Chapter 16
A week after the Palio dinner, we’ve unfortunately arrived at Anita’s last day here. I’ve gotten used to her joining our Belpagna mornings and harassing me in the kitchen at night.
In New York I don’t have time like this.
I don’t give myself mornings with friends, and I don’t have any routines outside of work.
Catching up with Anita is usually a once-a-month post-midnight nightcap or Tuesday daytime walk with a to-go cup of tea.
Between Anita’s recent lurking and my now monthslong consistency with Emilia and Nico, I’ve kind of gotten used to having community around me in a way I never really have before.
So we have to do up her last day right. And since it’s a Monday, I’m free to actually get out and see something.
Emilia suggested a beach day, and I’d almost forgotten how close we actually are to the ocean, since I’ve never ventured much farther than the surrounding towns.
I pull my little marigold scooter to the front of Belpagna and grab my beach bag off the back.
“On your advice, I actually did buy a new bathing suit at the farmers’ market,” I say to Emilia as I walk in. “And though I didn’t believe you that that was a real thing, I now appreciate being part of another bizarre Italian custom. I also bought new sandals and, unrelated, an alarm clock.”
“I told you,” she says with a grin. “And stop calling it a farmers’ market. It’s just the market. Produce can be sold next to underwear. You guys are weird that you separate it out.”
She takes off her apron and bandana (adorned with lemons today) and calls back something Italian into the kitchen. She comes around the counter carrying a large bag full of food.
“I thought you said there was a little snack bar at the beach?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I want to eat good things on my day off.”
“Snob.”
“Seen a mirror?” she retorts, pushing past me with a grin.
“Yes.” I smirk. “Have you seen one now that your hair is out of that scarf?”
“Hey!” she says as she pulls a new turquoise one out of her pocket. “As though I’d want to be like you and let my hair get out of control.”
She swiftly ties the new bandana, while I’m left trying to see if my hair is standing on end in all this humidity (and it’s not. I should never let Emilia make me doubt myself).
I rush to follow her out the door and am surprised to see Nico standing next to Anita.
“Oh, are you coming?” I ask, unable not to notice that he’s wearing shorts (something I’ve never actually seen him in before) and a loosely buttoned short linen shirt that sits on him as though it was designed to torture me.
His brow furrows at my question, and I’m hoping I didn’t come across as too unwelcoming. He can’t possibly know that the only reason I wouldn’t want him joining us on a daylong activity is because the thought of seeing him in a bathing suit is giving me heart palpitations.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
“Oh, yes!” I reply, a little too enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you’re coming! Emilia just didn’t tell me. This is going to be so fun, right? I haven’t been to the beach here yet. Do you know this beach club we’re going to? It’s supposed to be really nice but low-key. I think it’ll be great.”
He gives me a soft smile in response to all my rambling. I wonder if my incorrigible mind’s thoughts are apparent to him.
“I’m going to drive my car, so you can throw everything in my trunk if you want to,” Emilia says to me, ignoring my nonsense.
“Oh, I’m good,” I reply. “It all fits on the back of my scooter.”
“Look at you, so Italian now!” Anita exclaims, scrunching her nose at me like I’m a cute little puppy who’s finally figured out how to not chew on her own tail. “Who would’ve thought you’d be living that dolce vita life, driving a scooter along back roads to an Italian beach?”
I roll my eyes. “I also gutted some fish yesterday and scrubbed dirt off of produce—want to romanticize that too?”
“Maybe,” she says, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
“Nico, are you coming in the car or taking your Vespa?” Emilia asks.
“Vespa,” he says succinctly and then turns to me. “It’s farther than you’ve gone on yours before; why don’t you follow me, just in case?”
“Thanks,” I reply, hating that that small sentiment has me mildly choked up.
Nico always seems to toe the line between trying to look out for me while never being patronizing.
In New York, everyone assumes I’m solid steel, with no need for any looking out.
In contrast, most of the locals here treat me like I can’t tie my own shoes because I’m foreign and don’t speak the language.
Finding that middle ground so perfectly seems like an art.
We put on our helmets and take off. The sun gets higher in the sky as we follow winding roads for an hour.
I’m behind Nico the whole way, and the lack of needing to pay attention to directions allows me to breathe and take in the views stretching out in front of me.
As we get closer to the beach, the fields turn into palm trees.
When Nico pulls over to park, I do as well, and I put my scooter right next to his.
“How was the drive?” He removes his helmet, and that hair really should be illegal. He looks like he’s in a shampoo commercial, with that kind of soft, tousled look that you want to run your hands through.
But I’m ignoring it.
“Good,” I reply. “Thanks for letting me follow you—it made it a lot easier.”
He reaches out and tucks some of my messy hair behind my ear, smoothing it delicately with his fingers. I guess we had the same thought, although I’m jealous he can act on his impulses without the fear of spontaneously bursting into flames. Apparently that’s just me.
“No problem,” he says, a small smile that feels only for me playing across his lips. He squeezes my shoulder before turning in the direction of the path toward the beach.
I follow him, and we come out on the other side to a pebbly beach covered in Campari-colored striped chairs and umbrellas. Next to the vibrant electric blue of the ocean and the craggy rocks rising from it, the whole scene looks like something off a postcard.
“Our chairs are here!” I hear Anita’s voice call, and we swivel around until we see her waving from a corner.
They’ve snagged us four beach chairs under two dainty umbrellas, and we have a perfect view of an imposing rock where everyone seems to be jumping and splashing into the water.
There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and it’s the perfect day to be outside, soaking up sun like empty pages ready to have a story written down.
They call it a beach club, but it’s more basic than anything you’d find in the US.
Chairs are sardined together to make the most of the space.
There’s a little row of six cabanas in the same orangey-red hue as the chairs for people to change into their bathing suits.
In the corner is the promised snack and drink bar.
And that’s really it. Some people stay on their chairs; others have climbed high on the towering rocks that surround us and have turned this little patch into its own private cove; and then of course there are all the people swimming, dotted along the water.
It’s a casual slice of heaven.
Emilia and Anita have taken the two chairs farthest in, so Nico and I drop our stuff next to each other.
“I’m gonna go change,” I say, grabbing my bathing suit before scurrying over to one of the cabanas.
This particular suit, essentially a bra and underwear the color of sunshine, seemed like a good idea when I was at the market looking to grab an easy bathing suit.
But sitting next to Nico all day, half naked, is not really a thought I’d considered.
I change and come back outside. Anita’s placed a spritz on the little table next to my chair, and I take a big sip.
I pull out my Kindle (my latest purchase is a new memoir of a chef I know, who’s a total dick, but he’s admittedly had an interesting life).
I focus on that so I won’t wonder where Nico has wandered off to.
Left alone, I have a blissful half hour to stop thinking entirely.
It’s amazing how much you can relax with a spritz in hand, a good book, a comfy beach chair, and a view of crystal clear water in front of you.
Tension I didn’t even realize I was holding seems to melt away, carried off on the salty breeze.
I know in general I take some days off—but this is really off. This is brain off. This is responsibilities off. This is time turning off. This is ambition and what’s next and what am I doing Off.
The email from my dad this morning asking me when the restaurant is opening again can be forgotten. The thought of what I can prep for tomorrow to impress Gia can be forgotten. The recipe development I want to get started prepping for the fall can be forgotten.
I’m in the moment. Why don’t I ever do this? Why don’t I ever let myself do this?
But I can’t really focus on that thought because I see Nico come out of the water, and thank goodness I have sunglasses on, because I wasn’t really prepared for the sight in front of me.
I’m unable to stop staring, like a caricature wolf whose friend turns into a ham dinner once she sees him in another light.
For someone who pretends to sit around and tinker with machinery most of the time, he’s as solid and expansive as someone whose farm actually requires more than simply waiting for olives to grow.
Then, pair that body with someone who’s just come out of water—tousled hair, bathing suit clinging, droplets slowly making their merry way down with gravity.
I down the rest of my drink and put my eyes immediately back on my book. Nothing good can come from staring at my friend.
But I feel the bounce of him plopping onto the chair next to me, and suddenly I’m itching to move.