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Haven

Tuesday

B ack at my Airbnb, Enzo parked his Vespa. I rushed inside to change, throwing on an ankle-length pale pink sundress with an open back. I thought it equally tasteful and flirtatious, though it proved a challenge when I tried to get onto the scooter, as I had to pull the dress to my knees in order to sit properly. Enzo seemed not to notice—or at least he did a good job pretending he didn’t.

“Does your mother know you’re bringing a guest by?” I asked him.

“I texted her, yes,” he said, starting the motor. “She’s thrilled to have a visitor. Her housemate won’t be there. She’s in Sorrento for the day.”

Enzo expertly navigated the scooter between narrow rows of moving traffic. Soon, we were outside the village, heading west on Amalfi Drive. It was the same road Mal and I had taken yesterday morning.

“Wait,” I said, spotting a roadside flower stand ahead. I motioned for Enzo to pull over, then I quickly hopped off the scooter and bought a burlap-wrapped bundle of tiny white wild roses. It was the least I could offer Enzo’s mother while showing up unannounced with her son.

I hopped back onto the scooter. “What’s your mother’s name, by the way?”

“Savina.”

“How beautiful.”

“It is, yes.” He paused. “She’s somewhat…challenging, though. You know how mothers can be.”

Actually, I didn’t. I’d never been close with my mom. She lived in Manhattan, and we rarely saw one another. I’d long ago made peace with it, and besides, my growing-up years never felt short on love.

Keeping this to myself, I wrapped my arms around his waist as he pulled onto the street. “Does she speak English?” I shouted over the motor.

He nodded. “Of course. Though, she will be very touched if you try your Italian on her.”

“Got it,” I said, trying to remember a few basic pleasantries. I couldn’t seem to think straight, not with my face so close to the back of Enzo’s neck and my bare thighs wrapped around his hips.

Eventually, he slowed the scooter and pulled onto a narrow gravel path hardly wide enough for a small car. Trees stood all around us; we were in a thicket of sorts, and an old wrought iron gate, closed and latched, loomed just ahead.

“The villa was abandoned for a long time. We aren’t even sure, really, when anyone last lived here.” Enzo hopped off the scooter and unlatched the gate. “Some of the walls had graffiti on them. People love abandoned places, especially kids and tourists. My mother is still worried about trespassers.”

“Do you know when it was built?” I asked as we passed through the gate. Though the pillars on either side were crumbling, the detail on the gate itself was extraordinary. A motif consisting of flowers and snakes lent a haunted-mansion feel.

“Mid-1700s, we think,” Enzo said. As we began to drive up the wooded hillside, the scooter’s motor whined in complaint; it was steeper than it looked. “And parts of it still look that old. The terrace is the highlight of the property, but don’t get too excited about the rest of it. It has a long way to go.”

He wasn’t wrong about this. After we made our way out of the trees, the villa appeared in all its Old World glory: the stucco facade had peeled away in some areas and crumbled entirely in others. A few of the second-story windowpanes were broken or missing altogether.

No wonder Savina had been messaging Enzo for help with the place. It didn’t even seem safe for habitation.

An enormous bumblebee hovered near my hand, and I gently swatted it away. “Does it have…” I didn’t want to offend him or sound judgmental. I was merely curious. “Does it have electricity and water?”

He laughed, turning the motor off. “Yes. Both were installed before she moved in.” He pocketed the keys and helped me off the scooter.

“Well, it’s stunning,” I said, and I meant it. This wasn’t the touristy Positano of below, riddled with knickknack shops and hordes of tourists. And while I couldn’t yet see the terrace, I suspected the view would be breathtaking.

A woman’s head popped out of one of the broken upper windows. “ Il mio Enzo! ” she called out with a grin. She wore bright red lipstick, and her ash-colored hair was pulled aside in a long braid. She struck me, at once, as warm and spirited.

Something about her also struck me as familiar.

She asked Enzo a question in Italian, which I couldn’t comprehend. “ Ciao, Mamma ,” he replied, then he began to speak to her in rapid-fire Italian, likely about me, the unexpected visitor. Feeling somewhat embarrassed and exposed, I gazed around the property, admiring the many purple and pink wildflowers adorning the perimeter.

Inside, I was able to have a closer look at Savina, and I realized where I’d seen her: on the beach yesterday. She’d been the woman walking the shoreline with her friend, crying. I wondered if that friend was her roommate.

Briefly, I thought of Mal. She was still in Naples, waiting on a flight out.

I gave Savina the bundle of wild roses, which she fawned over for a few moments before setting them on the countertop, next to a framed photo of a young woman who looked remarkably like Enzo. “My daughter, Bria,” she said.

I did my best to say a few words to Savina in Italian— Lovely to meet you and a slew of thanks—but to my relief, she responded in English, releasing me of any obligation to speak to her in her native language.

They spent a few minutes giving me a tour of the villa’s sparse interior. It was clear renovations were underway: buckets of paint sat against one wall, and a not-yet-mounted chandelier dominated the floor of the main living space. There was almost no furniture beyond a chaise lounge and a small table. It gave me a curious, sudden sense of gloom.

The terra-cotta tile floors were one of the villa’s most magnificent features. I asked if they’d been newly installed, but Enzo insisted they were original. “Just last week,” he said with a discreet roll of the eyes, “I polished them to within an inch of their life.”

“I don’t need much,” Savina added. “But thank goodness my friend and I have Enzo to help with these tasks. My husband, Enzo’s father, died many years ago.” Her expression turned wistful, and I understood now why Enzo had not mentioned his father. This was something we had in common, and I made a mental note to ask him about it when the time felt right.

“Let me show you the terrace,” Enzo said.

“Ah, the terrace, yes!” Savina echoed.

Together, the three of us approached a pair of glass doors at the villa’s south end. Sheer curtains hung in front of them. At once, Enzo pulled them aside and threw the doors open. I gasped, clasping my hand over my mouth.

I had expected a good view, but I had not expected this . Looking west, I could see as far as the Isle of Capri, and looking east and south, Enzo pointed out Salerno and San Marco. He explained that a belvedere terrace like this one was designed with the landscape in mind: the white limestone railing was hip-high so as not to obstruct one’s view. The word belvedere , he explained, meant to look upon something beautiful, and indeed I could think of no fairer sight than the one in front of me now. It was as if the entire Amalfi Coast were spread out before us.

“But where’s Palermo?” I whispered into Enzo’s ear, remembering how we’d joked about this earlier.

He turned to me, all dimples and brown eyes. “You’re a quick one, Ambrose.”

No one had ever called me by my last name, and I quite liked it now.

I turned to Savina. “How amazing that you were able to buy property in such a desirable area. I’d think the hotels would have made strong bids on a property like this.”

“Oh, this was never for sale,” Savina said. “It’s been passed down through many generations of friends, family. We Italians, we’re very close, you know.” She placed her hands on the railing. “The hotels never had a chance. I’m glad for it, too. Positano has seen enough. If it goes on like this much longer, why, I think its charm will be altogether lost.”

Enzo stepped up behind us, three shot glasses perched in his palm. He must have retreated while we were talking. Within each glass was a bright yellow, almost neon, liquid.

“Limoncello?” he offered.

We both took a glass, and Savina went on, “I, for one, am not terribly disappointed by what I’ve heard on the news recently.”

I remembered what Enzo had said about his mother and her challenging manner, yet I couldn’t help but balk at the callousness of her comment. “The yacht sinking, you mean, or the concerns about Vesuvius?”

She gave a stiff nod and took a sip of her limoncello. “Both,” she said. “I heard there have been an unprecedented number of flight cancellations this week.”

“I’ve heard the same. Are you worried about Mount Vesuvius?”

“Not a bit.” Then she lifted her glass. “ Salute. ”

I reluctantly lifted my glass and took a sip, anticipating the bright, sweet citrus flavor. Instead, it tasted flat, almost bitter.

“That is the olive grove,” Savina said, pointing to a grove of trees extending down the hillside. “If you weave your way down the hill for some time, you will come upon Amalfi Drive, and then below that, a stairway to the sea , as we like to call it. We have a pair of Jet Skis at the base of the steps. Enzo and I have gone out a few times.” She took a step away. “Come, let me show you the olive grove.”

“Of course,” I said, glad we’d changed topics.

Enzo busied himself with the broken door lock his mother had mentioned earlier, while Savina led me down the terrace steps and into the grove. It was in as much disrepair as the house itself. “I have quite a bit of tidying to do,” she said, “but most of these trees are still alive. Olive trees live for hundreds of years.” She pointed to a small cluster of them in a nearby wooded thicket. “Strange that a few of them also managed to sprout over there.” She continued walking. “I’ll plant citrus, too. Someday, I’d like to be able to make my own limoncello.” She held up her glass and tossed it back.

Feeling vaguely unsettled, I did the same.

We wove our way through the grove, Savina examining a few wild shrubs. Suddenly, she turned to me, her face newly flushed—though, whether it was from the alcohol or the bright sunshine, I wasn’t sure. “Enzo is thirty-nine, you know, and not getting any younger.”

This surprised me: given Enzo’s adventurous spirit and his near-flawless skin, I wouldn’t have guessed him older than thirty-five.

“He doesn’t look it,” I replied. “And how about your daughter—is she older or younger than Enzo?”

Savina gazed up at the house. “Bria passed away last year. Very unexpectedly. She and Enzo, they were…twins.”

“Oh,” I said, putting my hand over my mouth.

She plucked a couple of yellowing leaves from a bush. “I’ve lived a harder life than most,” she said. “I thought I’d endured it all—losing my husband, struggling financially for so long—but then, Bria .” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a mascara-stained tissue. “Sometimes, I feel cursed. How much more can I sustain?” she asked, dabbing at her eyes. “Bria wanted to marry someday, to have children. I cannot say the same for Enzo. All he thinks about is work. If not for the help I need here, at the villa, I am sure I would not even see him.” She let out a long sigh. “I desperately hope for grandchildren, but as of late, I’ve begun to fear it is not in the cards. Enzo has not brought a girl home in many years,” she said. She tucked the tissue back into her pocket, put on a smile. “Which means I am so very pleased to see you.”

Oh , I thought. Oh, no. She thinks we are…a couple.

“We’re n—” I stammered, shuffling my feet. “Well, we’re just friends. We only met this morning. I’m a scuba diver, and he took me out on a dive this afternoon.”

A flash of worry crossed her face. “He took you out on the water?” When I nodded, she gazed up at the terrace. “He told me he stays in the shop and lets his employee take divers out.”

“It was a special favor, I guess.”

Savina resumed walking through the grove, stepping her way carefully over a few exposed roots. We talked about underwater photogrammetry and my research in the nautical archaeology space. I tried my best to keep my explanations simple, not knowing whether some of the more technical aspects might be lost in translation.

“Very interesting,” Savina finally said, though her face was not so convincing. “How did you get into the field?”

I told her about my late father and his interest in shipwrecks, treasure-hunting. At this, she turned to me, her eyes bright. “Reminds me of Giuseppe Ferlini. You have heard of him?”

I laughed. “Heard of him, yes.” An Italian treasure hunter in the 1800s, he plundered more than forty pyramids in Egypt and died a rich man. “Truthfully, I’m more interested in the wrecks themselves, but certainly, there are rumors of sunken treasure that do intrigue me.”

“Especially for someone like you, who has the skill set to explore the wrecks.”

I smiled to myself. If only she knew.

As we continued talking, Enzo approached.

“Quite a few archaeological ruins in the Bay of Naples,” Savina was saying as her son walked up.

“Yes, there are,” I said. “But no need to go so far. Turns out, there are plenty of wrecks here along the coastline. Especially around Li Galli.”

“Li Galli?” Savina said, voice tight. Then, she turned to Enzo. “Is that where you two went today?”

We nodded simultaneously, and Savina bristled. “That is not safe, Enzo,” she said, shaking her head. She began to talk at him in rapid Italian, waving her hands in the air. I thought, for a moment, she might begin to cry again.

“It’s fine, Mamma ,” Enzo said, trying to settle her. “The currents were fine, and we were nowhere near where the yacht—”

She interrupted him, spouting off more Italian. I didn’t need to understand what she was saying in order to gather that she was horrified by our choice of dive site.

I caught the word Vesuvius . As she said it, she used her hands to mimic a volcano erupting. And yet she’d just said she wasn’t worried about an eruption.

Savina, I was beginning to realize, could be a bit dramatic.

“Okay.” Enzo held up his hands. “I hear you. I hear you.”

Savina eyed him for a moment as if she weren’t ready to concede, then she began to walk again. Behind her back, Enzo shot me an I’m-sorry glance.

Beautiful as the villa was with its panoramic views, I was ready to leave. After the mention of Li Galli, Savina’s mood had shifted so suddenly that now I felt uncomfortable, like I’d intruded on a family argument.

I was relieved when Enzo said he’d fixed the lock and it was time to leave for our dinner reservation. We said goodbye to Savina, and I wished her well with her renovations before hurrying my way back to the scooter.

I was glad we’d come, for the views from up here were indeed outstanding.

But truth be told, I had no desire to return.