Jun 1

Jun 1 A Love Lost in Positano - D.P. Rosano

Romantic Contemporary Fiction Set In Italy

A Love Lost in Positano by D.P. Rosano

Book excerpt

May 17, 2007

Reading. Wondering. Tortured by what is written and what doesn’t appear on the pages of these letters and in Gaia’s journal.

I clutched Gaia’s last letter to my chest but I was tiring from the effort. I knew that this collection would bring me closer to her, but when would it bring her to me?

I rose from the bed and stepped toward the balcony of my room. The sea seemed infinite and eternal, in a way that my love for Gaia did. It was the same scene that I had shared with Gaia, the same glittering waves, the same bright sun, the same white noise of beachgoers romping by water’s edge.

Even the aromas were the same. The narcotic fragrance of tarragon, basil, and rosemary, flowers and fresh lemons all blended into a symphony of edible senses. The smell of grilled meat and steamed seafood wafted up from the restaurants that hung onto the cliffside below Casa Albertina, and brought back memories of our dinners together.

“Oh, my God,” Gaia exclaimed that night at Da Marco’s! This is fantastic!” Gaia attacked her meals with a gusto that matched her bubbly nature. All food was fantastic, all wine was wonderful…I wondered if she would attack me with the same gusto.

Just then I realized that she had read my mind because she looked across her pasta-laden fork and smiled mischievously at me.

I turned back to the bed and laid the letter down softly on the pillow. I knew Gaia was not actually in that box and no matter how much pain or solace her writing gave me, I needed a break.

Passing through the door into the quiet hallway, I found Piero just turning the corner.

“Why can’t you help me find her?” I asked abruptly.

Piero looked at me with pain etched across his face.

“She doesn’t leave an address,” he said at first, “at least not a true one.”

My brow scrunched up at this last comment and he knew he’d have to share more.

“I know you’re looking for her, Danny, and I know that this is the most important thing in your life. So, the second time that she came back to Casa Albertina, I asked her if I could help. She said no, and just looked away at the sea. She seemed so sad, so distant.

“I told her that I liked to keep home addresses for our guests, making up the point that we like to send out invitations and brochures. Gaia knew better and saw right through my ploy, but she smiled back and agreed.”

“So, you have an address?”

Piero looked earnestly into my eyes.

“Yes, but no.

“Gaia did give me an address and I was going to send it to you. But first, Umberto found something that she had left behind and mailed it to her. It came back.”

Piero was silent for a moment.

“It came back, Danny. She didn’t give me a true address.”

“How can I reach her, Piero?”

He shrugged and held his hands, palms up, out in front of him.

“I don’t know, Danny. I can tell from her visits that she wants you too. Why would she not contact you?”

His question seemed unfair to me, but mostly because I didn’t have an answer to a very reasonable query.

Did I say something that went wrong? Did I miss something that I should have caught? In her voice, her eyes? Her embrace?

A long sigh slipped from my lips and I averted my gaze from Piero. He laid his hand on my shoulder in consolation, but that didn’t help.

My Journal – July 15, 2004

Alright, I’m writing these notes as we sit here in the restaurant. I know that I can’t capture the myriad dishes if I wait too long to write them down, so I want to get it right.

We’re splurging and having dinner at Da Vincenzo, a favorite of the locals but less well known among the tourists. Piero told us that this place has the best and truest Neapolitan food, but also features the wines and dishes from the larger region of Campania. So…what the heck!

Gaia is having a glass of Greco di Tufo, a local white wine that is zesty and smooth. I’ve long heard about Taurasi, a red wine made from the Aglianico grape, and I couldn’t resist sampling here while in Campania.

Marco, the talkative and bombastic owner of the restaurant, hovered over us and all his guests. His cheerful smile and gentle coaching as to the best food in the establishment – “It’s all good!” he would say – added to the festive atmosphere.

Without even waiting for our order, Marco brought a plate of crostini alla napolitana. The bread slices are oiled just as with more common versions, but here the chopped tomato, basil, garlic, and anchovies are mounded on the bread before it goes in the oven. A quick warming under the broiler and the crostini is served right to the table before the oil even cools.

Marco insisted on serving sartù di riso, a rice timbale stuffed with meat, chicken, peas, onions…so many things that I can’t even remember. But it was the most beautiful dish I had ever experienced.

“Don’t you want to talk to me?” Gaia interrupted, but with a smile.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, and closed the journal.

* * * * *

Later tonight:

While Gaia was getting ready for bed, I was able to return to writing. But I’ll have to make it quick; I’m in her room and “getting ready” includes getting ready for me.

Gaia’s Journal – July 15, 2004, late night

Oh, Danny, too much food, too much wine, too much loving…well, maybe not too much of that.

You’re worn out (ha ha! I hope I helped with that) and after all that pleasure you fell asleep. You’re on your side facing me in bed, with your head deep into the feather pillow, but your eyes are firmly closed and your soft breathing makes me quite sure you’re asleep.

I’m worn out too (thank you!) but I can’t sleep. This is the most alive – the most awake – I’ve been my entire life.

Okay…don’t wake! You just stirred and reached your hand across my waist. I brushed the back of it with my fingers and your eyes fluttered. Don’t wake! I want to just watch you there.

You make it so easy to love you, Danny. From last night and your awkward approach (yeah, sorry buddy, it wasn’t that smooth!) to tonight as you wrapped me in your arms, I was on a journey that I knew would not end. It won’t, will it?

Your laughter at the amount of food at Da Vincenzo’s and your slurping of the wine – was that Taurasi good? – I recorded them all in my memory bank to call up when I’m away from you. But, no, that’s not something we’re going to talk about right now.

You just stirred again and this time opened your eyes. I had to slip the journal away quickly, but when you shut your eyes again and fell back asleep I pulled it out.

Your hair is curly black but there are signs of gray at the temples. I just realized that I haven’t asked you how old you are. Well, that’s fair. I haven’t told you my age either. Just for the record, I’m twenty-two, but you’ll know everything about me soon enough.

I think you already know the most important parts of me.

Mike’s Journal – September 19, 1988

It’s our last night in Positano. I can’t believe we have to go. Being with Katherine is always enough for me, but being with her in Positano is positively other worldly.

We went for a walk on the beach since this is our final evening. It’s like the moon scattered sparkles on the water, and the gods lit up the red, blue, and yellow lights on the houses in the slope behind us, like visible music. Turning left, the Mediterranean spreads out before us like a glittering carpet that is constantly fluttering in the waves.

Turning right, my eyes are drawn upward to the sloping hillside, the curving perimeter roadway, and the stone houses, restaurants, and shops that cling to this incredible slice of earth like the treasure in a science fiction story.

It truly must be a fiction. Katherine and I have fallen even deeper in love in this place, deeper than I could have imagined. And I have Positano to thank for that. The food, the wine, the scenes that lay before us. Even Casa Albertina played a part in making this the perfect honeymoon.

Piero gave me this blank book when we checked in and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. But he must know that the magic of this place inspires even average people like me to wax poetic. And as he requested, I’ll leave this book with him. He promises that it will be waiting for me and Kat when we return to his hotel.

What a great lure to come back!