Emerald Coast Page 6

  Oliver looked up and noticed Angela’s thick mascara and shimmering lipstick.

  “Well, yes,” he admitted.

  “Do you really think I like you just for sex?”

  “Of course not.” He fumbled. “Though we are good together. I’m really enjoying it.”

  “So am I. But there’s more to a relationship.” She crossed her legs. “We can walk in Central Park or see a movie.”

  Oliver coughed and thought a noodle had gone down the wrong way. He hadn’t seen a movie with anyone but Lily and Louisa in a decade, and if they went for a walk, would they have enough to talk about?

  “Never mind. When we met at the restaurant opening, I thought you were one of the good ones: a divorced guy who opens the door for a woman and doesn’t bound up the stairs on a first date,” she began. “But you’re just like the rest; all you want is sex. You’re like a cast member of Survivor left alone with a carton of Häagen-Dazs.”

  “You invited me up to your apartment, and I said no,” Oliver reminded her.

  “It was a test.” She sighed. “I’m tired of men wanting to feel me up before they ask for my phone number. You passed with flying colors. But you didn’t send flowers on my birthday and you hardly ever text during the day. I’m afraid this isn’t going anywhere.”

  “I can’t send you flowers, you’re a florist!” he exclaimed. “And I haven’t dated in a decade. Back then, we had flip phones. There was none of this sending sexy pictures or cute emojis. What if I send a smiley face instead of a heart? I don’t want to offend you.”

  “Do you want a relationship?” she asked.

  Oliver remembered looking in the mirror when he was shaving and seeing a guy with a glint in his eye and broad shoulders. He thought about the way Angela’s hair was tousled after they made love and of her lipstick on his collar.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I think about you all the time.”

  “That’s good.” She handed him the menu and smiled. “Would you order for me, Mr. New York Times Food Critic? I’m starving.”

  * * *

  It was the end of the week, and Oliver climbed the steps to Angela’s apartment. He checked his blazer pocket to make sure he had the tickets. He rang Angela’s doorbell and took a deep breath.

  All week, he had tried to think of something special to do with Angela. If they dined at a trendy restaurant, someone was bound to recognize him and ask if he was writing a review. It was hard to be romantic when the maître d’ hovered nearby, wondering if the fish was sautéed properly or the tenderloin steak was medium rare.

  Angela wasn’t keen on museums, and it was too muggy to take a horse-and-buggy ride through Central Park. He finally decided on a dinner cruise. They would sip Bloody Marys and sail under the lights of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Oliver!” Angela opened the door. “I didn’t know how to dress. You haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  “You look stunning.” Oliver studied her patterned teal dress and narrow stilettos. Suddenly, he wished they could skip dinner and fall into her bed.

  “We should go.” He took her hand. “If we’re late, they’ll leave without us.”

  * * *

  “Oh, Oliver,” Angela breathed. “This is the most exciting thing I’ve done in New York.”

  Oliver sipped a glass of champagne and felt quite pleased with himself. The boat resembled a French bateau, with hardwood floors and benches scattered with pastel-colored cushions. Waiters passed around trays of canapés, and light jazz played over the speakers.

  And the view! The Chrysler Building was lit up like a Christmas tree, and the Statue of Liberty resembled a Greek goddess. The Freedom Tower loomed in the distance, and the river was bathed in a pink and purple glow.

  “I can’t imagine a better surprise.” Angela beamed. “My mother and grandmother watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s every Sunday, and I dreamed of living in New York.” She turned to Oliver. “Now I have a job and my own apartment. I look up at the Empire State Building and feel I belong.”

  Oliver remembered the first time he and Lily had visited New York. They ate dim sum in Chinatown and spent hours at the Frick and the Guggenheim. At night, they collapsed in their room at the Hilton and watched romantic movies on television. They were so happy! Oliver was going to be a restaurant critic at the New York Times, and Lily would open a Lily Bristol store.

  He thought of the years since then, when he rarely got home to Connecticut for dinner, and Lily was constantly flying to San Francisco. Their dreams and goals were replaced by constant biting, like puppies nipping at each other’s paws.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Oliver said and felt a twinge in his chest. “It’s the greatest city in the world.”

  * * *

  Couples in elegant evening wear drifted inside, and Oliver inhaled the smell of butter and herbs. The brochure promised a three-course meal with goat cheese salad and filet of sole, and warm butter cake for dessert.

  “I get seasick if I eat on a boat,” Angela said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to skip dinner.”

  “It’s a dinner cruise!” Oliver exclaimed. “Three hours of nibbling glazed duck and sipping French wine and floating under the Williamsburg Bridge. And the barge is hardly built like a rowboat. If you close your eyes, you can’t tell we’re on the river at all.”

  “I can’t eat with my eyes closed. And just the sight of water when I’m eating makes me seasick.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Oliver. We’ll have to eat when we disembark.”

  They wouldn’t dock until midnight, and all the good restaurants would be closed. And he was starving! He pictured plates of blackened sea bass and braised brussels sprouts, and his stomach ached.

  It wasn’t Angela’s fault; he hadn’t told her they were taking a dinner cruise. But who got seasick on a barge on the Hudson River? It was like being afraid of heights when you were standing on the second floor at Macy’s.

  “I suppose we’ll find a burger somewhere.” Oliver slumped on a bench. He discovered a mint in his pocket and popped it into his mouth.

  “I’m terribly sorry. It was so thoughtful.” She sat beside him. “Why don’t we pick up a chicken and a carton of pecan ice cream and go back to my apartment? There’s nothing more fun than eating ice cream in bed. I always feel like a little girl who can eat anything she likes because she got her tonsils removed.”

  Her hair glinted in the moonlight, and Oliver let out his breath. Wasn’t being hungry for a few hours worth it, to be entangled between Angela’s sheets?

  “I get tired of fancy sauces and rich desserts,” he agreed. “I’d much rather have baked chicken and a bowl of ice cream.”

  * * *

  Oliver rearranged the striped bedspread and suddenly had an idea. He would pretend he was shaving and let Angela climb into bed first. After all, he wanted her to be happy. If she picked the left side, he could ask the butler for a sleeping mask.

  Just because he didn’t know what side of the bed Angela slept on, it didn’t mean their relationship wasn’t progressing. He had learned dozens of things about her: she split her loyalties between the New York Yankees and the Cleveland Indians, and wore heels even when they walked in Central Park. She was voted Most Photogenic in high school and spent a month after graduation as an extra in commercials for an amusement park. He pictured her in denim shorts and white sneakers and got hard underneath his towel.

  Now Angela stepped out of the bathroom and unwrapped the towel from her hair. She wore a man’s white T-shirt and slippers. Oliver sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed his book. If she thought he was reading, she would pick a side of the bed first.

  Angela walked to the minibar. She examined the bottles, and Oliver couldn’t concentrate on his book. How could a size-L Hanes T-shirt look so sexy, and was she wearing panties?

  “You’re staring at me, Oliver.” Angela looked up. “Haven’t you ever seen a woman wearing a man’s T-shirt?”

  “Of course I have,” he bristled. “In
college, I spent a spring break in Miami. They had wet T-shirt contests every night. I started to feel sorry for the women. Wet cotton must get uncomfortable against bare skin. But they seemed to enjoy it, and they never had to pay for drinks.”

  “That’s a deplorable practice,” Angela responded. “They should have wet board-short contests, where men have to sit in a bucket filled with ice cubes.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” He shifted under his towel. “Why don’t you pour us a couple of glasses of pineapple juice, and I’ll find some coasters. The bedside tables are solid teak, I wouldn’t want to get water marks on them.”

  He opened the oyster shell armoire and sifted through the television remote and shoe shine kit. If Angela put her glass on the bedside table first, he would know which side of the bed she slept on.

  But when he turned around, she was standing near the closet. Her lips were pursed together, and she drummed her fingernails on the glass.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “I left my ChapStick next to the pool,” she replied. “I’ll have to go buy a new one.”

  “Now?” Oliver asked, more loudly than he intended. “I mean, I thought we might take a nap. It’s nice to have a rest in the afternoon. Then we’ll have more energy to go dancing.”

  “A nap?” She arched her eyebrows. “That’s why you’re wearing aftershave.”

  He rubbed his cheeks and wondered if he’d applied too much aftershave after his shower.

  “A nap, among other things,” he murmured.

  “I like making love during the day.” She nodded. “It’s so refreshing, and afterwards I sleep like a baby. But first I need ChapStick, my lips will be raw without it.” She opened the closet. “I’ll put on a pair of slacks and be right back.”

  There was a flash of silk panties when she reached up, and Oliver gulped. If Angela went to the gift shop, she might be distracted by a magazine or a pretty blouse. She wouldn’t come back for ages, and the mood would be ruined.

  “I’ll go for you,” he announced.

  “I’m perfectly capable of picking out my own ChapStick, Oliver.”

  “Of course you are.” He pulled on a pair of shorts. “But your hair is wet, and the air-conditioning might be on high in the gift shop. I’ll get it for you.”

  “My hair is wet.” She ran her fingers through it. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Perfectly sure.” Oliver hurried to the door.

  “Oliver, wait,” she called after him.

  “Yes?” he asked hopefully. Maybe she didn’t need the ChapStick after all and just wanted to make love.

  “If they have it, get cherry ChapStick. It’s my favorite.”

  Oliver strode down the hallway and pressed the button on the elevator. A woman wearing a floral dress walked toward him. She wore oversized sunglasses and carried a leather clutch.

  “Oliver,” a female voice said. “I thought that was you.”

  “Lily!” Oliver jumped. “What are you doing?”

  “Obviously our plan of tapping a secret code on the wall when we entered the hallway didn’t work.” She laughed. “Here we are together.”

  “You look very nice, aren’t you a little dressed up?”

  “The dress is Pucci, I bought it at a boutique in the marina.” She smoothed the skirt. “I thought it might be a little fancy for the daytime. But Ricky, the owner of the boutique, said it was perfect for Porto Cervo.”

  Oliver pulled at his collar and wondered if you were supposed to compliment your ex-wife’s attire while you were running an errand for your girlfriend. There were so many scenarios they didn’t cover in books about divorce. Maybe he’d pitch a monthly column for the New York Times.

  “It suits you,” he said finally. “You should always wear Pucci.”

  “I feel quite fashionable,” Lily said, and her smile was bright. “I’m going to do a little last minute buying for the store. Enzo said there’s a gorgeous little town called Tempio Pausania that sells wonderful cork products. I’m sure he would have gone with me if I had asked. He’s very accommodating.”

  “Who’s Enzo?” he asked.

  “My personal butler, you must have one too.” She paused. “At first I thought I didn’t need one, but he’s been so helpful, and we’ve had some interesting talks. It’s nice to have a friend.”

  “You seem to have made friends quickly,” Oliver muttered. “A boutique owner who tells you what to wear, and a butler who suggests excursions to picturesque towns.”

  “Enzo says I’m supposed to make new friends. After all, I am a young American divorcée on the Emerald Coast,” Lily said when they reached the lobby. “Have a nice afternoon. Next time, I’ll tap on your wall and let you know when I use the elevator.”

  * * *

  Oliver sat on the balcony and sipped his glass of pineapple juice. When he returned from the gift shop with the ChapStick, Angela was asleep. He thought about waking her, but somehow he wasn’t in the mood.

  Lily could make as many male friends as she liked. He didn’t know anything about her life, and she wasn’t part of his. That was the whole point of divorce. But she had looked so radiant in her bright dress and straw hat. There was a lightness about her she hadn’t had in months.

  He suddenly remembered the early days of their courtship. Lily was different from anyone he’d ever met. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and when she got excited, she bubbled over like a glass of champagne.

  * * *

  The August heat drifted through the window, and Giuseppe’s kitchen was a furnace. Oliver wiped his hands on his apron and unfolded the envelope.

  He and Lily had exchanged addresses before he left Florence, but he hadn’t expected to hear from her. They had barely exchanged a kiss, and they lived on different continents. What was the point of writing when they would never see each other again?

  But her first letter arrived a week after she returned to San Francisco. And it was so descriptive! He felt like he was riding the cable car with her down Lombard Street and eating clam chowder at Fisherman’s Wharf.

  “Oliver.” Giuseppe appeared in the doorway. “Can I see you in my office?”

  Oliver swallowed and wondered if he was going to be fired. Ever since he’d returned from Florence, he couldn’t concentrate. He’d suggested the linguini pesto with pine nuts to a regular customer who was allergic to nuts, and served beef lasagna to a diner who was a vegetarian.

  “I have bad news.” Giuseppe sat at his desk.

  “I could have sworn the chef said the plate on the right was the meatless lasagna,” Oliver explained. “I’ll never make the mistake again.”

  “What are you talking about?” Giuseppe asked.

  Oliver wished he could stuff his mouth with pastry dough. “I thought you were going to let me go.”

  “I’m closing the restaurant for August. We will reopen the first of September.”

  “You can’t close the restaurant for a month!” Oliver urged him. “I’ll lose my work permit and have to go home. Michigan in August is so humid, it makes Naples seem like a seaside resort.”

  “The air-conditioning bill is too high, and my regular customers go on package tours of Ibiza.” Giuseppe shrugged. “My niece and her husband invited me to their farm in Tuscany. Three weeks of drinking Chianti and eating gnocchi and summer vegetables.”

  “That’s what you do here! Let me run the restaurant. I’ll make sure the butcher doesn’t short you on the ground beef and there are a dozen eggs in every carton.”

  “I already canceled the deliveries,” Giuseppe continued. “I have a cousin with an Italian restaurant in San Francisco. Guido serves the best veal piccata with fresh oregano.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. “He’d be happy to give you a job.”

  “San Francisco?” Oliver suddenly thought of Lily.

  “It’s a beautiful city, like Europe but with better drivers. You’re a bright young man. You shouldn’t be stuck in a second-rate restaurant in Naples.”
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  “You know about Lily?” Oliver looked up.

  “My wife read the mail. They were addressed to you, care of the restaurant. She thought that was subterfuge and I was getting love letters,” Giuseppe admitted. “You have to go. When you’re young, women send you letters because of your curly hair and thick chest. When you’re my age, they want you to fix the vacuum cleaner and share your Bolognese recipe.”

  “Thank you. I’ll consider it.” Oliver took the paper. “You really won’t give your wife your recipe?”

  “What if she gets angry with me and starts her own restaurant?” Giuseppe asked. “Every man must have his secrets.”

  * * *

  Oliver walked back to the hostel and opened the door. Could he really go to San Francisco to see Lily? They had only spent two days together, and part of that had been navigating Italian traffic. He pictured her sipping limoncello at the café in Spello and sighed. God, she was lovely, with her dark hair and sparkling eyes.

  What if Lily didn’t want a serious relationship? Maybe she just liked writing letters, like when his little sister had a Swedish pen pal.

  But Giuseppe was right; he had to take a chance. And San Francisco was filled with wonderful restaurants; it was the perfect place to become a food critic.

  He bounded up the steps of the hostel and entered his room. He opened a shoebox and stuffed the euros into his pocket. He was going to go down to the American Airlines office and book the next flight to San Francisco.

  * * *

  Oliver gazed at the stone mansion and took a deep breath. He had assumed Lily’s parents were wealthy but he hadn’t expected three stories and a circular driveway and marble fountain. And the view! Whitewashed houses fell down to the bay, and the Golden Gate Bridge shimmered in the distance.

  What if Lily was used to dating someone who drove a sports car and dined at three-star restaurants? He should look up her number at a pay phone and call her. Then she could let him down easily.

  “Oliver!” a female voice called. “What are you doing here?”

  Oliver looked up, and his heart did a flip. Her brown hair was tucked behind her ears, and she wore a floral dress and oval sunglasses.