“I do,” I say aloud—then catch myself as Gabriella meets my eyes across the table.
“You do what?” she says.
“I do . . . want octopus. And cheese soup.” I can’t imagine eating anything, but I’m trying not to let it show. “I see a career in marketing for your son.” I stop pretending to look at the menu and raise my glass of chilled Ravello bianco to clink with Gabriella’s.
As the waiter sets down a tray of lemony tomato bruschetta, Gabriella stretches her long legs from beneath our table until her square-toed white sling backs nestle in the sand. She is bright and charming, with wavy red hair she constantly tucks behind her ears, a long string of black pearls around her neck, and a flowy midi dress the same turquoise as the sea. Under normal circumstances, we could be friends, but I know as soon as I tell her about Noah’s op-ed, and that it’s probably landing in people’s New York Times notifications . . . right about now—our lunch will go from pleasant culinary lark to Fellini-esque firing squad.
“Now,” she says, holding out the plate to offer me a slice of bruschetta, “you said there was something you wanted to discuss?”
I have to tell her. It’s the decent thing to do.
The waiter sets down two plates of gorgeously charred octopus, giving me an excellent opportunity to stall. I stab an olive with my fork and look out at the beach as I chew. Everyone I see appears to be part of an amorous pair—holding hands, kissing, sharing a scoop of pink gelato, rubbing sunblock into someone else’s bronzed shoulders.
If I’m hungry for anything, it’s what those people out there have.
I called Noah twice last night, and both times his phone went straight to voicemail.
I remind myself that I am grappling with two (mostly) separate issues. One is the giant question of what will happen when I finally do talk to Noah. The other is my responsibility as his editor to prepare Gabriella for the op-ed.
I’ll tackle the less scary one first.
“It has to do with the launch tonight,” I say to Gabriella.
“Of course.” She smiles, taking a tiny bite of octopus and chewing languorously. “I will tell you all about it. This is our biggest event to date. And we’re very proud to pull it off. We were inspired by your version in New York, and have invited two hundred and sixty-six of Noa Callaway’s biggest fans from all throughout Italy. There will be cocktails and caprese, millefoglie—which is our wedding cake, sugared almonds for good luck. A famous wedding DJ is coming down from Rome. And of course, the highlight of the evening will be you. Your speech. We were so moved by your words in the video, Lanie. We are honored to have you here to celebrate with us.”
“Thank you, but—”
“In fact, there is much interest from the media, including many requests to speak to you.”
“To me?”
“Of course! You are Noa Callaway’s ambassador. You know all the secrets.” She winks at me. “If you are comfortable, I would like to confirm some interviews with our biggest newspapers and TV stations. Everyone wants to know what Noa Callaway is really like behind the scenes. I have prepped the journalists—they know you cannot tell them, but they are Italian, so they will ask anyway! If you are happy to do the interviews, I can confirm for this afternoon, before the party?”
“Gabriella,” I say as the waiter comes to whisk away our starters, setting down the most aromatic pasta. It smells like heaven in a bowl, and I wish I weren’t too anxious to enjoy it. “There’s something I need to tell you. Actually, it may be easiest to show you.”
I take out my phone and pull up the op-ed. I place it on the table near her wine. She takes out turquoise reading glasses from her purse and slides them on.
While she reads, I think of Noah. I think of Chapter One. The Fendi suit. The way Elizabeth shows up at the park, naïve and optimistic. The way the truth crushes her. The way she runs. And then—
If it means a chance to be with you, I’ll be here every Saturday at sunset for the rest of my life.
When Gabriella looks up at me, I realize there are tears in my eyes. She puts her hand out, takes mine in it.
“Lanie.”
“I’m so sorry. I think it’s right that the truth come out about Noah, but I had no idea this piece was coming, that it would publish now. I didn’t want to ruin your event.”
“I understand,” Gabriella says, swirling her wine thoughtfully. “Secrets have their own lives.” She picks up her phone and types furiously. “But I’m canceling your interviews this afternoon.”
I nod. Gabriella knows her market, and it may be for the best to distance myself from the Italian launch entirely—
“You’ll need to save your strength for the party,” she says.
“You still want me to speak at the launch?”
Gabriella sets her phone down, looks up at me, and crosses her arms. “I think you owe our readers an explanation.”
“Yes. And I will do my best to give it to them.” I sit up straighter in my chair. I square my shoulders. “I believe in the truth of Noa Callaway and in Noah Ross. I believe in this book, and the ones coming after it. I didn’t come all this way to hide.”
“Very well.” Gabriella smiles at me, approving. “I don’t think the guests will go so far as to actually run you into the sea, but just so you’re prepared, they will expect catharsis.”
* * *
With eight hours to go before a couple hundred Italian women eat me like an appetizer at an elegant party that will be livestreamed around the world, I rev the Ducati’s engine and wonder which way to go. What does one do with a free afternoon on the Amalfi Coast, a yearning heart, a looming comeuppance, and a man on the other side of an ocean who won’t pick up his phone?
When I see a sign on the side of the Amalfi Coast highway for the road to Castel San Giorgio, I recognize the name. I remember I’d read it’s the launch site for hang gliders over the Amalfi Coast. I couldn’t have planned this better if I’d tried. I wind the bike up the long medieval road and park in a pebble lot behind an ancient Greek temple.
I come upon a woman about my age, inspecting the parachutes of two gliders next to a tangle of harnesses and helmets. She has a kind face and a lime green bandana in her hair.
She waves when she sees me. “Ciao!” she calls, unleashing a torrent of Italian. Noticing my confusion, she points at me. “Mariana?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I—”
“Sorry,” she says in English, more slowly. “I thought you were my afternoon reservation. What can I do for you?”