The House in Amalfi by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online Page B

her eyes, and I noticed more than one man glance appreciatively her way.
    “Jon-Boy turned me into a gourmet right here at Da Fortunato,” I told her as the waiter opened the bottle of Frescobaldi Chianti I’d ordered. “I ate my first oyster here.”
    “And did you like it?” Jammy was starving as usual, already devouring the bread while scanning the menu. I don’t know where she puts all that food; she’s as slender now as she was at seventeen.
    “Sort of, but I preferred the porcini risotto; I just loved that wild smoky mushroom flavor. I was a real sophisticated kid.”
    “To tell you the truth, I’ll be glad to see you eat almost anything.” Jammy looked me critically up and down. “Though I have to admit you do look pretty good tonight.” She grinned and lifted her glass. “To you, sweetheart,” she said, “and to your return to the living.”
    My spirits rose as we clinked glasses and I took a deep draught of the smooth, berry-tasting wine. Glancing up, I caught the eye of a man a couple of tables away. Older, experienced looking, broad shouldered, immaculately dressed. And handsome. He smiled and lifted his glass to me, bowing his head briefly.
    I half-smiled back, then turned away, embarrassed. I’d forgotten that Italian talent for flirting. I told myself that of course it wasn’t just me; Italians would flirt with almost anyone except their mothers.
    “Did I just see what I saw?” Jammy grinned at me. “Did that guy really make a pass at you?”
    I shrugged nonchalantly. “Of course he didn’t; he just . . . smiled.”
    “Hmmm.” Jammy did not believe me. She looked him over again. He was with a group of people and they were immersed in conversation. He’d already forgotten me.
    “He looks pretty good,” Jammy said, diving enthusiastically into a plate of fettuccine coated in butter and fresh Parmesan. “Oh God,” she groaned, then took a deep, pleasurable breath, “this is the closest I’ll ever get to Mom’s mac-and-cheese.” I laughed and told her she should be ashamed of herself, because this pasta had nothing at all to do with Kraft.
    “And
this
is heaven,” I added, tasting my porcini risotto and with it a basketful of memories, thanking God that at least some things had stayed the way I remembered.
    We followed the pasta and risotto with grilled sea bream, the sweetest fish you’ve ever tasted, then a simple green salad and, after, even simpler ice cream, pistachio for me and chocolate, of course, for my all-American friend.
    Dinner over, we sat lazily content, sipping grappa from tiny glasses. I leaned indolently back in my chair, wrinkling my nose as the liquor took my breath away. Crossing my legs, I gazed up at the night sky, heaving a sigh of something I thought might be happiness.
    Take happiness where you can find it, I told myself. At this sweet restaurant with its view of the Pantheon and the moon shining down on it. In the soft night air, with the Romans milling past on their nightly
passeggiata,
children clasped in one hand,
gelato
in the other. In the violin music coming from somewhere close by, the lamplight, the flowers, the red wine, and the company of a good friend.
    My eyes half-closed, I dangled a high-heeled red mule from the tips of my toes.
    “Mi scusi, signora. . . .”
    I looked up, straight into the eyes of the handsome manwho’d raised his glass in a toast to me. I stared blankly at him. Somewhere along the way I had lost that childhood capacity to flirt even when presented with an opportunity like this. I had no idea what to say to him.
    He nodded politely to the interested Jammy and excused himself again for interrupting.
    “Signora,” he said, bending closer and speaking low so that only I could hear. “I couldn’t help but notice how you swung your foot, the curve of your instep as you balanced the pretty red mule on your toes. It was one of the most charming things I have ever seen. I am by way of being a connoisseur of beauty and