“Do you like truffles?”
“Yes,” I say through a mouth full of buttery pasta and woodsy, sweet truffle. I feel odd having the truffles, like I’m cheating on Roman.
“You love to eat. Women always say they love to eat, but then they pick at their meal like birds.”
“Not me,” I tell him. “Eating is in my top three.”
“What are the other two?”
“A four-speed bicycle on a hot summer day and a John Galliano ball gown on a cold winter night.” I sip my wine. “What are your top three?”
Gianluca takes a moment to think. “Sex, wine, and a good night’s sleep.”
The good-night’s-sleep category highlights our eighteen-year age difference. My parents spend lots of time talking about sleep. However, I won’t point this out to Gianluca nor will I mention that the only older men I have ever spent time with were my grandfather and my dad. May-December romances have never been for me. When it comes to love, I like my four seasons, individually savored and spread out. I certainly don’t want to skip summer through fall and go right to winter, but spending time with Gianluca has helped me see the value of a friendship with an older man. They have a lot to offer, especially when romance is safely out of the equation. I learned a lot from him today-his advice on sewing repeat patterns alone was worth the trip. He also listens, as though whatever I have to say matters. Young men often pretend to listen, their minds on where the evening is going, and not where it actually is.
The waiter offers to bring us espresso. Gianluca tells him to wait.
“I want to show you something. Come with me.”
There is a series of stone steps off the portico that leads down to the vast field in front of the waterfall. He skips down the stairs, making it clear he’s been here many times before. I follow him.
The grass is already wet with night dew, so I slip off my sandals to walk barefoot. Gianluca reaches out and takes my sandals from me, holding them in one hand while taking my hand with the other. I find this more than slightly intimate, but I can’t figure out how to let go without being rude. Plus, there’s the wine factor. I had two glasses. I hardly ate today, so I’m floating on that wonderful cloud called double-cocktail buzz while we cross the field.
We arrive at a deep pool of water, the color of blue ink, at the base of the waterfall. He turns to me. The rush of the water is so loud, we can’t talk. I slip my hand from his and put it in my pocket. He might be older, but he’s still a man, and if I’m going to be holding on to anything, it’s going to be to Roman Falconi back home.
I hold my hand out for my shoes. He gives them to me. I skip ahead and back to our table where the waiter has left a caffè latte for me, an espresso for him, and a bowl of ripe peaches.
I climb into bed and open my cell phone. I dial Gabriel.
“How’s Italy?”
“It’s dangerous,” I tell him.
“What happened?”
“Gram has a lover.”
“Oh, that kind of danger. Let me get this straight. Gram has a lover and I’m single? Go figure.”
“Hey, I don’t like how that sounds.”
“You know what I mean. She’s eighty! Evidently a spry eighty,” Gabriel admits.
“It gets worse. Her boyfriend’s son put the moves on me.”
“Go for it.”
“I will not! I would never cheat on Roman.”
“Then why are you telling me this? Hey, no ring no thing.” Gabriel’s philosophy: there is no such thing as cheating unless there’s an engagement ring. “How old is Marmaduke?”
“Gianluca. He’s fifty-two.”
“Good fifty-two or bad fifty-two?”
“Good fifty-two.” At least I’m honest. “He’s gray though.”
“Who isn’t?”
“Forget I said a word. I’m in love with Roman.”
“I’m glad, because that’s the only way I can get a table at Ca’ d’Oro. And I want a table at Ca’ d’Oro as often as I can get it. Your boyfriend is the bomb.”
“He treated you well?”
“Roman pulled out all the stops. You would have thought I was the food critic for the New York Times when I barely know a pork shoulder from a lamb shank.”
“Good for you. Hey, did you check out Roman’s sous-chef?”
“Yes, I did. Her name is Caitlin Granzella. I met her on my tour of the kitchen.”
“And?”
“You’re far from home. You don’t need a mental image.”
“Gabriel!”
“All right, all right. I have to be honest. Think Nigella Lawson. Face and body. Trim but curvy. She’s built like a bottle of Prell.”
I don’t say a word. I can’t. My boyfriend has a gorgeous sous-chef and I’ve been gone for weeks.
“Valentine? Breathe. And don’t worry. I think Mr. Falconi has permanent plans for you.”
“You think so?”
“All he could talk about was Capri, and how he was going to show you everything, and how for the first time in his life he was going to take a real vacation because there was only one girl in the world he wanted to be stranded on an Italian island with-and that’s you. So don’t worry about Miss Slice and Dice in the Ca’ d’Oro kitchen. He doesn’t dream about her. He’s crazy about you.”
As we say good night, I lean back on the pillows and dream of Roman Falconi. I imagine him, the blue sea, the pink clouds, and the hot sun over Capri. As I sink into a deep and satisfying sleep, I imagine my lover’s arms around me in warm sand.
12. The Isle of Capri
GRAM, DOMINIC, GIANLUCA, AND I did the cobbler’s tour of Italy in the week before our last day in Arezzo. We drove up to Milan and went through the Mondiale factory, buying enough buckles, clips, and fasteners to supply our shop for another ten thousand pairs of shoes.
While we were in Milan, we met with Bret’s international business connection, a group of Italian financiers who work with designers who coventure in Italy and America. They reinforced Bret’s idea that we develop a line secondary to our custom shoes. I explained to them that we were in development on that front. I mentioned the possibility of the Bergdorf windows, which was an exciting notion to them, as they have done a lot of business with the venerable Neiman Marcus Company that now owns Bergdorf Goodman.
We also went to Naples to meet with Elisabetta and Carolina D’Amico, the embellishment experts. I got lost in their shop, a playground for any designer, rooms of jeweled straps and laces, beaded links, clips and bows. The women have a sense of humor, so their work can be whimsical, shell ornaments on a sea of dyed rice, glued to look like grains of sand on a beach; or miniature jeweled crowns on cameo faces; or my favorite, the Wedding Cake, cushion-cut rhinestones in the shape of a cake across the vamp, with gold charms of a bride and groom at the top of the ankle, affixed with matching straps. Brilliant.
It’s our last morning in Arezzo, and while I’ll miss Signora Guarasci’s soup and my bed with the open windows to let in the night air, I’m anxious to drive to the airport to drop off Gram and to pick up Roman. I try not to show my anticipation because, as happy as I am to go, Gram is equally sad.
She waits for me in the hallway outside our rooms. “I’m ready,” she says quietly.
“I’ll get your luggage.” I go into her room for the suitcase. I’ve already loaded my bags into the car, along with a new duffel filled with fabric swatches. The leather and fabric I ordered are being shipped and should be at the shop by the time I get home.
Signora Guarasci is waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. She’s made us box lunches for the trip, prosciutto and cheese panini, with two cold bottles of Orangina to wash them down. She gives us each a hug and a kiss and thanks us for our patronage.