Very Valentine

13. Da Costanzo

WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING, I roll over and reach for my phone. I open it and text: Dear Roman.

The hotel phone rings. I go to the desk and pick it up.

“Valentine, it’s me,” Roman says softly.

“I was just about to text you,” I say.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay, honey. I got all your messages and I know how sorry you are. I totally understand. When you see this room and the view, you won’t even remember what it took to get here.”

“No, I’m really sorry,” he says.

I sit down on the couch. “About what?”

“I can’t come at all now.”

I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

He continues, “There’s a problem with my backers. It’s serious.”

I still say nothing. I can’t.

“Valentine?”

Finally, I say, “I’m here.” But I’m not. I’m numb.

“I’m as upset about this as you are,” he goes on. “I want to be there with you. I still do,” he says. “I wish…”

Someday I know I will look back on this as the moment I stopped pretending I was actually in a real relationship with Roman. Who allows this sort of thing? I forgive and forget his cancelled dates and missed opportunities with such regularity, I believe that it’s part of working at our relationship. It’s our normal. Roman’s first obligation is to his restaurant. I knew that when we began dating, and I know it now, stranded here on Capri without him. I’m not surprised; I’m resigned. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I crawl back into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I am a failure at love. Roman’s excuses seem real, I believe them every single time. The excuses can be grand: threats of imminent financial ruin, or silly: the sink flooded in the restaurant kitchen. The scale of disaster doesn’t matter, I take it in and accept whatever he throws at me. I pretend I can handle it while I seethe inside.

I feel terrible, so why not surrender to the worst of it? I search my heart and list all the ways in which I am a failure. I make a mental list. I’m almost thirty-four (old!), and I have no money saved (poor!), and I live with my grandmother (needy!). I wear Spanx. I want a dog but won’t get one because I’d have to walk it, and there’s no time in my life to walk a dog! My boyfriend is a part-time lover who spends more time at work than he does with me, and I accept it because that’s what I believe I deserve. I’m a lousy girlfriend. In fact, I’m as bad at relationships as he is! I don’t want to sacrifice my work for him either.

Roman Falconi makes promises and I let him wiggle out of them because I understand how hard it is to live a creative life, whether it’s making shoes or tagliatelle for hungry people. The phone rings. I catch my breath and sit up before reaching for it. Roman must have come to his senses and changed his mind. He’s going to make the trip! I know it! I pick up the phone. I tell myself not to blow it. Be patient, I tell myself as I breathe.

“Valentina?”

It’s not Roman. It’s Gianluca. “Yes?”

“I want to take you to meet my friend Costanzo.”

I don’t answer.

“Are you all right?” Gianluca asks. “I told him that you are waiting for your boyfriend to arrive and so he made time for you this afternoon.”

“This afternoon is fine,” I say, hanging up the phone after we agree upon a time to meet.

I pull my notebook off the nightstand and pick up the list of things I wanted to do with Roman on Capri. There it is, in plain English, a list of fabulous, romantic side trips and excursions, places to eat, foods to try, the hours the pool is open! I even wrote that schedule down.

Suddenly, I am overcome with sadness that I have to do these things alone. I begin to cry, the disappointment almost too much to bear. This place is so romantic and I’m miserable. Rejection is the worst, whether you’re fourteen or forty. It stings, it’s humiliating, and it’s irreversible. I take the box of tissues and go out on the balcony. The sun blazes hot orange in the deep blue sky. Boats, with their sails bleached white, bob in the harbor below. I watch them for a long time.

I think about calling Gram, but I don’t want her to waste this week worried about me, or worse, trying to include me in her plans with Dominic.

I see a family, two children and a mother and a father, on their way to the pool. The children skip along the winding path through the garden as their parents follow closely behind. I watch as they reach the pool. The children pull off their cover-ups and jump in, while the mother chooses chairs and arranges the towels. The husband puts his arms around his wife, surprising her from behind. She laughs and turns to him. They kiss. How effortless happiness looks from here. People, everyone else that is, find happiness by falling in love and making their own families. It will never happen for me. I know it.

I take a shower and dress. I load a tote bag with my phone, wallet, and sketchbook. I head out the door. I can’t stay in this room another minute; it’s just a reminder of who is not here. The thought of this makes me burst into tears, so I stuff the box of tissues into my tote bag.

The lobby is quiet since it’s early yet. I go to the front desk. I open my purse and pull out my wallet.

“Checking out?” the young man asks.

“No, no. I’ll be here for the week, as scheduled. I’d like to take Mr. Falconi’s name off my room. I want to put the room on my credit card instead, please.”

“Si, si,” he says. He swipes my room key and finds my information. He takes my credit card and makes the change on the bill.

“Thank you. Oh, and I’d also like to take a tour boat around the island.”

“Absolutely.” He checks the schedule. “There is one leaving in twenty minutes, from the pier.”

“Would you call me a taxi?”

“Of course,” he says.

The tour boat is not really a boat at all, but a skiff, with several rows of wooden benches painted bright yellow, upon which tourists, including me, sit four across. There are about eighteen of us, mostly Japanese, a few Greeks, a couple of other Americans, an Ecuadorian, and me.

The captain is an old Neapolitan sea dog with a white beard, a straw hat, and a beat-up megaphone that looks like it’s taken its share of dips in the Tyrrhenian Sea. As the boat pulls away from the pier, the thrust of the motor plows us to the surface of the water.

Captain Pio explains that he will show us the natural wonders of Capri as the woman next to me shoves her elbow in my face getting a picture of Pio with her cell phone camera. Soon, all the tourists are snapping Pio with their phones. He pauses and smiles for them. I think of Gianluca, who said that he hated all this technology. In this moment, I do, too.

I miss big, bulky old-fashioned cameras that you wear around your neck on a strap. Most of all I miss the fact that you used to have to save the film for the best moments because it was too expensive to squander. Now, we take pictures of everything, including pictures of people taking pictures. Maybe Gianluca is right, technology doesn’t lead to better living and art, it’s madness.

I love watching the boats on the Hudson River, but it is a very different thing to be on one pitching and bouncing over the waves. I am surprised at how rocky the ride actually is because from the docks, the boats appear to move smoothly over the water. Isn’t this the way it is in love? It looks so easy and effortless from the distance-but when you’re in it, it’s a different experience. You feel every bump and wonder which wave will overtake you, will you survive or drown on the treacherous water, will you make it or capsize?

Our skiff is unwieldy as we are tossed in the surf like an old plank. Big waves come out of nowhere, tossing us a foot in the air, to land us with a thud on the water. The bouncing begins anew when a new wave rolls under us. My teeth begin to hurt from the pounding of the surf against the sides of the boat. I feel the weight of every human body on this boat. We sit so closely together that when a rogue wave hits the side, it’s like the group is body-slammed with a lead pipe.

Pio guides the boat into a calm inlet (thank God) and points to a natural rock formation that resembles a statue of the Blessed Mother as she appeared in the grotto at Lourdes. Pio says the Blessed Mother is a miracle of wind, rain, volcanic rock, and faith. At that point, even I pull out my phone and take a picture.

Pio backs us out of the inlet, showing us the indigenous coral growing beneath the water’s edge along the sea wall. As the waves lap against the rocks, we catch glimpses of the glassy red tentacles of coral. I begin to cry when I remember the branch of coral that Roman gave me when he promised me this trip. The Asian woman next to me says, “You okay? Seasick?”

I shake my head no, I’m not seasick, I want to scream! I’m heartsick! Instead, I smile and nod and look away at the ocean. It’s not her fault that Roman Falconi didn’t show up! The stranger is just being polite, that, and she doesn’t want me throwing up on her faux Gucci purse.

As Pio guides the boat back onto the sea, and we are tossed to and fro anew, I see lots of other boats like ours stuffed with shoulder-to-shoulder tourists making the rounds. When we pull out of one inlet, another boat pulls in to take our place.

“When are we going to see the Blue Grotto?” the American husband of the American wife asks.

“Soon, soon,” Pio replies with a weary smile that says he answers this question a thousand times a day.

We hear the sound of accordion music drift across the water. All heads turn toward the playful tune. A sleek catamaran, with a black-and-white-striped canopy, sails into view from around the rocks. A man plays the accordion as his companion reclines on a pile of pillows on the carpeted deck, a wide-brimmed sun hat shielding her face. It’s a romantic sight, one that makes every person crammed on this dinghy sorry that they didn’t splurge and hire the private boat.

The music grows louder as the catamaran sails into view.

“Isn’t that wonderful?” the American woman says. “Senior love.”

I take a closer look at the catamaran. Dear God. It’s my grandmother under that hat, like a Botticelli courtesan in repose, except she’s not eating grapes, she’s being serenaded by Dominic. I’d put my face in my hands to hide, but there’s not enough room to bend my elbows.

Captain Pio calls out to the skipper of the catamaran, “Giuseppe! Yo, Giuseppe!” The skipper salutes in return. Given the way our loaded skiff is being pummeled by the waves, I’m surprised the skipper didn’t read Pio’s greeting as a distress signal. The tourists on our boat wave at the lovers, and then commence snapping their pictures of them. How odd to be on vacation and take photos of other people having fun. Gram and Dominic have their own paparazzi. I could scream, so I do.

“Gram?” I holler. My grandmother sits up, pushes back her sun hat, and peers across the water toward our boat.

“You know them?” the American woman asks from behind me. Too tight a squeeze to turn to face her, I shout, “Yes,” while facing forward.

“Valentine!” Gram waves to me. She pokes Dominic, who waves with his accordion.

“Enjoy!” I shout as we sail by. Gram settles back on the pillows and Dominic plays on.

How do you like that? My eighty-year-old grandmother is being seduced on the Tyrrhenian Sea and I’m crammed on this boat like a tuna haul for the local fish market-as if I need another reason to weep on the isle of Capri, I just got it.

“How did you like the Blue Grotto?” Gianluca asks as we walk to Costanzo Ruocco’s shoe shop.

“We couldn’t get in. The tide was too high.”

“That’s too bad,” he says, as he smiles.

“Is that funny?”

“No, no. Just typical.”

“I know all about how the locals put up a sign to keep the tourists out.”

“Now, don’t give our secrets away.”

“Too late. I know all about you Italians and your secrets. You keep the best extra-virgin olive oil over here instead of shipping it to us, you keep the best wine, and now I find out it’s true, you close down a national landmark whenever you want a private swim. Nice.”

I follow Gianluca down the narrow sidewalk along the piazza and down the hill. The front door of Da Costanzo is propped open, between two large picture windows that anchor the door. They are filled with open, jeweled sandals for ladies, and men’s loafers in every color from lime green to hot pink.

We enter the shop, which is one small room filled from floor to ceiling with dozens of shoes on slanting wooden display shelves. The leathers range in color from hearty earth tones to jelly-bean brights. The basic sandal is a flat with a T-strap. The embellishments, bold geometrics, are what makes them special: interlocking circles of gold leather, open squares of moonstones attached to small circles of aquamarine, jeweled ruby clusters, or a large emerald triangle attached to thin green leather straps.

Costanzo Ruocco seems to be about seventy years old and wears his white hair brushed back off his face. He leans over a small cobbler’s bench in the back of the shop. He looks down at his work, squinting at the job at hand. He holds il trincetto, his small work knife, and trims the straps on a sandal. Then, he trades the knife for il scalpello, a tool with a sharp point. He plunges a small hole in the sole of the sandal and threads a braid of soft leather through it. Then he takes il martello and hammers the strap to the base. His hands move with dexterity, speed, and accuracy, the signs of a master at work.

“Costanzo?” Gianluca interrupts him gently.

Costanzo looks up. He has a broad, warm smile and the unlined skin of a person without regrets.

“I’m Valentine Roncalli.” I extend my hand to him. He puts down the sandal and squeezes my hand.

“Italian?” he says to me.

I nod. “Both sides. Italian American.”

A young man in his thirties, with wavy dark hair, pushes open a mirrored door that leads to a storage area behind Costanzo and enters the shop. He places a box of nails, le semenze on Costanzo’s worktable.

Costanzo says, “This is my son, Antonio.”

“Ciao, Antonio.”

Gianluca places his hand on my shoulder. “I will leave you with Costanzo.”

“She is not safe,” Costanzo jokes.

“Good,” I tell him.

He laughs heartily.

“I’m taking Papa and your grandmother up to Anacapri today,” Gianluca says as he goes out the door. Antonio waits on a customer as I pull the work stool close to Costanzo. He doesn’t seem to mind. I wasn’t entirely prepared to spend my afternoon with the shoemaker, but what else do I have to do? The thought of another solo tourist outing like the boat ride this morning is enough to make me seasick. So, I do what all Roncalli women before me have done-I make the best of it.

“How long have you been a cobbler?” I ask Costanzo.

“I was five years old. I have four brothers and we needed to learn a trade. I’m the third generation of shoemakers in my family.”

“Me, too,” I tell him.

He puts down his scalpello. “Do you make sandals?”

“Wedding shoes. In New York City.”

“Brava.” He smiles.

The walls behind Costanzo’s work space are cluttered with a collage of photographs. There are plenty of pictures of people I’ve never seen before wedged between Italian icons like Sophia Loren, on holiday and wearing flat gold leather sandals, and Silvio Berlusconi, wearing Costanzo’s loafers in navy blue. I point to a picture of Clark Gable.

“My favorite actor,” I tell him.

“Not me. I like John Wayne.”

We laugh.

“I made Clark Gable’s shoes for It Started in Naples,” he says as he picks up il martello and hammers the edge of the strap.

“What was he like?”

“Tall. Nice. Very nice.” He shrugs.

“Do you mind if I stay and watch you work?”

He smiles. “Maybe you can teach me something.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you design your wedding shoes or do you build other people’s designs?”

“Both. My grandfather designed six basic patterns, and now I hope to create new ones.”

“Va bene,” he says. He picks up il tricetto and takes the blade of the knife along a calfskin sole, trimming it like he’s peeling an apple. A ribbon of leather falls to the floor. He hands the sole to me, and indicates his tools on the bench. “Show me how you sew,” he says.

I take the sole, mark the points around it to place the stitching with la lesina o puntervolo. Then I pick up la bucatrice and punch a series of holes where I made the markings. I pull a thick needle from his pincushion (a velvet tomato, just like Gram’s!) and thread it with a sturdy but thin skein of beige hemp. I knot the end cleanly and pull it through the hole at the heel first, working along the side to the toes, and then down the other side. The process takes me about three minutes. “Fast. Good.” Costanzo nods.

I spend the rest of the afternoon at Costanzo’s side. I hammer and sew. I cut and scrape. I buff and polish. I do whatever he asks me to do. I appreciate the work; it keeps my mind off what was supposed to be my vacation.

I lose track of the time until I look up and see the pale blue of twilight settling over the cliffs. “You come for dinner,” Costanzo invites me. “I have to thank you.”

“No, I appreciate that you’re letting me work with you. Here’s how you can thank me.”

Costanzo looks at me and smiles.

“May I please come back tomorrow?” I ask him.

“No. You go to the beach. You rest. You’re on holiday.”

“I don’t want to go to the beach. I’d rather come back and work with you.” I’m surprised to hear myself say it, but the minute I do, I know the words are true.

“I must pay you.”

“No. You can make me a pair of sandals.”

“Perfetto!”

“What time do you open?”

“I’m here at five A.M.”

“I’ll be here at five.” I sling my tote bag over my arm and go out into the piazza.

“Valentine!” Antonio calls after me. “Thank you.”

“Oh, are you kidding? Mille grazie. Your dad is amazing.”

“He never lets anyone sit with him. He likes you. Papa doesn’t like anyone,” Antonio laughs. “He’s besotted.”

“I have that effect on men. See you tomorrow,” I tell him. Yes, some effect I have on men, except the one who counts, Roman Falconi.

As I walk past the tourists who climb onto their buses, talking too loudly and laughing too much, I feel more alone than ever. Maybe I’ve figured out a way to turn this disaster into something wonderful after all; I spent the day learning from a master, and I actually enjoyed myself. And, if my instincts are right, or at least better at work than they are at love, I have a feeling I have just begun to learn what I need to know from Costanzo Ruocco.

“Valentine? Andiamo,” Costanzo calls to me from the back of the shop. Costanzo was surprised when I actually showed up for work as I’d said I would. Little does he know he’s actually doing me a favor by salvaging this vacation.

I put down my work and follow the sound of his voice through the supply room and outside to a patio garden where there is a small table and four chairs. A white cotton tablecloth covers the table, anchored from blowing away in the Capri breezes by a pot of fragrant red geraniums.

Costanzo motions for me to sit next to him. He opens a plain tin lunch bucket and unloads the contents. He unwraps a loaf of bread from a sleeve of wax paper. Next to the bread, he places a container of fresh figs. Then he lifts out a tin of what looks like white fish covered in black olives. He pulls out two napkins. From under the table, he lifts a jug of homemade wine. He pours me a glass and then himself.

He cuts into the bread, which isn’t bread at all, but pizza alige, soft dough filled with chopped onions and anchovies. He slices the hearty pizza in thin, long slices, then places two on a plate for me. I bite into the crisp crust, which gives way to the salty anchovy, softened by the sweet onions and butter in the folds of the dough.

“Good?” he asks.

I nod emphatically that it is.

“Why did you come to Capri?” he asks me.

“It was supposed to be a vacation. But my boyfriend had problems at work and couldn’t make it at the last minute.”

“He canceled?”

“Yes.”

“When you go home, you end it, right?”

“Costanzo!”

“Well, he likes his work more than you.”

“It’s not like that.”

“I think so.”

“You know, I’m actually glad he couldn’t come here because if he had, I wouldn’t be spending time with you.”

He smiles. “I’m too old for you,” he laughs.

“That seems to be the case with most of the men I’m meeting in Italy.”

“But if I were young…” He fans his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Costanzo.” We laugh heartily. I’m feeling genuinely happy for the first time in days.

Italian men put women first. Roman’s priorities are more American than Italian, as he puts the restaurant first. To be fair, I can’t say that I have my priorities straight, or that I’ve mastered the art of living. I live for my work, I don’t work to live. Roman and I have lost our Italian natures. We’re typical overextended, overworked Americans with the worst kind of tunnel vision. We waste the present for some perfect future we believe will be waiting for us when we get there. But how will we get there if we don’t build the connection now?

The way I live from day to day in New York City suddenly seems ridiculous to me. I’ve mortgaged my happiness for a time that may never come. I think of my brother, and the building, the Bergdorf windows, and Bret’s investors. I love making shoes. Why does it have to be more complicated than that? Costanzo walks to work, builds shoes, and goes home. There’s a rhythm to his life that makes sense. The small shop sustains Costanzo and his sons beautifully. I sip the wine. It’s rich and intense, like every color, mood, and feeling on this island.

Costanzo offers me a cigarette, which I decline. He lights up his cigarette and puffs.

“What do you do in the winter, when the tourists are gone?” I ask him.

“I cut leather. I make the soles. I rest. I fill up the hours,” he says. Costanzo looks off in the distance. “I fill up the days and wait.”

“For the tourists to return?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer. The look on his face tells me not to pry. He puts out his cigarette. “Now, we work.”

I follow Costanzo back into the shop. He takes his seat behind the workbench as I sit down behind my table. Costanzo lifts a new pattern out of his bin and studies it. I pick up il trincetto and a sole from the stack Antonio has left for me. I follow the pattern and peel the outside edge of the sole like an apple, just as I saw Costanzo do on the first day. He looks over at me approvingly and smiles.

“Go and get your sketchbook,” Costanzo commands as we finish a cappuccino in the afternoon. “I want to see your work.”

I get up from the table and go back inside the shop. I pull my sketchbook out of my tote.

“Everything all right?” Antonio says to me.

“Your father wants to see my sketches. I’m scared to death. I’m a self-taught artist, and I don’t know if my drawings are as good as they might be.”

Antonio smiles. “He’ll be honest.”

Great, I think as I go back through the storage room to the portico. Costanzo peels a fig as I sit down next to him. I tell him about the contest for the Bergdorf windows, then I open the sketchbook and show him the shoe. He looks at it. Then he narrows his eyes and squints at it.

“High fashion,” he says. “Molto bene.”

“You like it?”

“It’s ornate.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“This I like.” He points to the vamp of the shoe, where the braiding meets the strap. “Original.”

“My great-grandfather named his six basic dress shoes for brides after characters in the opera. They’re dramatic. They can also be simple. They’re classics, and we know this for sure because a hundred years later, we’re still making his designs and selling them.”

“What shoe do you make for the working girls?”

“We don’t make everyday shoes,” I tell him.

“You should start,” he says.

This is not the advice I expected to get from an Italian master craftsman, but I go with it because Costanzo knows so much more than me. “You sound like my friend Bret. He wants me to come up with a shoe to sell to the masses. He said that I could finance my custom shoes with a shoe made to be sold in large quantities.”

“He’s right. There should be no difference between making shoes for one woman and making shoes for many. All of your customers deserve your best. So, sketch a shoe that can serve them all.”

“I don’t really know how.”

“Of course you do. You drew that shoe for the window; you can draw another shoe for every day. I am giving you an assignment. Take your pad and go out on the piazza. Sketch as many shoes as you can.”

“Just general shoes?”

“Anything that you see that you like. Watch how the woman moves in her shoes.”

“The tourists wear tennis shoes.”

“Forget them. Look at the Capri shopgirls. You’ll see what to draw.” He smiles. “Now go.”

I take my pad and pencils and go out into the piazza.

I pick a spot in the shade, on the far stone wall, and sit. I put down my sketchbook and watch, just as Costanzo instructed me.

My eye sifts through the clumps of tourists wearing Reeboks, Adidas, and Nikes to find the locals, the women who work in the shops, restaurants, and hotels. I look down at their feet as they move through the crowd with purpose. These working women wear flats, practical yet beautiful shoes, smooth leather slip-ons in navy blue or black, beige lace-ups with a slight stacked heel, sandals in plain leather with a functional T-strap, and one daring shopgirl wears sensible mules made of bright pink calfskin. My eye typically goes to the color, but I notice it’s only the occasional woman who wears a vivid shade on her feet. For the most part, the women choose a classic neutral.

After a while, I pull my legs up and cross them under me. I begin to sketch. I draw a simple leather flat with a low upper that covers the toes but does not come too high on the vamp. I sketch it over and over, until I get a shape that pleases my eye and that would best flatter a woman’s foot regardless of size, length, or width.

I see a mother and daughter talking outside the jewelry store on the corner of the piazza. The mother, in her forties, wears a slim navy blue skirt with a white blouse. On her arm, thick bangles of shiny silver click together as she talks. She wears navy blue leather flats with a simple bow on the upper. Her daughter wears a black tissue paper T-shirt with a cropped bolero of brown linen. Her slim-legged jeans ride low and tight. She wears brown flats with a matching grosgrain ribbon edge. The flats on the mother are classic, and she stands tall, with an ease that comes from wearing a comfortable shoe. The shoe is soft, but not slouchy. The daughter bounces on the balls of her feet as she talks excitedly with her mother. The brown flat fits her foot without gapping at the heel, and the leather moves with her in a smooth, full bend of the arch when she’s on her toes. The leather does not crease or buckle.

An older woman, around Gram’s age, moves toward the wall and sits down a few feet from me. She is round and squat, and has thick gray hair pulled back from her face with a red ribbon. She wears a black cotton A-line sundress with cap sleeves. Her shoes are plain, black suede slip-ons. She leans against the wall and opens a brown paper bag. She reaches in, pulls out a ripe cherry, and takes a bite. She throws the pit over the wall and down the cliffs. The sun hits something sparkly by her collar. A brooch. I lean over to get a closer look.

The brooch is in the shape of a wing. It’s inlaid with small beads of turquoise and coral, hemmed by what have to be genuine diamond chips. I can tell they’re real from the way they throw light. I work with the faux jewels, and they give bright shine, but a real diamond ingests the light and sparkles from the facets within.

I get gutsy and move close to her. I smile. “Your brooch is beautiful.”

“Mia Mama’s.” She smiles and points to the jewelry store. “My family shop.”

“Oh, how nice.”

“My father made this pin for my mother.”

“It looks like an angel wing,” I tell her. My mother has a Christmas ornament of a cherub with beaded wings that reminds me of the wing shape on the brooch.

“Si. Si. My mother’s name was Angela.”

The woman folds down the edge of her paper bag, closing it. She stands up and waves to me as she goes. I open my sketchbook and draw the pin, an angel wing dense with stones and outlined in diamonds. I take my time drawing the shapes. Slowly, I begin to fall in love with this shape. I draw it over and over until the page is full of wings. The piazza empties as the tourists get on the bus for the last haul down the mountain to the piers.

I draw one last wing, connecting the curve to the line to the point of the wing. Simple, but I’ve never seen a shape like this before, not on a shoe. I write:

Angel Shoes

Then I close the notebook and return to Costanzo to show him my sketch.

By the time I return, Costanzo is closing up the shop. He checks his watch and makes a tsk-tsk sound, faux guilt from my pretend padrone. He’s joking that I’m late, and he’s getting a kick out of himself. I let him. Then I show him my assignment. I hand him the sketch. He looks at it and points to the embellishment. “Wings?”

“Angel wings.”

“I like it,” he says. “Why angels?”

“Our shop is called the Angelini Shoe Company. But the sign is very old where the rain hits it, so now it says, ‘Angel Shoes.’ So when I saw the old lady’s brooch in the piazza, it got me thinking. The great designers have a simple logo, instantly identifiable. So, I thought, what if my design incorporated an angel wing?”

“And when you put the shoes together, two wings.”

“Symmetry! And I can make the wings out of jewels, or leather, or brass. Even embroidery.”

“Anything,” Antonio says and shrugs.

“Right. Exactly!” I beam. “Thank you for sending me out there. I would never have seen the brooch.”

“Every idea I ever had for a shoe came from observing women,” Costanzo says. “You see my shop? There are thousands of combinations to be made. Just like women, no two alike. Remember this when you draw.”

I pack up my tote and go. When I return to the piazza, it is completely empty. I make my way down the hill to the hotel. When I arrive at the entrance, Gianluca is sitting outside reading the newspaper by the fading light.

“Reading in the dark is bad for your eyes,” I tell him.

He looks up at me and smiles, takes his reading glasses off, and puts them in his pocket. He pulls out the chair next to him. I sit down. “Are you going to work there every day? You’re going to spoil Costanzo.”

“I wish I could stay for a year.”

“You came here to rest.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to come back here. Or if Costanzo will be here when I return.”

“He’ll be here. We will all be here. Except your Roman.”

“Who told you?” I lean back in my chair. Italy is getting to be an awful lot like America, where my family is hot-wired to move private information at the speed of sound.

“Your grandmother. Your mother called her.”

“My relationship is an international scandal.” I look around for the waiter. Now, I need a drink.

“He’s a fool,” Gianluca says, flagging down the waiter.

“I’m allowed to be angry at Roman, but you are not allowed to call him names. He’s still my boyfriend.” Sometimes Gianluca sounds more like my father than he knows.

“Why not?”

“I’m not breaking up with him. And even if I were, I wouldn’t do it over the phone or on one of those godforsaken text messages.”

“Good point.” Gianluca places our drink orders with the waiter.

“And by the way, it just makes it all worse when you point out what an idiot I’ve been. I do have a little pride.”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Gianluca assures me.

“Really? I think there’s something completely wrong with a woman who won’t ask for what she needs, and then when she does, she apologizes.”

“There is a difference between trying to make a relationship work and forgiving things you should not forgive,” Gianluca says. “Your grandmother wants you to come and stay with us.”

“Thanks, but I like it here at the hotel.”

“There are some things I’d like to show you on Capri,” he says.

“Sure.” I would agree to anything, because the truth is, nothing matters now that the old vacation I dreamed of is not to be. “I’d like to show you something,” I tell him.

Gianluca raises an eyebrow in a way that borders on sexy. I will not go there.

“Relax. It’s a sketch.” I pull the pad out of the tote bag, opening it to my new shoe. Gianluca pulls his reading glasses out of his pocket and studies the drawing.

“Lovely,” he says. “Orsola would wear it.”

“Good. It’s a shoe that Gram could wear, or my mother would buy, or I would wear. I’m aiming to hit a nerve. I even have a name for them. Angel Shoes. What do you think?”

“You have so many ideas,” he says.

“Well, I’m going to need them. When this little dream of Italy is over, I’m going home to a war zone.”

“It can’t be as bad as that.”

“You know, Gianluca, this is the difference between you native Italians and those of us called Italian Americans. You live a balanced life. You work, you eat, you rest. We don’t. We can’t. We live as though we have something to prove. There’s never enough time, we eat on the run, and we sleep as little as possible. We believe the one who works the hardest wins.” The drinks arrive. We toast each other and take a sip.

“What makes you happy?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard. Roman has never asked me that question. I don’t remember Bret ever asking me either. In fact, I don’t even ask myself that question. After I think for a moment, I answer him, “I don’t know.”

“You can never be happy if you don’t know what you want.”

“Oh, okay, oracle of Capri, man-with-the-answers to life’s major questions. What makes you happy?”

“The love of a good woman.”

“Good answer. That wouldn’t have been my answer a week ago. I had the love of a good man, and I didn’t put him first.”

“Why?”

“If I’d put him first, maybe he’d be here.”

“If he were smart, he would put you first. Why do you blame yourself for the man’s terrible manners?”

“I’m pretty sure I had something to do with it.”

“That’s ridiculous. If you have love, you honor it. You take care of things you love. Yes?” Gianluca has raised his voice a bit. I remember the first day in Arezzo when Gram and I went to the tannery and he and Dominic were having a screaming match.

“Hold on there, Gianluca, don’t get all geared up like you do back at the tannery. This is a peaceful island. No yelling.”

Gianluca smiles. “Come and stay with us.”

After a month in Italy, I’m an expert on the Vechiarellis. Gianluca is all about family. He likes to herd everyone together, whether it’s around a dinner table at home, or in a car, or at a factory, and watch protectively over the lot of us, like a shepherd. He prepares the food, gets the drinks, shows the way; in general, he takes care of everyone around him. My need to be separate must seem weird to him. Why wouldn’t I stay with them in their cousin’s villa? The idea that Teodora’s granddaughter is off in a hotel when she could be in the next room, safe, rested, and well fed is anathema to him. “No thank you. I really love my room here.”

“But we have a room for you.”

“It’s not the attico suite.”

“The room at our cousin’s is very nice.”

“I’m sure it is. But trust me, it’s not this room. Do you want to see it?”

“Sure,” he says.

Gianluca follows me through the lobby of the Quisisana and down the hallway to the elevator. It’s crowded in the elevator, and we laugh at the tight squeeze. Gianluca puts his hand over the open door and guides me out of the elevator as the doors open on my floor. He follows me into my room. The cool breeze of early evening fills the suite, blowing the sheer draperies gently. The maid has placed fresh white orchid blossoms in the vase in the sitting room.

“You have to see the view,” I tell him. I point to the doors that lead to the bedroom, and open onto the balcony. “I’ll be there in a second.” Gianluca goes out on the balcony as I set my tote down and check my phone messages, one from my mother, one from Tess, and three from Roman. My mother wants me to find her an alligator bag. I don’t think she reads the paper; alligator skins are illegal. Tess leaves a message that Dad is doing great, and could I bring coral bracelets home for the girls?

I listen to messages from Roman, who tells me he loves me and wishes he were here. Three in a row with the same level of pleading passion. It’s interesting that when I let go of my anger, it brought Roman close. Maybe it’s the cocktail, but I text him:

Found a job on Capri. Loving it. May never come home. You may have to come here after all. Love, V.

I join Gianluca on the balcony. “What do you think?” I point to the gardens of Quisisana and the sea beyond.

“Bella.”

“Now you see why I want to stay.”

Nightfall over Capri looks like a blue net veil has settled over the glittering island. I put my hands on the railing and arch my back, looking up, to drink in as much of the endless sky as I can.

Suddenly, I feel hands around my waist. Gianluca pulls me close and kisses me. As his lips linger on mine, softly and sweetly, a ticker tape of information runs through my head. Of course he’s kissing you, what did you think he was going to do, you invited him up to your room, at night, you showed him the romantic balcony, with a jillion stars overhead, you asked him what he thought, and his thoughts went to sex and now you’re in a pickle. Gabriel’s words ring in my ears: no ring, no thing. This kiss was lovely and I want more. I’ve never bounced back from a failing love affair in the arms of someone new, so why start now?

I put my arms around him, and slide my hands up to his neck. He kisses me again. What am I doing? I’m giving in, that’s what. I’m also initiating, that’s worse. Everything on this island encourages making love, while every scent, texture, and tone creates an irresistible backdrop for one thing, and one thing only. It starts in the cafés at intimate tables and chairs where knees and thighs brush person against person; the sweet sips of coconut ice after a long walk in the hot sun; the decadent scent of soft leather in Costanzo’s shop; the fresh food, ripe figs plucked right off the tree; the delicious salty sea air and the moon like a prim pearl button on a silky sky longing to be unfastened. Even the shoes, especially the sandals, filmy straps of gold on brown skin, ready to be slipped off and undone, say sex.

The Italians lead sensual lives, everybody knows that, I know that, and that’s why I’m not resisting these kisses.

Somehow it would feel like an insult to life itself to resist what seems so natural. These kisses are as much a part of an Italian summer day as pulling a fig off a tree and eating it. Whatever romance is left in the world, the best of it can be found in Italy. Gianluca holds me like a prize as the touch of his lips surrounds me like the warm waves in the pool. I find myself going under as Gianluca kisses my neck tenderly. When I open my eyes, all I see are stars, poking through the blue like chips of glass.

Then I remember Roman, and how it was supposed to be us on this balcony, under these stars, making our way to that bed by the light of this moon, and I begin to pull away. But I’m not sure I have the strength to resist. I’m the girl who always has the second cannoli! Don’t I deserve this? Doesn’t everybody?

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“Why?” Gianluca says quietly. Then he persists, kissing me again. This is not like me. I never so much as look at another man when I’m involved with someone. I’m very faithful, in fact, I’m often faithful when it hasn’t been agreed upon in advance. I can be true after one date. I’m that faithful. My natural inclination is old-fashioned devotion. Spontaneity and variety are not for me. I think things through, so I’ve never had to tiptoe around my past with regret. I skip through, unencumbered, free! I’m a clean-slate woman. I need to tell Gianluca that I don’t do this sort of thing before we go any further. I take his hands and step back. Even worse. I like his hands around mine. The touch of his fingers, those strong working-man tanner hands, sends small shivers up my arms and down my back, like cold raindrops hitting my skin on a hot day. I’ve got some kind of malaria going on here.

“What am I doing?” I let go of his hands and turn away from him.

“I understand,” he says.

“No, you don’t.” I bury my face in my hands. Nothing like taking cover in a moment of shame, only I wish I had a hood and a pashmina shawl and a lonely cell to crawl into.

But before I can explain what I’m feeling, or take the blame for my impulsive behavior he is gone. I hear the door from my room to the hotel hallway snap shut. I put my hand on my mouth. Underneath my hand my lips are not pursed in indignation. No, instead, much to my surprise…I’m smiling.

As I pack up my tools on my last day at Costanzo’s shop, I try not to cry. I can’t explain what this time has meant to me. I feel foolish that I ever wanted to come here as a tourist and lie around the pool and sleep all day, when what I gained in the exchange cannot be quantified. Under Costanzo’s direction and subtle encouragement, I became an artist.

Sure, Gram taught me how to make shoes, but there was never time to teach me how to walk in the world as an artist. There was never time to encourage me on that path, because it wasn’t something my grandmother knew. The dreamers were my great-grandfather and grandfather. Gram is a technician, a practical cobbler. She designed a shoe once, but it was only out of necessity. She drew the ballet flat and built it only after she lost customer after customer to Capezio. She did not sketch it out of a desire to create, but rather, a need. She needed to make money. Shoemaking was never a form of self-expression for Teodora Angelini, rather, it was food on the table, clothes for my mother, and money for the collection plate at Our Lady of Pompeii Church. There is nothing wrong with that, but now I know I want more. I want to say more.

New York City is everything to me, but I know now, in the frenzy and the noise, amidst the urgency and rush, that the voice of the artist can be drowned out in the pursuit of making a living. I understand the lure of security, the need to make money to pay our bills and meet payroll, but an artist needs time to think and to dream. Time, unstructured and free, nurtures the imagination. Afternoon siesta may appear to be restful, but for artists like Costanzo, it’s time to review the work of the day and reflect on new colors and combinations. Costanzo also taught me that ordinary life is artful. He taught me to look at everyday things and find the beauty in them. I’m not just a cobbler, I am creating a particular shoe for a customer who is trying to express something about herself to the world. My job is to deliver that message, to find the meaning in the ordinary.

I don’t see a pesky seagull looking for crumbs anymore. I see a palette of clean white, dressed in black feathers with bold white spots. Shoes. I don’t see a stone wall where the sun hits it full on at noon, I see a particular shade of gray with a gloss of gold. Leather. I don’t see a gnarl of vines on a black fence. I see forest green velvet and black leather laces. Boots. I don’t see a blue sky with clouds, I see a bolt of embroidered silk. I don’t see a bunch of pink peonies being carried through the piazza by a new husband on the way home to his bride, I see a jeweled tassel on the vamp of a party shoe. Embellishments.

And when I look at a woman now, I don’t see fashion, I don’t see age, I don’t see size. I see her. I see my customer, who needs me to give her the very thing that says who she is, as I express who I am through the work I do. Simple. But this knowledge has transformed me. I wasn’t the woman I was when I landed in Rome a month ago, and I won’t be the same when I return home. I will see home with these new eyes. Now, this frightens me a little: what if I’ve changed so that I don’t have the same goals I was focused upon when I left? What if I return home and Roman isn’t the man for me, and fighting with Alfred isn’t worth saving the shop and the building? What if the eyes of this artist have changed the very soul of who I am? What if I don’t want what I once dreamed of?

Costanzo told me over lunch one day that he was a widower, and his eyes filled with tears, so I didn’t pursue it. But I don’t want to leave Capri without knowing about his wife. As much as he has taught me about art, I feel there is much to know about other things, the guts of life, the pursuit of true love.

I join Costanzo on the veranda, where he has our lunch laid out on the table, as he does every day. I see buffalo mozzarella and luscious ripe tomatoes sliced thin. He’s drizzling olive oil on them as I join him.

“Our last lunch.”

“The Last Supper,” he laughs.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“No woman wants to leave Costanzo Ruocco,” he laughs again.

I sit down and place a napkin on my lap. Costanzo fills my plate with the fruit of his garden. A quiet breeze moves through the garden rustling the tablecloth. “Before I go, I wish you would tell me about your wife.”

Costanzo reaches into his shirt and pulls out a gold neck chain with a wedding ring attached to it.

“What was her name?” I ask gently.

“Rosa,” he says. “She was born Rosa de Rosa.” Costanzo holds up his hand. He gets up and goes into the shop. When he returns he hands me a manila envelope. I open it. Inside are many pictures, some black and white, some small colored snaps, in the vivid blue Ektachrome from the 1960s, some from an instamatic camera in the 1970s, when their sons were born, and more still with a Polaroid instant camera, the kind of pictures that we used to take, develop on the table, and adhere to cardboard squares.

Gently, I place the stack of photographs on the table. The largest, a black-and-white picture of Costanzo and Rosa on their wedding day, was taken by a professional. She is a petite brunette, with gorgeous, wide-set brown eyes. She reminds me of my sister Jaclyn. Rosa wears a small whimsy in her hair, with a circle of net, and a white satin ballerina-length gown with a neck and a fitted waist that gives way to a full circle skirt. On her tiny feet are elegant kid pumps. Costanzo stands behind her, his hands on her waist.

“I married her on September 23, 1963. The happiest day of my life.”

“Bella,” I tell him.

“I called her Bella Rosa. And sometimes, just Bella.” Costanzo’s voice breaks.

“And you are very handsome.” I make the hand-fanning movement just like Costanzo. He laughs. After all, I remember, and will never forget, he is Italian. The male ego arrives intact with the birth certificate. “You miss her terribly.”

“I can’t speak of her because, in my life, with all the words I have ever heard, there have never been any to describe what she meant to me. I try, but even the word love is not enough. She was my world. I have never, for one moment, since she died, stopped loving her or thinking of her. Even now, if she could walk through that door, I would give up my own life for just a moment with her.”

I reach across the bench and take Costanzo’s hand. “Every woman should be loved the way you loved Rosa.”

“It’s hard for me to live without her. Almost impossible. I welcome death when it comes because I will see her again. I only hope she wants this old man.”

“Oh, she will. There’s a lot to be said for older men.” It hasn’t been just art I’ve learned about in my time on Capri.

“She died in 1987. Nothing is the same. The figs don’t taste the same, or the wine, or the tomatoes. She took everything good with her. I learned everything about life from her. About love, of course.” Costanzo stands and looks at me. “You wait. I have something for you,” he says as he goes back into the shop.

I spent the week in Da Costanzo learning things I needed to know. I learned about gropponi, the best cowhide for making soles; capretto, the softest lamb leather, is wonderful for straps; and vitello, the firmer hide, works well on a full shoe. And I learned that the world outside this island is encroaching on the craftsmanship that was born here, gobbling up Costanzo’s techniques and designs without his permission, only to mass-produce its version for the resort crowd.

Shifty entrepreneurial Americans come through, buy Costanzo’s sandals, take them home, copy them, and steal the designs outright, and actually have the crust to go to the same suppliers as Costanzo and try to buy the elements he uses to build his signature sandals. The suppliers, wise to the thieves, refuse to sell supplies to the upstarts. Loyalty is still the best Italian trait.

Costanzo also taught me little things, tips that add up to the work habits that eventually become an artist’s technique. When shaping a heel, I now take my knife and peel the edge like the skin of an apple until it’s winnowed down to the exact size of the customer’s foot. Costanzo taught me to sew flat seams inside a shoe, which make them more comfortable for the customer. He taught me to embrace color, to never fear it. If the prime minister of Italy can wear melon-colored leather loafers, anyone can.

I learned things on my own, too. I learned that tourists on Capri are very loud because they are so enthralled by the view, they raise their voices in excitement. I learned that travel is still the best way to shake up your life, shift your point of view, and embrace inspiration, but you must be wide awake and eager to take it in, or it’s a waste. And I learned that my grandmother doesn’t need me to care for her, or worry about her, she is self-sufficient. She does just fine on her own.

Costanzo returns to the table carrying a shoe box.

“Costanzo, I can never thank you enough for this week.”

“You’re a good cobbler.” He nods his head slowly. “Like me when I was young.”

“That means everything to me. That’s all I want.”

“You work hard, and when you’re as old as me, you will know what it feels like to have spent your life making something beautiful for someone else. This is what we really give in the world. Now, I have a gift for you,” he says.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Costanzo gives me the shoe box. Before I remove the lid, I remember his promise to me on the first day of work. “You made me sandals!”

“Not for you. Your feet are too big for these shoes.”

I shoot Costanzo a look. “Mille grazie,” I say in a tone that makes him laugh.

I open the box and look inside. I lift the felt liner away. I catch my breath and lift out the shoe, a revelation in shape, detail, and form.

Costanzo has built my design for the Bergdorf’s competition. I place in on the palm of my hand, like a crown, and examine it.

My sketch has come to life, the upper of calfskin, the gold-and-white-braiding embellishment; the stacked heel, carved and sleek; the vamp with embossed leather, every detail is there, done to scale and tone as drawn and measured in my sketchbook. The materials are luxe, the execution masterful, each stitch so tiny, they’re practically invisible. The overall effect of the shoe is opulent with restraint, and the execution of the details is immaculate. The shoe says new bride, new life, new steps to carry her there! Size six. The sample size! The shoe that has lived for so long in my imagination is now in my hands, a glorious one-of-a-kind creation that calls back to my grandmother’s youth and yet is completely in the moment.

My eyes fill with tears. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s your design,” he says. “I was just the cobbler.”

“But it’s your craftsmanship that brought it to life.”

“That would be impossible without the vision,” he says. Then he lifts the shoe about a foot above the table and drops it. The shoe lands, in perfect pitch, and it rocks from side to side on the table until it stops. “Do you know this test?”

I shake my head that I don’t.

“When you build a heel, test it. If it rocks evenly and stops, like this”-he drops the other shoe onto the table; it sways and stops in the same fashion as the first shoe-“you have built the shoe properly. If it falls over, you must rework the heel to achieve proper balance.”

“I will,” I promise him. “Costanzo, we name our shoes at Angelini’s. The truth is, I’m not an opera buff. But I am a woman who loves a good story. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to call this shoe the Bella Rosa in honor of your wife. That is, if you don’t mind.”

Costanzo gets tears in his eyes; they cloud over the blue, just like the mist on the sea at nightfall. He nods that I may name this shoe after his wife. I have his permission. It’s so simple really. True love is without whim. It’s hardware. Durable. Everlasting. This world is where Costanzo and Rosa’s love happened, but eternity is where it lives. Love stays as long as someone remembers. I know their story and now I will tell it. I will think of Costanzo and Rosa every time I go to sketch, or cut a pattern, or sew a seam. He changed my point of view, so I will never forget him. I couldn’t.

I hold the shoes in my hands and remember the story of the shoemaker and the elves. The shoemaker and his wife were so poor, so beaten down by circumstance, that they left their last bit of leather out on their worktable, and so weary, they went to bed. The next morning, they found a perfect pair of shoes made from the leather. They put the shoes in the window and a customer bought them immediately. With that money, the shoemaker and his wife bought more leather, and night after night, they left out the supplies. And every morning, they returned to new shoes, made by the elves, more magnificent than before. It’s a story about when you’re most defeated, someone will come along and help, maybe even save you. This is what Costanzo did for me. And tomorrow, I must go home and do the same for the Angelini Shoe Company-the artist’s way.

The sun, the color of a ripe apricot, burns high in the sky over the pool of the Quisisana Hotel on my last day in Capri. The veranda and garden are filled with guests, sunning and swimming. I get out of the water and lie down on a chaise, and let the sun warm me through to my bones. This isn’t a bad way to turn thirty-four. It’s not what I had in mind, but I’m in the mood to embrace whatever life sends me. For example, instead of fighting the bathing suit my mother sent, I accessorized. I bought a pair of enormous silver hoop earrings studded with tiny white sapphires to wear with the suit. Now, the ensemble looks like it’s part of a plan. A gaudy, sparkling plan.

“Happy birthday,” Gianluca says as he sits on the chaise next to me.

I sit up. “Gram told you.”

“No, no, I looked at your passport when we stopped at security at the silk mill.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I wondered how old you were. I was happy you were thirty-three.”

“So was I. It just took turning thirty-four to appreciate thirty-three, if you know what I mean.”

“I do.” He gives me a look that says he’s been thinking about those kisses on my balcony as much as I have. The thrill and shame of it turn my cheeks red. He’ll think it’s the sun.

“What are your plans today?” he asks.

“You’re looking at them.”

“I’d like to celebrate your birthday with you,” he says.

I lean back on the chaise and pull my hat down over my eyes. “I’ve done enough celebrating with you.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

I push the brim of my hat off of my eyes. “Oh, I enjoyed it. But I shouldn’t have. I made it to my thirties without ever cheating on a boyfriend. Then you broke my streak.”

“How can you worry about a few kisses when he didn’t keep his word and join you here?”

An American woman on the next chaise, with a spray tan and wearing an orchid print swim dress, puts down her Jackie Collins paperback and commences to eavesdrop on our conversation.

“I know you Italians invented the vendetta, but I don’t believe in it. I won’t hurt Roman just because he disappointed me. I kissed you because I wanted to…and now,” I say loudly enough for the lady to hear, “I will have to kill you.”

Gianluca laughs.

I lean toward the nosy woman. “I’m a take-charge type,” I say to her.

“Let’s go,” he says.

I’m not big on surprises, so when Gianluca hustles me into a taxi in the piazza to go down to the pier, I’m pretty sure we’re going somewhere on Capri by boat. When I went on my tour of the island, I wasn’t observant about the politics of the dock. All I noticed were the lines of tourists waiting their turn to board the skiffs and experience the natural wonders of Capri. This time, we pass the hordes and I follow Gianluca around the pier to the end, where the local fishermen and families keep their boats. We get onboard a small white motorboat with a red leather interior.

“This is the exact color scheme of my dad’s 1965 Mustang,” I tell Gianluca. “He still has it.”

“This belongs to my cousin’s family.”

“You mean I didn’t have to cram in with the tourists to see the points of interest? I could have been on this little number?”

Gianluca starts the boat and maneuvers it out onto the open sea, past the tourists. As fast as he drives on land, he goes twice as fast on the ocean. He steers the boat out to where the water is smooth. We bounce over the waves effortlessly. This is the way to go, I think as we skip over the turquoise waves, drenched by a saltwater mist that cools us in the hot sun. Gianluca handles the boat with skill, but I keep my eyes on the water, and off him. There is much to admire about Gianluca Vechiarelli, but the last thing I need is another Italian man in my life.

We speed around the island until the back of the Quisisana comes into view. The entrance to the Blue Grotto is open. Satisfied that there is no one inside, Gianluca idles the boat near the entrance. He climbs out onto a ledge, and retrieves a sign that says NON ENTRATA IL GROTTO. He hangs the sign on an old nail over the entrance, then pulls a small rowboat from an alcove behind the ledge. He drops the rowboat into the water and reaches up for me.

“You have got to be kidding.” I point to the sign. “You mean it’s true?”

I step down into his arms and he lifts me into the rowboat.

“Stay low,” Gianluca instructs me. I duck my head as we enter the grotto. At first, all that I see is a gray cavern, the stone entrance, and then, as Gianluca rows, we enter the blue.

When I was a girl, I was obsessed with panorama Easter eggs, the kind made of white sugar shells decorated with swirls of colored icing. There was a window at the end of the candy egg, and when you held it up to look inside, a scene would be depicted. With one eye, I would study a field of swirly green icing for grass, a miniature princess in a tulle skirt sitting on a tiny mushroom flecked with sugar, a green candy frog resting near her feet, and bright blue jelly beans, placed around the scene like stones in a garden. I would look inside the egg for hours, imagining what it would be like to be inside. This is the same feeling I have inside the Blue Grotto.

It’s a wonderland of slick gray stones, walls worn away by the seawater, leading to a smooth lake of sapphire blue. Light pours in through holes in the rocks overhead, making silver funnels of light on the water. At the end of this cove, and deeper into the cavern, there’s a tunnel that leads beyond this lake, and through it, I see more light piercing between the rocks and reflecting on the water, creating a dimension of depth and a deeper blue.

“You can swim,” he says.

“Seriously?”

Gianluca smiles. I take off my beach cover-up and slip into the water. It’s cold, but I don’t mind. I swim over to where the light comes through the faraglione. I place my hand in the silver beam, which makes my skin glisten. I swim around the edge of the lake. I touch the coral that grows on the seawall. The waxy red reeds hold to the wall tightly, beautiful veins that lead deeper into the water. I imagine how deep the coral must go, the vines rooted in the bottom of the ocean in some magical place where colors are born. I hear Gianluca enter the water. He swims toward me.

“Now I understand the sign,” I tell him. “Why would you want to share this with anyone?”

“It’s meant for sharing.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says. “Is it all you dreamed it would be?”

“Yes.”

“There are so few things in life you can say that about,” he says.

“Ain’t that the truth?”

“Follow me,” he says. I swim with Gianluca through the tunnel and deeper into the grotto to another cove, this one filled with light. When I look up it’s as if the cap on the stone mountain is gone, and this is the place the moon goes when the sun is out.

“We should go now,” Gianluca says.

I swim over to the boat and reach up for him. He pulls me in. He hands me a towel. “Nice earrings,” he says.

“They go with the suit.”

“I can see that.” He smiles.

“You know, sometimes there’s no point in fighting the inevitable,” I tell him. Of course, I’m talking earrings, not Italian isle hookups.

Once Gianluca returns the boat to its hiding place, and the sign back to the ledge, he helps me into the motorboat and we speed past the beaches of Capri and around the far side of the island where the villas of Anacapri are visible from the shore. Massive palazzos, built into the side of the mountain in layers, connected by breezy porticos, show how the rich live, and so much better than the rest of us. “We should have that view,” I tell Gianluca.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because we’d appreciate it.”

Gianluca nods at the mention of “we.” Above and beyond my bad behavior, he’s been a good friend on this trip. We have a lot in common. This is such a small thing, it seems, to have mutual interest in work and the same kinds of family issues, but we do, and it’s been nice to talk to someone who understands where I come from. I have that with Roman to some degree, but the truth is, he spends his days and nights in a very different way than Gianluca and I do. I have appreciated Gianluca’s view of the world. I suppose a tanner and a shoemaker have a marriage of true minds, we rely on each other to sustain our crafts, at least in the workshop.

Gianluca stops the boat in a calm inlet. He pulls out a picnic basket of the food I love most: fresh, crusty bread; pale green buttery olive oil; cheese; tomatoes, so ripe their skin is caramelized by the sun; and homemade wine that tastes of hearty oak, cherries, and sweet grapes. We sit in the sun and eat.

I try and make him laugh, which is easy. Gianluca has a good sense of humor, not that he’s funny himself, but he appreciates it in others. I do a drop-dead impersonation of an American tourist who tried to talk Costanzo’s prices down until finally he said to the woman, “You’re terrible. Get out.” She left in a huff. Gianluca loves that story.

We sit in the late-afternoon sun until the breeze turns cool. “It’s time to get back,” he says.

Gianluca revs up the boat, and invites me to steer. I’ve never driven a boat before, but I like to think that I’m open to trying new things, so I take the wheel of the boat with confidence and a dab of chutzpah. You would think that after driving a stick shift from Rome to Naples, commandeering this little boat would be easy. But I’m amazed by how much brute strength it takes to turn the wheel. After a few moments, I begin to feel my way on the water, and gripping the wheel just so, I use my entire body to guide the boat.

When we get close to the docks, I slow down and give Gianluca the wheel. When I let go and surrender my grip, I almost fall, but he catches me with one arm and takes the wheel with the other.

As we reach the pier, he throws a line to a boy working on the dock, who places the rope around a piling, securing the boat. Gianluca climbs out first and then lifts me up to the pier. We walk to the cab stand, and he helps me into a car. We don’t talk as the driver takes the twists and turns of the road at a clip up to the piazza and back to the Quisisana.

There’s a long night rolling out ahead of us, and I wonder where this ride will take us. One time, back in the shop, June told me a story about a married man she had an affair with, and she said, once she kissed him, she was already guilty, so why not just go the distance? I look over at Gianluca, who looks out over the hills of Capri to the blue sea below. He has a look of contentment on his face. When we reach the top, Gianluca climbs out of the taxi with me.

“I leave you now,” he says, taking my hand.

“It’s so early.” I sound disappointed. I am.

“I know. But you should have your last night to yourself. Happy birthday.” He smiles and leans down. Then he kisses me on the cheek. I must look confused, because he raises both eyebrows with a look that says, We’re not going there again. He places a small package tied with raffia into my hand. I look up to thank him, and he’s gone.

I walk back to the hotel alone. I stop in the lobby of the Quisisana and look around, imagining how much I will miss this grand entrance when I go. I decide to redo our dingy entrance on Perry Street as soon as we get home. We need a paint job, new lighting, and a rug. There’s another thing I learned in Italy-entrances matter.

When I get off the elevator in the attico, I look at the painting over the love seat for the last time. For every day I have come and gone from the hotel, I have waited here for the elevator, and looked at this painting. For days, it has been a mystery to me. Now, I understand what all those Mondrian checks represent-they’re windows, hundreds of windows. For me, this trip was all about seeing out of them, and for sure, I did. I sit down on the love seat underneath the painting I have come to love and open the package from Gianluca.

As I loosen the ribbon and unfold the paper, my hand shakes a little. I open the lid on the box and lift out a shoemaker’s tool, a new hammer, il trincetto. Gianluca has engraved my initials on the handle.

I open the door to my room and there’s a large antique urn on the coffee table bursting with blood red roses and branches of bright yellow baby lemons. The air is filled with fragrant sweet roses, tart lemons, and rich earth. I close my eyes and inhale slowly.

Then I pick up the card on the table. That Gianluca, I’m thinking as I open the card. That’s why he rushed off. He wanted to surprise me with the flowers. I open the envelope and lift out a single card.

Happy birthday, honey, I love you. Come home to me. Roman

Of all the great lessons I learned in Italy, the most important is: travel light. Pushing our mountain of luggage through three regions of Italian countryside has turned me into a minimalist. I’m this close to becoming a nun and rejecting all worldly possessions. Gram, however, is not. She clings to these suitcases, fills them carefully, and knows the contents of each Ziploc bag and bundle. Old people need stuff. It makes them feel secure, or so Gram says.

Gram holds on to the handle of the cart as I push the bags through customs at John F. Kennedy Airport. We’re back in the United States, which means I must begin to live a real life again and face my responsibilities. I begin with a commitment to Gram’s health and general well-being. I will call and make an appointment for her with Dr. Sculco at the Hospital for Special Surgery. Gram needs new knees, and she’s going to get them if it’s the last thing I do.

I survey the line at pickup. Families, friends, and chauffeurs wait for us, looking us over from head to toe as we search for familiar faces from our side.

Roman waits with my parents. Mom is wearing a red sundress with matching sunglasses and waves a small Italian flag. Nice touch. Dad stands next to her, waving plainly with his human hand.

Roman stands tall over them, in jeans and a blue Brooks Brothers button-down shirt. He looks handsome. He always does, which makes hellos and good-byes sweet. When our eyes meet for the first time in a month, my heart races. I really missed him, and as angry as I was with him, I love him. My nose stings as though I might cry.

I kiss my father and mother, and then Roman. He takes me into his arms, and my parents and Gram vamp about the trip, as if they don’t notice that he can’t let go of me. This ought to be an interesting car ride. Roman takes the luggage cart from me and pushes. Mom and Dad and Gram follow. I fill him in on Costanzo and what he missed on Capri. We go through the doors to the parking garage.

“Honey, we’ll take the bags. You go with Roman,” Mom says.

“I drove, too,” Roman says.

“Oh, two cars. Great. Okay. You can take my bags. I never want to see them again.”

Dad helps Roman load up the back of his Olds Cutlass Supreme with the bags I lugged through Tuscany and farther south. I lift my carry-on out of the car and hold it in my arms. “Precious cargo,” I tell Gram. “The shoes. I want to keep them with me.”

“Of course,” she says.

They climb into Dad’s car, while Roman opens the front door of the passenger side of his car for me. I get into his car, and shiver, even though it’s almost June. I remember the first winter night I sat in this car, and how happy we were. He climbs in and pulls the door shut. He turns to me. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

“You’re beautiful,” he says and kisses me.

“It’s the Capri sun.” I shrug, deflecting his compliment that sounds sincere. I don’t know what to believe. When it comes to Roman, all I know for sure is that things are constantly changing. “You want to stay over?” he asks quietly.

“Sure,” I tell him.

With my quick answer, Roman, like all men, is satisfied that all is forgiven. He believes what I tell him, and why shouldn’t he? I don’t want to overthink our reunion and turn it into a monster discussion of our future and our relationship. We’ve got years for that, or do we? When it comes to love, this is where I’m weak. I don’t fight for myself or what I want. I’m perfectly happy to pretend that we’ve moved past my hurt, Italy, and all the unpleasantness. Now I’m home and all will be well. We can pick up where we left off.

Roman talks about the restaurant-review night, and how the pressure was on. When he tells me Frank Bruni of the Times gave him three stars, I throw my arms around him. I act excited for him, giddy even, and I’m all the things he needs me to be: supportive, interested, and utterly on his side. When he asks me about Italy, I give him the broad strokes, but I don’t explain how I think I’ve changed, and how the people I met had such an impact on me. I begin to tell him about the old lady’s brooch, but it sounds silly, so I change the subject and switch the conversation back to him.

I look at his face, and his glorious neck, his hands and his long legs, and I get stirred up. But it isn’t stirred up of the deep variety; it’s a fashionable fake of the real thing. This is the part of me that loves being in a relationship. I like the stability and being part of a couple. Never mind our problems, we’re together, and that’s enough. More than enough. Roman Falconi might be the Chuck Cohen of love, the knockoff, whereas I’m looking for a couture label, but he’s mine.

I’m going to his apartment and I’m probably going to make love to him, but it’s not going to mean what it would have meant a month ago, or even a week ago. Then, we were building on a solid foundation. Now, doubt has seeped in and I’ve got to find what I saw in the beginning. I only hope that my feelings will all come rushing back just as they were the first time he kissed me. Maybe then our relationship can begin anew, and I can figure out how to be in a relationship with Roman and his restaurant.

“Someday, we’ll go back to Capri together,” he promises. Gratefully, the traffic on the LIE gets thick and he has to keep his eyes on the road. In this moment, I try to believe him. But somehow I know he’s just saying it because he thinks that will keep me focused on the future, and out of the present, where our problems with each other are alive and well.

“That would be great,” I tell him. It’s not a lie. It would be great.

The next morning, I wake up in Roman’s bed, buried deep in the warm comforter. I slept soundly, exhausted from the drive to Rome and the flight back to New York. I look over and see my overnight bag by the door, and my carry-on with the Bella Rosa inside.

I get up and go into Roman’s kitchen. There’s a pot of coffee and a bagel on the counter with a note: “Went to work. So happy you’re home.”

I pour the coffee. I sit down in his kitchen and look across the bright, sunlit loft, and instead of seeming masculine and romantic, as it did before Italy, in full daylight it appears to be unfinished, bare, in need of things. Temporary.