He nods and says, “It beats the hell out of Jersey.”
The ride is surprisingly short, under an hour and we quickly come up on the little town of Cernobbio. Just beyond the town is our glamorous hotel. Richard pulls up to the main building, and a small, tidy man with a moustache opens my door before I can. As he welcomes us with a slight bow, I have the sudden thought that my expectations are too high, that Lake Como will not live up to them. But within seconds, I am relieved to find that some things really are that good. The grounds and gardens are magnificent; the vistas of blue mountains and misty water are breathtaking. Everything has a dreamy quality. I say this to Richard and then think that dreamy is a word I have never used, unless mocking someone or imitating Marcia Brady.
We walk to the front desk, as Richard says a robust American hello to everyone. I like that we are at one of the finest hotels in the world and yet he remains the same—friendly, unpretentious, borderline brash. In contrast, my demeanor changes in fancy hotels and restaurants. I can’t help talking in a hushed voice and making my posture perfect.
As we check in, Richard glances up at the high ceiling and says, “Check it out.”
I look up primly and then whisper, ” Ohhh . Beautiful.”
I suddenly miss Ben, as I always do when I see beautiful buildings or recall the romantic architectural language he taught me, terms like belvedere turrets, fleur-de-lis ornaments, gingerbread bargeboard, Mary Hart arches, fretwork spandrels, voussoir vaults , and swan’s neck molding . I think of how much he would love this hotel and all of its exquisite detail. Maybe he can come here on his honeymoon. Try for a baby during his stay.
We are shown to our room by a young, gorgeous woman, the kind you can’t stop staring at and so you certainly can’t blame your boyfriend for staring, too. Which I catch Richard doing as she gracefully points out the minibar, the automatic blinds, and the safe. Then she welcomes us one final time, smiles and leaves.
When the door clicks after her, I say, “Well, she was a dog.”
Richard smirks and says, “Was she? I didn’t notice.”
I’m not jealous at all, but I still give him a look as if I am.
He gives me a carnal look back.
I say, “Oh, yeah?”
He says, “Come here, you.”
After we have sex, we nap for a couple of hours. It is an intense sleepthe kind you can only have when you are jet-lagged or sick. When we wake up, Richard says, “You think it’s too cold for the pool?”
“Borderline,” I say. “But let’s do it.”
I change in the bathroom, wondering how it is that I want privacy to change around a man I’ve slept with at least twenty times. Of course it took me three years to pee in front of Ben and in the very beginning I had to run water or make him sing loudly—so I guess my modesty makes sense now. I dig into my bag and happily discover that Jess packed my most flattering bathing suit, the red bikini I last wore in St. John with Ben. It occurs to me that I never hand-washed it upon our return. So it still has traces of the Caribbean on it. And maybe even a trace of Ben. I put my face up to it and inhale, but it just smells like a bathing suit I forgot to wash. No Ben. But maybe that’s just because Richard’s cologne is still lingering in my nose.
Richard and I spend the afternoon lounging on wooden chaises by the nicest pool I have ever seena rectangle of aqua blue floating right in the navy lake. The crowd is well-heeled and older, and Richard was right, there are no babies. We sip lemonade as I do a little work. I usually make a point not to work on vacations, but can’t avoid it this weekend. I have a manuscript due back to an author the day I return. At one point, I laugh and tap the pages with my pen.
“That good?” Richard asks.
I nod.
He smirks and says, “You have such an eye for talent.”
I can tell he’s jokingly referring to himself. So I rest my hand on his bare chest, bat my eyelashes, and say, “Yes. I sure do.”
He leans over and kisses me as I think, I do not miss Ben. This is where I want to be . Then again, there’s got to be something really wrong with a person who could sit in this spot overlooking Lake Como and want to be anywhere else. The true test of a relationship would be: Am I happy at this Motel 6 in Little Rock ?
After lunch by the pool, we play tennis on a clay court, high on a hill overlooking the property and lake. I tell Richard it almost seems like a waste to play tennis when we should be focused solely on the scenery.
He says, “Quit stalling. And prepare to be schooled.”
I say, “As if.”
I turn out to be right. My years of tennis lessons paid off. I am far better than Richard. He skips the serve altogether, just bounces and hits. I laugh and say, “You don’t know how to serve?”
He shouts, “I’m a baseball player, honey.”
I return the ball hard. He swings and misses. The ball hits chalk.
“In,” I say. “Love-fifteen.”