Chapter 10 #2
‘No, don’t worry about the bedding. Everything is fine,’ I muttered, my patience thinning as I grabbed the silver tray from her hands to give her one less reason to linger.
‘I appreciate the care. Really. But please, I don’t want any disruptions for the rest of the day, perhaps even the week. I just need to sleep.’
Instead of backing off, she stood her ground, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing out toward the empty, sunlit terrace.
‘Your bride is out there alone, signore,’ she said, giving me a look of worry. ‘How does a man leave a gorgeous girl by herself like this on a honeymoon? She’s scarcely eaten since you both arrived either. This is not right.’
Frustration flared in me, but I checked my temper.
‘I understand your concern, but it’s between my wife and me,’ I rasped. ‘Please. Give us some time.’
The unyielding look in my eyes must have landed because her breath hitched.
She blinked, realizing she’d pushed as far as she could go, and she backed out of my space with a small, respectful nod.
She meant well, but I was at my limit and doing everything in my power not to lose my shit.
I shut the door and leaned my head against the wood, wishing the rest of the world would disappear.
ROXY
Capri was an island of undeniable, breathtaking beauty.
Seated on a lounge chair on my guest suite terrace, my eyes lingered on the horizon.
The view stretched across the glittering blue sea all the way to Naples and the peak of Mount Vesuvius.
Whoever stood on this exact limestone cliff in 79 AD must have had a front-row seat to the wall of smoke and boiling lava that buried Pompeii for eternity.
My eyes tracked a pair of white cruise ships steaming toward their next port of call.
I imagined everyone on board happy, carefree, lighthearted, unlike me, stuck in a dismal, depressing routine.
So far, I’d slept for hours, read three books on my Kindle, wept until my eyelids swelled, and nibbled on the gourmet meals Mrs. Campanelli prepared.
Angel never showed his face once.
He remained absent, yet his immense presence and brooding somehow permeated the villa.
One night I stumbled to the vast kitchen and wine cellar, uncorked a bottle of red, and downed it all to stave off the misery.
I woke with a massive hangover and vowed not to repeat it; besides, the alcohol failed to lift the ache inside me.
I tested the heated infinity pool and swam laps until my shoulder muscles burned.
Regardless of what I did to try to forget Angel, my thoughts drifted straight back to him.
I replayed the wedding on a loop, re-imagining his promise to end our marriage as soon as he could, and dwelling on his aloofness, punishing myself over and over.
He had no desire for me; he never would.
When would I be free from holding onto a man whose heart belonged to someone else?
One morning, lying in bed, I made up my mind to stop having my feelings for Angel control me.
I started with a series of tiny wins, from brushing my teeth to showering, which refreshed my body.
Yoga on the terrace lifted my gloom.
Eating a good meal nourished my mind and soul.
Later, I made one attempt to draw Angel out of his misery.
I tapped at his door one mid-afternoon with a cup of coffee for him.
Angel, it’s me, Rox. I brought you an espresso.’
I got silence.
When I knocked again, I caught the sound of shuffling feet and then his timbre rumbling through the door.
‘I can’t do it, Roxy. I can’t handle company right now. So please leave me be.’
The utterance was so agonized, his cadence so coarse and harsh, that it made me shudder.
I walked away, blinking back tears, shattered for him, and for me.
On the sixth afternoon of our horrendous honeymoon, I dragged my portable wooden easel, oil tubes, and a blank square canvas to the infinity pool.
The endless expanse of blue water soothed me, and the Mediterranean’s golden sun warmed me, giving me inspiration to paint.
Working from the shaded pergola, I went to work capturing the shifting hues of the sea.
‘You’ve a true gift, signora,’ Mrs. Campanelli murmured, appearing with a fresh pitcher of iced lemonade.
I wiped a smudge of cobalt pigment onto a cloth resting on my denim shorts.
‘I’m just trying to keep busy.’
She pulled up a woven wicker chair, her eyes softening. ‘There’s so much life to experience beyond these villa walls.’
‘I don’t want to get trapped in the tourist crowds,’ I admitted, swirling my camel-hair brush in turpentine.
In truth, I had no energy to plaster on fake smiles and act like a happy traveler when I was nothing but.
‘You can skip the cattle-car tours and the terrible traffic jams at the Blue Grotto,’ she insisted.
‘How?’
‘We’ve a private skiff right here on the property. You can head out with Carlo for a morning on the water with him as your guide and captain. He can stop in hidden coves for swimming, and I can pack lunch, prosecco and snacks for you. It’s the best way to see our coast.’
I smiled.
‘That actually sounds decent.’
‘You also must take a stroll outside the gates to immerse yourself in our natural beauty,’ she continued, leaning forward with an enthusiastic grin.
‘The path to the right of the property takes you through the quietest part of the island. You’ll walk under soaring pine trees to the most scenic cliff on earth.
My own son, Matteo, strolls there to find inspiration. He’s a painter, you know.’
A genuine connection sparked between us as she shared stories of her family.
She was proud of their accomplishments and whipped out her phone to scroll through a slideshow of their graduations, weddings, births, and the feasts they prepared at home.