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The tour group and I disembark from the van and are led to a pier, where we board the boat from a dock on the lake. I take a seat by the hull and place my phone in my pocket. I’m not going to take pictures; instead, I will pay attention and remember every detail. No need to record, to sketch, or to snap. The captain of the skiff, a handsome man of around twenty, looks at me and winks. I’m old enough to be his aunt, but I smile back at him.

I sail on the original Lake Como as the skiff bounces over the blue satin waves, cutting the surface with barely a ripple. It is cold, I’m hungry, and yet, I am at peace. There is nothing but whipped-cream clouds overhead, the water beneath us, and the winter air, sweet with bayberry and nettle. The icy water mists my face. I close my eyes. This is what Uncle Louie meant when he told me to be happy. Pay attention to the moments you live in and find your place in them. Be content with your portion. I’m a very small part of something beautiful on this Italian lake, and that’s enough.

A year ago, I couldn’t imagine a holiday away from home, and this year, I’m happier than I ever have been in my life. As the boat sails along the shoreline of Lake Como, the houses look like rows of sweet pastel macarons in shades of butter yellow, pale green, and pink. It’s as though the world itself has been wrapped as a gift just for me. There is nothing for me to do but dream.

The Other Michelangelo

The waves of the lake lap against the shore. My feet are submerged in the cold water. I shiver when I feel a man’s arms envelop me; soon, I’m bathed in warmth. I’m lifted out of the water. I turn and place my arms around his neck. His lips find mine. The curves of his shoulders and arms are smooth and defined. I lean into him; his chest is broad and strong, as though the heart within it could not break. He takes my hands in his; there is power and strength in them. As we kiss, I long to tell him everything I feel, but this is no time for conversation. He found me here, and I might have been here forever had he not come along.

“Giuseppina, why do you wait?” he asks before kissing me again. His lips are sweet; he kisses my ear, then my cheek. He whispers in my ear, “I belong to you.”

He helps me into a rowboat with a gold lamé sail that billows in the night wind. The moon lights our path on the surface of the water; there is barely a ripple as the boat moves across the lake. “Come here,” he says. He puts down the oars and pulls me close from behind; we look out over the lake in the light of the moon. I reach up, and he kisses my neck and wraps his arms around me. I run my hands over his; they are the hands of a man who has worked with them all his life. His hands are rough and calloused and purposeful, and in their use they hold a beauty that can only come from strength. I kiss his hands and lace my fingers through his. The boat falls away as we float over the water, like a cloud or a mist or a square of fine silk caught up in the breeze. I turn to kiss him. His mouth finds mine.

I wake up on the edge of the bed curled like a croissant. I forget where I am and soon remember. The bedsheets are twisted around my legs like bandages. The pillows have fallen on the floor. Theroom is freezing cold. I peel off the sheets and blanket. I run to the window to close it.

A low moon over Lake Como throws shadows over my view of the shore, where boats bob along the pier in the dark. The lake beyond the shore is a black pit that undulates under the moon.Where did he go?I wonder.Was it him? The wild curls. The lips. Was it Michelangelo? Was it David? I didn’t see the face. Was it Angelo Strazza? Or was it Bobby Bilancia?I crawl back under the covers, finding the warmth beneath the blankets.

I wake upwith the crazy feeling that the dream I had the night before was real. I need proof that it wasn’t, so I get out of bed, open the drapes in my hotel room, look out the window, and make sure the storm that blew over Lake Como had actually happened. I’m relieved when I see charcoal clouds peppered over the lake and the wet, bare tree branches dipped in silver ice outside my window. There had been a storm!

I dress for breakfast. I put on a dab of face cream but find I don’t need much of it this morning. My skin is radiant from the trek to the waterfalls the day before, and any tension I felt in Milan has melted away. I swipe pink gloss on my lips and like what I see in the mirror. I am ready for anything the world might send my way. I have a feeling of anticipation, for no other reason than it’s almost a new year, and with it comes hope. The unwritten has all the power. So instead of grabbing a coffee and roll to go, I plan to sit alone in a pretty corner of the dining room under the windows and enjoy the view with my breakfast and a book. Eating and reading, a perfect pairing. The ultimate romance! How very Lucy HoneychurchfromA Room with a View. I will be the heroine in my own novel, at least before lunch.

I descend the grand marble staircase, imagining myself in a brocade gown over a skirt thick with crinolines. I walk across the lobby to the garden pavilion, where breakfast is served. I am almost to the maître d’s station when I inhale a blast of fresh peppermint and I hear my name.

Bobby Bilancia steps in front of me.

“Bobby.” I’m confused. Bobby Bilancia on Lake Como? How did he get here? Why is he here? My thoughts remain muddled from the dream I had the night before, and I’ve yet to have coffee, so I question my judgment. But Bobbyishere. I am happy to see him, someone from home whom I know, loved, and who knows me. My instinct is to throw my arms around him, so I do. There it is. More peppermint.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” Bobby says, wrapping his arms around me in return.

“I’m not. I’m surprised that you—” Before I finish, he interrupts.

“I had to see you.”

“Is something wrong? Are your mom and dad all right? The family? My family?” Bobby Bilancia is the type of guy who packs a toothbrush when he has a meeting in Avon-by-the-Sea. He would never cross an ocean unless he were delivering news of some importance.

“Everybody is okay. They’re fine,” he says.

Bobby holds the black leather duffel that I spent the better part of an afternoon deciding to buy in a small Greenwich Village shop for his wedding gift. Bobby takes care of his things, so I had no problem splurging. He took it to Las Vegas on our honeymoon. The bag looks new; it is as supple and shiny as the day I bought it. Bobby wears jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a navy-blue woolbomber jacket that he’s had since high school. When we were married, once in a while, in cold weather, I’d borrow his jacket and walk around all day smelling like a candy cane. “You look good, Bobby Bilancia.”

“So do you.”

I wish I had put on a little something more than lip gloss, but then I remember I didn’t need it. It doesn’t matter anyway; he’s seen me with less. “How about breakfast?”

Bobby and I never disagreed about food. One of us was always hungry, and the other would eat to keep the famished one company. We settle at a table for two in the window of the hotel restaurant overlooking the lake. I tuck the book I was going to read under the chair.

The waitress places a basket ofcornettion the table, hot, fluffy rolls shaped like horns, fresh from the oven. She brings us a crystal bowl of strawberrymarmellatawith a tiny gold spoon next to a soft, yellow ball ofburro. The waiter, a trim Italian man with a mustache, around my dad’s age, brings us a pot of coffee, two cups, and a pitcher of fresh cream. The sugar is already on the table.

“So, this is the original Lake Como,” Bobby says, looking out over the lake. “It’s huge.”

“Crazy, right? I thought our Lake Como was big, until I saw this.”

“Nothing wrong with our lake at home.” Bobby smiles.

“Not a thing.” I unfold the napkin and place it on my lap. “How did you find me?”

“Your brother gave me your address in Carrara. Don’t get mad at him; I told him I was sending you something for Christmas.”

“The gift is you.”