Chapter 26
The peace does not last, because dinner service the next night is busier than I’ve ever seen it.
Despite his objections—you should be out exploring—I’m helping Nico run food and bus tables, which are all skills I’ve perfected in my family’s restaurant.
There’s a wedding in town, and part of the wedding party is staying at the B and B.
They have nine of the twelve rooms booked and have decided to dine in tonight, even inviting over some of their fellow guests from a neighboring hotel.
Nico and I run the front of house with the help of a server while his mom cooks up a storm in the back. We’re putting in orders almost as rapidly as his mom is slapping plates onto the counter.
“Nico”—his mom flags him down, breathless—“we only have four bottles of wine left. How is that possible?”
“I don’t know; it’s not like I’ve been drinking them!” Nico says, in a way that makes it obvious he’s been caught filching them before. I eye him, curious. He’s such a straightlaced rule follower—has he thrown ragers?
“No, no. It’s a good thing. We’ve been busy,” his mom tuts. “But can you get some more from Vittoria? She owes me a favor.” She pauses as we all watch the server, Alfonso, grab one of the last bottles from the walk-in fridge. “Quickly!”
“Yes, yes, Mama.” Nico tugs my elbow gently.
“I can come with?” I ask, my eyes bright with optimism.
“No way I’m leaving you here,” Nico laughs under his breath. “You’d never survive.”
“Here, here. Bring this.” Nico’s mom shoves us a canister of fresh biscotti and a basket of sun-ripened tomatoes. “And this!” She gathers a few fresh flowers and wraps twine around their stems before pushing us out the door. “Grazie!”
I laugh, grateful to have the opportunity to escape the chaos.
We walk down the narrow village roads, turning down one street then the next.
I’m lost in minutes, but Nico keeps a healthy pace.
As we make our way to Vittoria’s, my steps fall in line with Nico’s, our heels syncing against the cobblestone.
It’s a perfect night. A light breeze blows my loose hairs back from my face, billowing Nico’s thin linen shirt around his lean arms and carrying the distracting scent of his cologne.
“Everyone always talks about gelato when they visit Italy, but have you ever had granita?”
I snap out of it. “What’s that?”
“It’s like a mix between gelato and a slushie.” Nico points to a stand with an orange-and-white-striped awning that covers a row of machines churning with brightly colored flavors. “It’s decided. I’m buying you one.”
“No, Nico. You don’t have to.” I start digging for euros in my pockets, but before I’m able to find any coins, Nico has already paid.
“You would think you should order limone, being on the Amalfi Coast and all, but it’s melon that’s the most underrated.” Nico orders one of each.
The attendant fills two seafoam-colored bowls with swirls of granita and sticks neon-orange spoons into them. Nico grabs both, refusing his change, and hands the melon to me. He leads us to a bench a stone’s throw away, one that faces out over the water.
I glance back in the direction of the B and B. “Do we even have time? Don’t we have to get back?” I stare down at my bowl, mouth watering, as I take a seat.
“Eh, nothing here is actually a rush. It will be okay.” Nico nods his chin toward my bowl of granita. “Go on and try it already.”
“Okay!” I dig my spoon in for my first taste. The flavor is incredible, like I’ve just taken a bite into a juicy cantaloupe that has been ripening in the summer sun. The crushed ice melts on my tongue. “I can’t believe how good this is. Like ice cream, but not as rich?”
“Told you.” Nico licks his spoon, all smug. “Here, try the lemon.”
He’s right again. What’s that like? The lemon is refreshing, but the cantaloupe was worth harvesting your organs for.
“So good,” I murmur, stealing another scoop. His arm is cool when I brush up against it, warming when he doesn’t shift away.
From where we sit, we can see a sliver of water, the jagged cliffs that drop into the sea. “Have you heard the story of those cliffs?” Nico asks, pointing toward them with his spoon.
“No.” I squint in their direction. “What is it?”
“They say this place exists because Hercules created it. He needed a burial place for his beloved bride, the nymph Amalfi. She died young, leaving him utterly heartbroken, so he chose the most beautiful place he could find, a place where the sea met the sky and where nature flourished. He decorated her burial place with trees that carried fruit as bright and fragrant as the sun, so he planted them everywhere he could. Lemon trees, which he stole from the Garden of the Hesperides.”
“No way,” I marvel. I’d been right about this being the perfect place to fall in love, at least. “That’s incredibly romantic.”
“The most famous story is from The Odyssey.” Nico points to the bay.
“Right here, the Bay of Ieranto, is where the sirens perched as they attempted to seduce Odysseus during his journey home from Troy. Their songs were so entrancing that it would send the sailors into a stupor, luring them into treacherous waters, and eventually to their deaths.”
“I remember that from elementary school. And Odysseus told his men to tie him up so he could listen to their song, right?” I hadn’t ever thought of these myths as happening in real places. How strange it is, to be here in this place where the stories originated.
“Yes. Legend says the sirens were so distraught by his apathy that they threw themselves in the water, turning to stone, and drowned.”
“Do you believe in all that?” I ask, staring out at the white caps in the water and the lush green cliffside speckled with violet flowers.
“They say mythology is a mix of truth and fable.” Nico shrugs. “But there’s something special about this place. And there’s a magic in believing in the impossible.”
The way he says it makes me think it applies not only to mythology, but to other things, too. I could sit here forever, skin on Nico’s, staring out at the ocean. But no matter how slow Nico says the pace is around here, I don’t want to find out how slow is “too slow” for his mom.
“I think a crate of wine is calling our names. Shall we?” I ask.
“Yes. We should go.” Nico pops up and grabs the dishes, tossing them in a recycling bin. “We’re not far.”
We only walk a block or two farther until Nico is knocking on Vittoria’s door.
“Nico!” Vittoria greets Nico like he’s a celebrity.
She hugs him so tight that I worry his head might pop off, kissing him on both cheeks before pinching them and admiring his curls.
She spews a rush of Italian at him. Nico hands over the gifts from his mom, which sends Vittoria into another tizzy.
Then she’s scurrying around, packing food and cookies for Nico to take home, piling fresh produce in a burlap bag until it’s so full it may rip apart.
Then Vittoria notices me, standing awkwardly on her front stoop, and she’s fawning over me too. She says something to Nico, and his cheeks burn. He appears to be trying to change the subject to the matter at hand, because he finally points at the crate of wine that’s sitting by her front door.
And then Vittoria is on a different tangent, explaining something about the wine.
“Grazie, grazie,” Nico repeats over and over as he bows his head, lifting the crate and taking small steps back as he attempts to leave.
We do eventually escape, laughing as we tumble down the walkway. We lug the wine back together, bottles clanking against the sides as we each keep hold of one side of the crate. Nico’s other arm is full of the burlap bag bursting with produce and gifts for his mom.
The coastline is enchanting set against the water at dusk, dotted with tiny pops of yellow from all the lemons.
It’s the sunset, the stories, the laughter, the company that makes the words spill from my mouth.
“Someday, I want to find someone who loves me so much they’d create all of this for me.
A paradise of ten thousand lemon trees.”
Nico looks at me, that glint in his eye. And then he delivers his line so low and with so much conviction it sends a shiver down my spine. “Soraya, I have no doubt that you will.”
My chest swells. I warm from head to toe. In this moment, I want to be nowhere but right here, even with everything that’s led me down this narrow, winding path with Nico. As we swing the crate of wine under the lamppost, my steps feel as light as my heart.
And to stop myself from saying something I don’t mean just because I’m caught up in the Italian sunset, I say something frivolous instead. “After all of this, I sure hope I get to try some of this wine.”
Nico smiles but doesn’t say anything back, like he knows I wanted to say something else entirely.