The House in Amalfi Read Online Free Page A

lost everything else, Lamour,” Jammy said, suddenly serious. “Just your past. You—
we
—are only thirty-eight years old. There’s a lot of future still ahead of us.”
    I contemplated my olives silently, then, “Trouble is, Jam, I like the past more.” She was quiet, watching me as she sipped her drink. Then I said, “Before you called, I was trying to remember how ‘happiness’ felt. I was thinking about those days with Jon-Boy in Rome, remembering what it was like to be a little kid with all that freedom, in a new and exciting world where everyone was my friend. I could feel the sun hot on my back and smell the flower in my hair; I could see my first love, Angelo, and his big, white smile. I remembered the taste of my morning
cornetto
and the cappuccino foam on my lips and the scent of lilies in the Campo de’ Fiori.” I lifted my head and looked at her. “And you know what, Jammy? I remembered
that
was a moment of true happiness.”
    She rested her hand sympathetically on my arm. “But you felt that same happiness when you married Alex?” She seemed to be questioning me. “You were together for six years; you loved each other?”
    I sifted through my thoughts about Alex, resurrecting him in my mind. Shorter than I, muscular, with deep dark eyes that were almost black in their intensity when he made love to me, the feel of his breath on my cheek when we’d slept together that first night, the way his body claimed my rhythm with his.
    “Oh yes, I loved Alex all right,” I said quietly, “but love andmarriage are special responsibilities. The child I was in Rome was free.”
    Our eyes met in the mirror again, and I took another nervous gulp of the martini. I could tell Jammy was struggling not to say the obvious: that I was free now, so why couldn’t I find that kind of happiness again?
    “Let’s eat,” she said diplomatically instead, and we slid off our bar stools and headed for a table for two near the window.
    A polished brass rail hung with red-checkered café curtains shut out part of the cold evening, though rain now misted the upper half of the window. Still, it was cozy in the little restaurant. A pizza oven glowed in the background and the aroma of ragù sauce and spicy sausage tempted. I ordered a bottle of Chianti, the kind in the straw flask that we used to drink illicitly at college and later we’d use the bottles as candleholders and that I don’t remember ever seeing in Rome, since Jon-Boy bought only the local white Frascati.
    I ordered lasagna and Jammy the spaghetti with ragù sauce. We tasted each other’s food, mmming with pleasure. We were on our second glass of wine when Jammy dropped the bombshell.
    “Matt and I are thinking of taking a trip to Italy this year,” she said oh so casually. “We were hoping you would like to come with us.”
    I put down my fork and stared hard at her. “Did you just invent this, right now, this minute?”
    “Of course not.” She stuck her chin in the air, looking defiantly at me.
    Twirling my glass in my fingers, I watched her squirm. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said, grinning, and then we were laughing again.
    “Oh Jesus, Lam, it’s just so good to hear you laugh again, I don’t know if I can stand it,” she said. Her long blond bangsfell over her eyes again and, as was her habit, she shoved them impatiently to one side. “Oh, so what if I did lie. I had good reason. What if Matt and I
were
to take a trip to Italy, would you say yes?”
    She looked so solemn and earnest, the way she had when she was a little girl, it jolted me again to my own memories of being that little girl in Italy and the happiness I had remembered only hours ago. I thought of Jon-Boy and the small golden house in Amalfi with its wonderful green gardens tumbling down the cliff to the turquoise sea.
    “Maybe I’d go,” I said, suddenly tempted, “if I could guarantee I’d find that kind of happiness again.”
    Elated, Jammy grabbed my hand across