Emerald Coast Page 4

  “Signora Giannini doesn’t provide towels,” he explained. “Everyone has to bring their own.”

  “I didn’t pack a towel.” She bit her lip. “Could I borrow yours?”

  “I sent all my laundry to the Laundromat, it doesn’t come back until this afternoon,” Oliver said and smiled. “I’m afraid you’re going to have stay in there all day, or run naked down the hall.”

  “I’m not going to streak in an Italian hostel,” Lily spluttered. “There must be a blanket somewhere.”

  “Wait there,” Oliver said and opened the door.

  Oliver walked to his room and saw Lily’s suitcase open on the bed. He fished out a blue bathing suit and walked back to the bathroom.

  “This is the best I could find.” He handed it to her. “At least you’ll be decent.”

  The shower curtain opened, and Oliver gasped. Her arms and legs glistened and her hair clung to her head like a cap. Her eyes were as big as saucers, and her eyelashes were thicker than he remembered.

  “That’s much better.” She stepped out of the shower. “How can I thank you?”

  “For starters, by not getting water on my loafers.” He glanced at the puddle on the tiles. “Then perhaps we can have breakfast before you leave.”

  “It will be my treat after we go to the American Express office.” Lily shook out her hair. “I’ve never been one of these people who starts the day with a piece of toast. Breakfast should be eggs and fresh fruit and the darkest coffee possible.”

  * * *

  They sat at an outdoor table at Caffè Spaccanapoli and ate poached eggs and fruit salad and Napolitano pastries.

  “This is delicious.” Lily tore apart a pastry stuffed with sweetened ricotta cheese. “You’re looking at me as if I’m an animal in the zoo. Haven’t you ever seen a girl eat a croissant? Or do you only date models who exist on celery sticks and the olives in their martinis?”

  “It’s hard to date when you’re living on a waiter’s salary.” Oliver poured sugar into his coffee. “I’ve just never seen a girl eat like you. I could fit both hands around your waist, but you already polished off two eggs and half a melon.”

  “My mother thinks it’s because I never sit still, I’m like a hummingbird paused mid-flight.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Sometimes I go all day without thinking about food. But when I sit at the table, I could eat for ages.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re paying for breakfast.” He laughed. “I usually make do with a piece of fruit before I go into the restaurant.”

  “What do you want to do when you stop being a waiter?” Lily glanced around the piazza at women in summery dresses and men wearing leather jackets. “You can’t stay in Naples forever.”

  “I have a journalism degree but I hate newspapers filled with wars and natural disasters,” Oliver mused. “And I love food, but I’m a hopeless cook. I burn anything I put in the oven.”

  “You should be a food critic.” Lily ate the last bite of sfogliatella. “I’ve always thought that it would be the most exciting career: you’d get paid to eat creamy pastas and exotic vegetables at new restaurants.”

  “That is a good idea.” He beamed. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”

  “Sometimes we’re too close to something to see the solution,” she replied. “That’s why I love traveling. Everywhere you go, people have different problems. As long as you have a pillow to rest your head on and food in your stomach, life is wonderful.”

  “I hope you feel that way when you can’t get to Florence.” Oliver glanced at a newspaper on the neighboring table. “I’m afraid there’s a train strike.”

  “That’s impossible.” Lily followed his gaze. “We were at the train station yesterday.”

  “In Italy, something is always on strike.” He shrugged. “It will be days before the proper official’s palm is greased. And you don’t want to take the bus. It’s more terrifying than a prison cell on Alcatraz.”

  “I can’t stay in Naples! My flight leaves tomorrow, and I start work in San Francisco on Monday.” Lily bit her lip. “I got a job at Gump’s, San Francisco’s oldest furnishings store. If I don’t show up the first day, I’ll be fired before I start.”

  “You could rent a car,” he suggested.

  “I don’t have an international license.” She shook her head. “And I’ve seen how Italians drive. Every time I took a taxi in Rome I was so afraid, I gripped the seat.”

  “I don’t know what else you can do.” Oliver drained his coffee cup.

  “You can drive me!” Lily exclaimed. “I’ll pay for gas and food and your time away from work.”

  “Drive you to Florence,” he spluttered. “We hardly know each other.”

  “It’s only six hours by car. Please, I don’t have a choice.”

  Oliver looked at Lily, and his heart did a little flip. Her lips trembled, and her eyes belonged on a young deer.

  “I suppose I could.” He sighed, wishing he hadn’t drunk a second espresso. Too much caffeine made him do things he later regretted. “Giuseppe’s cousin has a restaurant in Florence. He serves the best veal parmigiana in Italy.”

  “I told you, there’s always a solution. We’ll rent one of those adorable little Fiats with a sunroof,” Lily said and smiled. “We’ll drink limoncello and stop in quaint villages, and it will be like the pages of a travel magazine.”

  * * *

  “I’m so glad I didn’t take the train.” Lily clutched the guidebook. They stood in a piazza filled with geranium pots and red scooters and old men playing chess. Mount Subasio rose in the distance and the sun was an orange ball.

  “We never would have discovered Spello. It’s one of the most charming towns in Umbria,” she continued, leading Oliver across the cobblestones. “Nothing has changed for centuries. The church of Santa Maria Maggiore has been here for a thousand years, and the bell tower was built in the 1300s.”

  Driving through Naples had been harrowing. Lily clutched the dashboard, and Oliver felt like he was steering a bumper car in an amusement park. But then the city fell away, and the fields were bright green, and they talked about art and books and movies.

  Whenever he thought they had exhausted every possible subject, she went on to something else. Now and then, she pointed to a medieval ruin or vineyard tucked into the hills. Her cheeks glowed, and she smelled of some kind of floral perfume.

  “I hope they’ve heard of refrigeration.” Oliver wiped his brow. “I could use a cold beer or a glass of lemonade.”

  “The guidebook says there’s a wonderful trattoria here in Spello that serves lamb medallions with artichokes,” Lily suggested. “But first we have to see the Arch of Augustus. They were built in the fourteenth century to protect the village from intruders.”

  They walked down cobblestone alleys lined with lacquered window boxes. There were piazzas with quaint shops and fruit stands with baskets of plums and cherries. They reached the stone arches, and the valley spread out before them.

  “I could live here someday,” Lily sighed. “I’d open a furniture store filled with antiques and tapestries. On Sundays, I’d buy sausages and cheese at the outdoor market and ride a bicycle through the countryside.”

  “I’ve always wanted to live in a big city like New York or Chicago,” Oliver offered. “Somewhere you can go to the theater and eat a burger at two AM.”

  “Have you ever thought what your ideal life would be?” Lily turned to him.

  “The usual things,” he mused. “Have a rewarding career and loving family and plenty of money.”

  “Those things are important, I suppose,” she agreed reluctantly.

  “Well, what is your ideal life?” Oliver asked.

  Lily looked at Oliver, and a smile lit up her face. “I just want to be happy. Really, what else is there?”

  * * *

  They sat at an outdoor café and ate pesto linguini and braised asparagus. Lily flipped through the guidebook and they talked about her childhood in San F
rancisco and Oliver’s summers on Lake Michigan.

  Now they walked back to the car, and Oliver opened Lily’s door. He stepped into the driver’s seat and turned to Lily.

  “Could I have the car key, please?”

  “I don’t have it.” She shook her head.

  “Of course you have it,” he insisted. “You put it in your purse.”

  “I must have pulled it out at the restaurant or when I paid for the postcards.” She rummaged through her lipsticks.

  “We can’t go anywhere without a car key.” Oliver groaned. “And we’re miles from the nearest rental car company.”

  “It must have fallen out. I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized. “I’ll go to the restaurant and look.”

  “I’ll look. You stay here.” Oliver tried to stop the queasy feeling in his stomach. “I don’t want you to get lost too.”

  He searched the café, but their table had been cleared. He stopped at the fruit stand where they had bought pears and the boutique where Lily had admired a silk scarf. Finally, he reached the souvenir shop.

  “My friend lost a car key,” he said in stilted Italian. “Did you find it?”

  “The pretty American wearing oval sunglasses?” the man asked in English.

  “Yes, that’s her.” Oliver nodded.

  “She left it next to the postcards.” He fished it out of a drawer. “My wife was going to run after her, but I said she’d be back.”

  “Thank you.” He clutched the key.

  “If I were you, I’d tell her you couldn’t find it.” The man leaned forward.

  “Why would I do that?” Oliver demanded.

  “To be young and stranded with a beautiful woman in an Italian hill town.” He sighed. “What more could a man want?”

  Oliver ran down the alley and saw Lily leaning against the car. Her eyes were closed, and her face was tipped up to the sun.

  “I found it,” he called, waving the key.

  “I heard your voice and thought I was dreaming.” She opened her eyes and laughed. “I was worried we’d be stranded here for days.”

  Oliver suddenly had the urge to kiss her. But if she pulled away, they’d be stuck together in the car and it would be uncomfortable.

  “We should get on the road.” He shifted on the cobblestones. “We still have three hours to go. Traffic near Florence could be horrendous.”

  “Wait, you have tomato sauce on your cheek.” Lily brushed his skin with her palm. She reached up and kissed him.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “First you bought me dinner and then you gave me a place to sleep. Now you found the car key.” Her brown eyes sparkled. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Oliver turned the key in the ignition and backed down the road. The fields were dotted with daisies, and the sun melted on the horizon, and he felt completely happy.

  * * *

  Oliver rubbed his shoulders with suntan lotion. The sun in Sardinia was fierce, and he didn’t want to go back to New York with leathery skin.

  What did it matter if he didn’t have a deep connection with Angela, the feeling that he had known her all his life? The only thing it had done for him and Lily was make the later pain unbearable. And he couldn’t ignore Angela’s looks. She was a centerfold come to life.

  He remembered wanting to help Lily find her hotel key in the hallway. That didn’t mean he still had feelings for her. Wanting to help Lily was a Pavlovian response.

  In the ten years they were together, he was always rescuing her from some kind of trouble. And it didn’t matter anyway. They’d hurt each other so much, there was no way back.

  “Oliver,” Angela called from the shallow end. “Come join me, the water is perfect.”

  He was a thirty-three-year-old man on vacation with a woman with flaming hair and pouty lips. He unbuttoned his shirt and jumped into the pool.

  Chapter Three

  LILY SAT AT THE CERVO Bar and moved fregola pasta around her plate. She wasn’t hungry, but the waiter had tapped his foot, and she’d pointed to the first thing she saw on the menu. Now she nibbled a piece of sausage, but it got stuck in her throat.

  She had walked down to the swimming pool and seen Oliver and Angela cavorting in the shallow end. Angela’s hair clung to her back and she looked like a mermaid in one of Louisa’s storybooks.

  Lily gasped and wanted to hide under a chaise longue. She walked blindly to the bar and sank onto a leather stool. Now she sipped mineral water and wished she were choosing fabrics in her office.

  It wasn’t Oliver’s fault. He could bring whomever he liked to the Emerald Coast. But Oliver had been her husband for ten years. She couldn’t just hand him over to another woman like a DVD she’d already watched.

  And there had been that moment when Oliver looked up. His hair was wet and his blue eyes sparkled and she thought his smile was for her.

  A man studied her legs, and Lily flushed and rearranged her caftan. She was in Sardinia; she had to get used to men looking at her. Admiring women was almost a national sport. And it was nice to feel beautiful. It was like putting on a spring dress or dabbing your wrists with perfume. It made you feel vital and alive.

  Suddenly she had an idea. She hurried through the lobby and approached the front desk.

  “Mrs. Bristol, how nice to see you.” The manager looked up. “I trust you have everything you need?”

  “I was wondering where I could find Enzo.”

  “Would you like him to come to your suite?” he asked.

  “I’ll wait here,” Lily replied. “It will only take a minute.”

  * * *

  “This is highly unusual.” Enzo stepped over a laundry basket. “I don’t usually meet guests in housekeeping.”

  Lily didn’t want Oliver and Angela deciding they needed a cocktail and seeing her in the bar. And if she went to her suite, she was in danger of meeting them in the hallway. She pulled Enzo into the laundry room and closed the door.

  “You did say you would do anything I asked.” Lily perched on a pile of pillowcases.

  “This is quite extraordinary.” He fiddled with his bow tie. “Our guests don’t usually want to inspect the bedding.”

  “Enzo, we’re friends. And you did say I could ask for anything. I’m hardly one of those hotel critics who doesn’t reveal his true identity until he checks out.” Lily laughed. “It’s very important. I need you to find me an escort.”

  “Mrs. Bristol!” Enzo exclaimed. “Hotel Cervo is a respectable hotel.”

  “I asked you not to call me that, it sounds so formal. I don’t mean that kind of escort,” Lily protested. “I just want some company. A man to take me to dinner and explore the Emerald Coast.”

  “You are a beautiful young American divorcée and very capable,” Enzo reminded her. “You don’t need my help.”

  “This morning, after you left, I ran into Oliver, my ex-husband, in the hallway,” she began. “It was a little embarrassing. I lost my key and was searching for it on the floor.”

  “I’m sure he realized what he was missing,” Enzo offered. “Any man would wish he was still enjoying your company.”

  “That’s very sweet. You and your wife must have a wonderful marriage, you know just what to say to make a woman feel good.” She paused. “But the thing is, he wasn’t alone in the hallway. He had someone with him.”

  “Someone?” Enzo repeated.

  “A stunning redhead. He didn’t know I was here, and I had no idea he was using the reservation. But every time I see them, I feel like I have a terrible flu. If I had someone to distract me, I’d feel better.”

  “You want to make your ex-husband jealous?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. I want Oliver to be happy,” Lily answered. “I just feel like a doll that Louisa outgrew and put back on the shelf. Is it wrong to want someone to bring you roses and ask if you prefer the grilled sea bass or baked salmon?”

  “In Sardinia, love is even more important than wealth or fame.”
Enzo nodded.

  “I’m not even talking about love. I just want to be happy.” Lily sighed. “Could you please help? I promise I won’t ask for anything else that’s unconventional.”

  “My sister is dating a man whose cousin owns a boutique in the marina. Ricky was educated overseas and is very handsome.”

  “He sounds wonderful.” She beamed. “When can I meet him?”

  Enzo scribbled down a name and handed it to Lily.

  “Here is the name of the boutique. If Ricky appeals to you, I’ll have my sister make an introduction.”

  “I knew I could count on you. You’re the best butler in all of Sardinia.” Lily’s face lit up in a smile. “Now, if you would just call me Lily, everything would be perfect.”

  * * *

  Lily walked onto the marina and thought it was even more glamorous than in the brochure. Mannequins in the window at Chanel wore yellow tunics, jewelry cases in Harry Winston held dazzling pendants, and there were ostrich-skin purses and leather sandals at Gucci.

  When she’d decided to open a Lily Bristol on the Emerald Coast, she expected to visit on a regular basis. She would stay in a boutique hotel in Porto Cervo and pick out pieces for the store: local pottery and hand-painted linens and silk cushions.

  But then her marriage had crumbled, and she’d turned the project over to her top designer. Dolores had sent photos of the store: textured walls and terra-cotta floors and Lily’s trademark gold sign in the window. But the pictures hadn’t captured the local beauty: the water like a sheet of glass, fishing boats idling at the shore, and the scent of perfume and hibiscus.

  Now Lily consulted the scrap of paper and stopped in front of a plate glass window. Ricky’s had a red front door and striped awnings. A Bentley waited outside, and there was a pot of geraniums in the window box.

  “Can I help you?” a man asked when she walked inside. He had dark curly hair and wore a white shirt and navy slacks.

  “I’m just browsing.” She looked up. “I’ve never been in Porto Cervo before. The harbor is stunning. It’s like the French Riviera without the traffic and tourists.”