  “I did?” Oliver wondered if he’d neglected to leave the waiter a tip.

  She leaned forward and kissed him. Her mouth was warm, and her breath smelled sweet, and her hair brushed his cheek.
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  “You forgot to kiss me good night.”

  * * *

  Now Oliver studied a drop of lotion on Angela’s thigh and wondered why he felt slightly guilty. That was the point of divorce; he and Lily could do whatever they liked. For all he knew, Lily was dating a brain surgeon from Connecticut or a hedge-fund manager on the Upper East Side.

  Angela dove into the pool, and he thought of everything he had planned for the week: lying on the private beach and sailing in the ocean and dancing at the Billionaire Club in Porto Cervo. So what if every activity entailed Angela wearing a swimsuit or a sheer dress and high heels? They were on the Emerald Coast; they were hardly going to spend their time in museums.

  He remembered when he’d met Lily in Naples all those years ago, and felt a sudden pang in his chest. The first time he saw her in a swimsuit, he almost passed out. It wasn’t that she was stunning. Her breasts were high but small, and her hips belonged on a boy. But he took one look at her in her blue bikini with her hair dripping wet and never wanted to look at another woman in his life.

  * * *

  Oliver climbed the steps of the hostel and fumbled with his key. His back hurt from sleeping on the mattress at the restaurant, and he needed a shave and shower. He pictured Lily in her cotton dress and sandals and wondered if he was crazy to let a complete stranger stay in his room.

  But there was nothing to steal besides a collection of Kurt Vonnegut books, and she had nowhere else to go. And there was something about the way her mouth trembled when she was upset that made him want to act like a modern-day Lancelot.

  He entered the hallway and heard someone singing in the shower. He listened more closely and realized it was Lily.

  “You do know there isn’t a lock on the bathroom door,” Oliver said, covering his eyes and entering the bathroom. “Signora Giannini is afraid the tenants will use up all the hot water.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.” Lily peered out from behind the shower curtain. “I slept so well, I could have stayed in bed for weeks. Then I came in to take a shower and realized I didn’t bring a towel. I’ve been standing here for ages hoping someone would walk by. If you could get me a towel, I’ll go back to the room and get dressed.”