Lucky Break (7 page)

A few minutes after Alfonso steered the yacht out of the Naples marina, he came by with a tray of sparkling water, olives, and a bowl of sliced citrus fruit, marinated in this sweet, tangy syrup.

“Sweet, sparkly, and a little bit salty,” he explained with a twinkling grin. “Just like we hope your trip will be in Italy.”

The trip from Naples to Sorrento, the small coastal town where we were staying, took about forty-five minutes. My parents and I found spots to recline on the soft seats of the deck and closed our eyes. I could feel the warm sun beating down on us, but a cool ocean breeze kept it comfortable. And little by little, the noise from the marina was replaced with the lapping sounds of the sparkling Mediterranean.

Before I knew it, we were docking again. When I opened my eyes this time, the view of Sorrento took
my breath away. There were high stone walls leading up to the city, and orange trees in full bloom dotting almost every part of the coast. I could see umbrellas set up all along the waterfront and tables full of very stylish patrons enjoying a leisurely lunch.

“I knew you'd love it here,” my dad said, grinning at my excited expression. “Just wait until you take a spin through town.”

A crew arrived to transport our bags up the high stairs to where the large, private villa my parents had bought last year stood at the edge of the coastline. They'd been here several times since then, and I'd seen more than a few slide shows of photos from their travels, but nothing prepared me for the view when my parents opened up the French doors to the room where I'd be staying.

“Do you think you can manage here for a week?” my mother asked, suddenly sounding nervous. “I hope it's not too drafty. If we'd known you were coming sooner, I would have had them install another skylight, but—”

“It's perfect,” I breathed.

The cool stone tiles were the same golden color as the sun, which was now high in the sky. The bed faced the balcony, which looked out at the sea, which seemed to go on forever. From here, New York felt so
far away—and for the first time since we'd left the city, I was glad.

“We thought we'd have a relaxing day after all the hectic travel,” my mom said. She seemed unaware of the fact that, compared to most people's experience, our day of travel had been anything but hectic. “Dad's going to order dinner from the café down the street. We'll take it out on the balcony and chill. Sound good?”

I sort of loved to hate my mom's tendency to use lingo a generation below hers, but I was happy to hear the word
chill
.

“It sounds great.” I laughed.

We each claimed a plush chaise lounge on the main balcony and basked in the fantastic Amalfi sun. Even though we'd just chowed down on Tony's famous margarita pizza, I somehow found room for about six more courses that my dad insisted I try before going to sleep. Each one was better than the one before it.

“Why didn't anyone ever tell me about spumoni before?” I gasped, spooning up the pistachio, chocolate, and strawberry ice creamy deliciousness in my bowl. “This stuff is definitely going on my list of ‘things to be eaten again ASAP.'”

“That's my daughter.” My dad beamed.

I could see my parents sharing relieved looks that I
was a) getting nourishment and b) occasionally smiling. Usually I prided myself on the fact that I was self-sufficient, but today it felt good to be taken care of.

On the glass table next to me, I saw my cell phone buzz. I practically leapt to pick it up. It was a text from Camille. I hadn't heard from her all day.

YOU'LL NEVER BELIEVE IT—WE JUST LEFT CHARLES DE GAULLE. ALL THE BAGGAGE HANDLERS WERE ON STRIKE ALL DAY! YOU WOULD HAVE DIED. BUT IT WAS HILARIOUS BECAUSE ONE OF THEM FELL IN LOOOOVE WITH AMORY, AND HE TOOK HER TO THE BACK ROOM TO LOOK FOR HER STUFF. JASON GOT ADORABLY JEALOUS. BUT NEVER MIND OUR BORING DETAILS—HOW ARE YOU?

Crazy. My biggest organization fear for the trip had come true. My friends had spent the whole day at the airport, which meant they'd missed their reservations at the Louvre and probably hadn't even gotten into the city in time to eat dinner at Sud on rue Cler.

But strangely, Camille's text made it sound like it had actually been sort of an adventure. Oh, I wanted to be there so badly!

I looked over at my parents, who were both serenely enjoying the scenery, and I remembered that my purpose this week was different from my friends'. I was taking care of Flan.

Here I was on this gorgeous balcony, eating amazing
food, with the world's most supersupportive parents. Things were going to be okay. Before I knew it, I felt myself drifting off to sleep. The cool Amalfi breeze was in my hair, and I wasn't even thinking about what time it was in New York.

9:55 A.M., SUNDAY MORNING
Standing outside Sorrento's motorcycle
rental shop
:

How incredible is Italy? You don't even have to be a licensed driver to rent a scooter. Which puts fourteen-year-old me in very good standing for some serious coastal cruising. Get yer motor running!

10:02 A.M., SUNDAY MORNING
One block … and two small fender
benders later
:

What is wrong with this country? Don't they have laws? Why would anyone rent a scooter to a teenage Manhattanite who's never been behind the wheel of anything in her life?

“Flan! Are you okay?” my mom gasped. She
flipped up the plastic eye shield on her helmet, hopped off her own bike, and started running toward me—and the second unlucky lamppost I'd just hit. “Thank God you were wearing your helmet!”

“Oh, that's what fenders are for,” my dad said casually, hopping off his bike to survey the scene. We were just outside the cobblestone streets of downtown Sorrento, on a main road connecting all the small towns along the coast. We had been on our way to visit a small waterfront cathedral—until my bad driving brought that plan to a screeching halt.

“Just a small scratch on the lamppost,” my dad said. “And no damage to the bike, luckily. You're not hurt, are you, sweetheart?”

“Just a little shaken up,” I said, attempting to take off my helmet and realizing that I was actually a lot shaken up. “I'll never make fun of Feb again for getting so many reckless-driving tickets. I had no idea it was so hard.”

I felt my mom's arms envelop me. “Darling, I think you just have a lot on your mind. Why not ride on the back of your father's bike and just take in the sights?”

I nodded and sighed. Riding my own bike around the curving coastline had seemed like such a good idea at the time—it was the kind of thing that would make a really great story to tell my friends, anyway.
But it was actually a lot scarier than it looked. I took one last look at my enemy—the lamppost—and decided I'd be much happier riding tandem with my dad.

After a quick exchange at the bike shop, we were down to two scooters, speeding out toward the shrine. I held on tight to my dad, feeling much more secure taking those hairpin turns. This was more like it!

I'd woken up this morning to a surprise from my parents: breakfast in bed—a brimming bowl of strawberries; warm, crusty ciabatta and fresh butter; a pot of that fantastic Italian coffee—
and
the very good news that both of them were putting aside their business matters for the whole day. According to Dad, Mom's vacation-only mandate had gone out the window when Nicoletta Dimore offered her a guest blogging spot reviewing a spa for her online zine.

All morning, my parents had been jokingly referring to today as “Flan gets cultured,” which I only objected to slightly. I went to museums in the city! Sometimes. But my parents were clearly pretty serious about making the most of our day together. They'd really crammed in the sightseeing, starting with the ride out to this historic cathedral on the coast, moving right along to a boat cruise to the island of Capri, where we were going cheese tasting and
shopping. Mom insisted that the stores in Capri gave Fifth Avenue a run for its money.

I loved having my parents all to myself—and against such a beautiful backdrop, too. Looking around at the steep cliffs dropping down to all that crazy blue water, it was hard to believe that people actually lived here and got to see these views every day. But then again, I knew people said that about Manhattan all the time. Crap—I wasn't supposed to be thinking about Manhattan. It only led to me thinking about—

“Flan,” my dad said. “We're here.”

Happy to be snapped out of my downward-spiraling thoughts, I hopped off the bike and joined my parents at the door of the cathedral. The hush inside the church was almost a shock to my system after spending so long listening to the roar of the bike, but once I stepped inside, I understood why everything was so quiet.

The stained glass windows and old stone pews were so beautiful, they demanded a silent sort of reverence. I separated from my parents and walked through the church on my own, reading what signs I could find in English. It was actually really fun to try to make out some of the Italian using what I knew from French. When I came to the end of the dimly lit church, I pushed open the back door and was almost
startled by the intense sunlight flooding into the backyard. It was a small, irregularly shaped plot of grass at the tip of a crag on the cliff. A low stone fence was the only thing separating me from the drop-off into the sea. I had never seen anything so magnificent—and I'd been to a lot of fashion shows.

“Flan,” my father's voice whispered. “You have to see this Michelangelo.” He led me around to the side of the church, where a large marble sculpture was prominently positioned so that it absolutely glowed in the sun. I could tell it was a man's body, but half of the marble looked like it was still uncut, just the natural shape of the stone.

“Why does it look like that?” I asked my dad. “Is it unfinished?”

He shook his head. “A lot of Michelanglo's work looks like this. People say he thought his job was to release the essence of the figure inside.”

I walked in a full circle around the sculpture. It was fascinating and beautiful, but there was also something disappointing about only halfway releasing the sculpture from the stone. It was like you could see all this amazing potential cut short. Kind of like a certain relationship I knew. Ugh.

“I think I'm ready for the next stop on the ‘Flan gets cultured' tour,” I said quickly.

We climbed back on the scooters and my dad zigzagged his way down to the water, where the
Duchess
was waiting for us. Alfonso stepped forward to kiss us again, and we reclaimed our seats on the deck. The ride out to Capri was even more relaxing than yesterday's ride from Naples had been. The sea was calm and clear, and there were only a few other boats in view. In the distance, Capri rose up like a volcano in the middle of a vast flat line of blue water.

“This is a magical island,” Alfonso said, steering the boat toward Capri. “With caves as blue as your eyes and limoncello as sweet as your smile.”

My mom looked at me and rolled her eyes at the cheesiness, but surprisingly, I was sort of into it. Italian people just told you when they liked you—they never lied to you or cheated on you with girls named Cookie, or—uh-oh. Zip it, Flan.

When we docked at the small marina in Capri, I followed my parents to a funicular that took us all the way up the mountain in under two minutes. It was impossible to let your eyes fall somewhere that didn't look like a postcard.

“Marco's cheese shop is just over this way,” my dad said when we climbed out of the funicular. “Brace yourself, Flan, okay?”

Out of everyone in my family, my dad and I are the
biggest foodies. I can't count the number of times we've bored my mom and siblings making them do a taste test to pick their favorite goat cheese from Murray's down the block. Mom always indulged us, at least for a little while, and I could tell today that she'd struck a compromise with my dad: cheese tasting first for him, followed by shopping for her. Lucky for me, I loved both.

“What are you sampling today, Marco?” my dad asked a heavy mustached man when the three of us entered the tiny side-street shop. “I brought my daughter all the way from NewYork City and told her you're the best.”

Marco's face lit up at the sight of me. “Oh,” he said, “for such a
bella ragazza
, I must go back to my storeroom for something super special!”

I blushed at the compliment and Marco shuffled off to the back, returning moments later with a tray full of unfamiliar cheeses. Following my dad's lead, I sampled this really sharp Gorgonzola, aged pecorino with peppercorns, and hands down the best burrata on the planet.

“Ooh.” Marco grinned when I reached for a second piece of the melt-in-your-mouth buffalo mozzarella. “She likes that one, I can tell. I have one more very special one, very rare. Only for you to taste today.”

He reached under the counter and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. When he unwrapped it, all three of us caught a pungent whiff and jumped back.

“Strong, eh?” Marco laughed, holding out a few crumbled pieces in his palm. “Aged pecorino. You'll love it! Don't be scared.”

It wasn't that I was scared of the cheese—it was just that the odor reminded me of something … sort of like smelly gym socks … but no, that wasn't exactly it. At the prompting of my parents, I reached for the smallest piece of the cheese and hesitantly popped it in my mouth.

There it was: this cheese had the exact same smell as Alex's gym bag did after a lacrosse tournament. I was eating my cheating ex-boyfriend's sweaty gym bag. Could it get any lower than this?

Marco's face fell. “She hates it,” he murmured.

“No!” I insisted, making myself swallow the lump of cheese. “It's wonderful. Very unique. I just … I was thinking about something else.”