Chapter Twenty-Two
The morning after Astrid and RJ’s wedding, they flew to Rome.
Florence had never been on an airplane before, and she gripped the armrests on either side of her chair as they waited for the coach passengers to board.
It did not seem logical to her that something as big and substantial as this plane, and all these people, and their luggage (Astrid alone had packed three suitcases), would all soon be airborne. Surely that defied the laws of physics.
“Can I get you something to drink before takeoff?” the stewardess asked.
Florence pressed her lips together and shook her head. She thought if she opened her mouth, she might throw up.
“She’ll have a glass of champagne,” Astrid said from across the aisle.
“And so will I. And my husband.” Astrid placed her hand proprietarily on RJ’s arm.
“We’re newlyweds, you know,” Astrid cooed.
“We just got married last night at the Beverly Hills Hotel. There were over four hundred guests. I’d wanted to invite more, but it was rather last minute. ”
“The mayor was there,” RJ said. “Tell her, darling. And Bing Crosby sang a duet.”
“Yes, with Marilyn Monroe,” Astrid said.
“Everyone said the dress she was wearing was pale pink, but I thought it was very pale—almost white, which was very inconsiderate, and you cannot convince me otherwise that she didn’t know exactly what she was doing.
Everyone knows it’s gauche to wear white to a wedding. ”
“No one can hold a candle to you, darling, even Marilyn,” RJ assured her.
The stewardess expressed her congratulations to the couple and then scurried back up front to prepare their drinks. Florence couldn’t help but feel as though she was relieved to have an excuse to get away from them.
“Here,” Astrid said when the stewardess was gone. She leaned across the aisle and pressed a pill into Florence’s sweaty palm. “Take this with your champagne.”
“What is it?” Florence asked.
“Miltown,” Astrid said, “a mild tranquilizer.”
“Are you supposed to take this with alcohol?” Florence asked, unsure.
“Yes,” Astrid said. “It makes it work even better. You’ll be dead asleep by takeoff.”
Florence closed her fingers around the pill, and Astrid smiled. When the stewardess returned with their drinks, Astrid raised her glass in mock salute.
“Bottoms up,” Astrid said. “I’ll see you all in Rome.”
When Florence woke up hours later, the cabin was dark. The window shades were pulled shut, and the woman next to her was sleeping, her head lolled back at an unattractive angle.
Florence looked across the aisle. RJ was asleep, reclined in his seat, but Astrid was up, another glass of champagne on the tray in front of her and a fashion magazine spread open.
“Where are we?” Florence asked.
“Somewhere over the Atlantic,” Astrid said.
Florence imagined the dark swathes of cold water thousands of feet beneath them and suddenly felt lightheaded.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” Astrid said, lowering her voice slightly and leaning toward Florence conspiratorially.
“Um, sure,” Florence said, grateful for the distraction. Though if Astrid asked her one more time what color she thought Marilyn’s dress really was, she just might throw herself out the nearest emergency exit.
“Have you ever been in love?” Astrid asked instead.
Florence was taken aback. Astrid had never asked her anything about herself before.
“No,” Florence said. “I haven’t.”
“You say that with so much confidence,” Astrid said, “like you’re really sure.”
“I am sure,” Florence said.
“But if you’ve never been in love, how do you know when you really are?
” Astrid asked. “People say ‘love at first sight,’ like it can happen in an instant, with a single glance, without knowing a thing about the person aside from what they look like. And then people say ‘falling in love,’ like it’s a process that happens over time.
And people say ‘falling out of love,’ like it’s something transient that can pass, like a flu or a summer cold.
And Mother said she loved Daddy, but I never saw them so much as hold hands, and that does not seem like love to me.
Sometimes it seems like love is like God—you get a different answer depending on who you ask, and everyone fervently believes in their version of it. ”
Florence thought for a moment. “I’ve always believed that romantic love has two parts,” Florence said.
“There’s physical attraction. That can happen at first sight, obviously.
But the second part, a real affection, can only be developed over time, after you’ve come to really know someone.
I think that anyone who says they fell in love at first sight merely had their initial attraction substantiated later on by a deepening regard for the person as they got to know them. ”
Astrid considered this. “But how do you know when you really love someone?” Astrid asked. “How do you know when you’re in love?”
“I think it’s something you just know,” Florence said. “Like when you’re lonely or homesick, that hollow ache in your bones. No one has to tell you what it is. You just know.”
Astrid thought about this for a moment and then took out the pill bottle from her purse. “Would you like another to get you through the rest of the flight?” she asked, rattling the bottle.
“No,” Florence said. “Thank you. I’ll just sit for a little bit and read.”
When the sun came up, they landed in London, where they boarded a smaller plane for Rome. And when they arrived in Rome, a car took them three hours south to Amalfi, along the coast, to a place called Minori.
Minori was a small town wedged between the mountains and the sea. It was a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys, overlooked by terraces of lemon groves. Bougainvillea cascaded everywhere from the rafters and rooftops.
They had two rooms at the Villa Romana Hotel, a mere five hundred feet from the sea. It was a beautiful hotel the color of cream, three stories tall, with a private pool, a courtyard dining room, and a solarium.
Astrid and RJ stayed out all night drinking and dancing at the local clubs.
In the predawn light, they’d stumble home, laughing and drunk, and fall asleep, still clothed, on their bed, where they’d sleep until the afternoon.
And so Florence was left mostly to herself, which was how she preferred it.
She spent her mornings walking the promenade along the sea, looking out at the people scattered on the black sand beach with their umbrellas and chairs.
She ate her lunch on the shaded beach patios—fresh mozzarella, handmade pasta, limoncello—and spent her afternoons visiting the local sights.
She visited the ruins of an ancient Roman villa and then a baroque church with a pale-yellow facade called the Basilica di Santa Trofimena, which was built for the martyr Saint Trofimena.
The nuns there told her the story. Trofimena was a young girl from Sicily.
At age twelve, she was determined to dedicate her life to Christ, but her father, who did not share her beliefs in Christianity, wanted her to marry.
When she disobeyed him, he killed her, put her ashes in an urn, and cast it out to sea.
The urn washed up in Minori, her story inscribed on its lid.
The villagers put the urn on a cart and carried her into town, but at a certain point, the ox pulling the cart refused to go any farther.
So the villagers erected a church there in her name.
Soon after, the Arabs tried to attack the village and convert it to Islam.
The people of Minori prayed to Saint Trofimena for protection, and she sent a storm to sink the invaders’ ships.
Florence was not Catholic. She did not believe in saints or martyrs.
But something about Trofimena’s story reminded her of Doris.
Like Trofimena, Doris had known her own mind at a young age, and while she had not been able to escape matrimony as Trofimena had, she had found her own way to live the life she’d wanted, largely outside the confines of her marriage.
At the altar, Florence lit a candle in remembrance of Doris, and even though Doris was not a religious woman, Florence felt she was there with her in that moment and that she understood the gesture.
At dinner on the last night, Astrid begged Florence to come out with them.
“I’m not really one for dancing,” Florence said. “Or drinking, for that matter.”
“Are you a prig or something?” RJ asked, lighting a cigar. “What do you have against a good time?”
Heat bloomed in Florence’s cheeks. Astrid leaned over and put her hand on top of Florence’s on the table.
“I know you’ve been very sad since Granny died,” Astrid said.
“I can see how much you loved her. But I know Granny, and I know she wouldn’t want this for you, all this moping around.
If she were here, she’d say, ‘My girl, you’re seventeen, not seventy.
Go out and have a good time.’ So do it for Granny.
Do it for yourself. Come out with us. It’s our last night here. Don’t waste it.”
For the second time that week, Astrid had surprised her. So often, Florence thought Astrid to be vain and flighty, and maybe she was. But she also had her moments of insight, her moments of compassion, however rare and far between they were.
“All right,” Florence said, and Astrid smiled.
“Splendid,” Astrid said, cutting into her steak with renewed vigor. “Come to our room after dinner, and we can get ready together.”
Astrid insisted Florence borrow one of her dresses, a strapless cocktail gown that nipped in at the waist. Florence had never worn a strapless gown before, and she felt naked with her shoulders exposed.
Astrid had to keep reminding her not to cross her arms in front of her chest, not to hunch forward.