24. Nice Machinery
Nice Machiner y
Lucy
It feels almost surreal—like a scene from a movie—leaning over the railing of a ferry bound for Capri, surrounded by the women of my family.
So much has changed these past few days.
One minute, I’m here for work, and now, I’m heading to one of Italy’s most beautiful islands.
Joined by three women who share my blood but are complete strangers to me.
Yet, as the sun kisses my skin and the breeze tousles my hair, I can’t help but feel that I’ve stepped into something warm and familiar.
The island of Capri unfolds like a postcard before us as we step off the ferry, the turquoise water sparkling under the sun and whitewashed buildings clinging t o the steep cliffs above.
The harbor is bursting with life—vendors hawking their products, colorful boats swaying, and the scent of lemon trees blending with the salty sea breeze.
Cobblestone streets wind through bougainvillea and olive trees as we weave our way past bustling cafés and quiet trails.
The walk to the beach is long, but we seize the opportunity to get to know each other better.
And as we finally reach our destination, I know it was all worth it.
The secluded cove is tucked away from the touristic area, a serene escape framed by jagged cliffs and impossibly clear water, which shifts from aquamarine to emerald.
As I step onto the soft sand, surrounded by the women who are becoming more and more a part of me, I feel a sense of belonging that I didn’t know I needed.
Grandma settles herself on a shaded lounger, adjusting her wide-brimmed hat as she gazes out at the sea. “This place hasn’t changed much,” she murmurs. “It’s just as beautiful as I remember.”
“How long are you in Italy for, Lucy?” Paola asks me while spreading a blanket on the sand.
“I’m leaving next Monday,” I say, the weight of my words pressing down on me.
“That soon!” Alessia exclaims. “What a shame. Any chance we can bribe your boss into letting you stay longer?”
I chuckle. “Actually, I have a vacation week right after the Monaco race, and I’m going to Spain and France. It’s my first time in Europe.”
“Oh.” She chews her bottom li p. “That sounds fun, though I wish you could stay with us a while longer.”
“I can always come back,” I suggest, my tone hopeful as I pinch some sand between my fingers.
“That would be fantastic.” Paola tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear in a motherly gesture that makes my chest ache. “And how’s your article coming along?”
I nod, smiling. “Great. It’s more of a feature— ‘a day in the life’ thing. I’ve been following Elio around for over a week now, getting the feel for his routine. And it’s been . . . interesting.”
Alessia leans in, raising an eyebrow. “Interesting? Is that all we get?”
I laugh, feeling my tension slip away with their lighthearted teasing.
“Well, it’s been chaotic. I’ve learned more about the F1 world than I ever thought I would.
I didn’t really grasp how intense everything was until I saw it firsthand.
It’s not just the races. It’s everything that goes into getting there. ”
“I can imagine,” Alessia says, bringing her hair into a bun. “I’ve only watched the races on TV, but being there in person must be exhilarating.”
“I’m not fond of all the noise,” Grandma says, shaking her head. “But I can appreciate a piece of nice machinery.”
Alessia smirks, sliding her sunglasses down her nose to look at me. “Speaking of ‘nice machinery,’ what exactly is happening between Elio and you?” She barely finishes her sentence before her voice breaks into giggles.
My cheeks heat up as I busy myself, smo othing out a corner of the blanket. “Nothing. I told you, we’re just . . . friends.”
“I’m not really buying that,” Paola says, scrunching her nose, and she reminds me so much of Mom, I have to look away. I could never hide things from her either.
“Why not?” I exclaim, half laughing. “It’s the truth.”
“So, you have a boyfriend back in Chicago?” Alessia inquires, her gaze curious.
I shake my head, brushing white sand off my legs. “No. I broke up with my ex last year.”
Alessia exchanges a knowing glance with Paola. “Well, maybe Italy will surprise you,” she says with a sly smile.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t hold back the grin tugging at my lips. “I’m here to work, not star in a romance novel.”
“Sometimes life writes the best stories,” Grandma says, leaning back and closing her eyes.
Her words linger in the air, carried by the gentle sea breeze. I try to laugh them off, but they settle deep in my chest, stirring up something I can’t quite name.
The idea of my life writing its own story feels too close to home. I came to Italy for a job, and as it turned out, for a chance to reconnect with the family I thought I’d lost forever. Falling into anything more—especially with someone like Elio—isn’t a part of that story. It can’t be.
Yet, as I sit here, listening to the chatter of my family and the soft lapping of the waves, I can’t shake the thought that maybe Grandma is right. Life doesn’t care about plans—it has a way of surprising you when you least expect it. And that idea is both thrilling and terrifying.