moved over there to enroll in graduate school. But that first summer in New York was memorable, and nothing in all the ensuing years could ever compare to it. Upon her return, Amy recorded that experience in her diary, a cute little notebook daddy gave her to develop her love for writing.
To be around dad was a lot of fun. He called me names I had never heard before and that made me laugh—sweetie, sweetie pie, sweetheart. I thought he made them up. But most of the time he just called me, girl. I loved that. Simple, direct, without sugar. It implied a rapport of camaraderie. Especially when he said it with a wink, as in: Alright, girl? Wink.
I thought he was very handsome, with longish blond hair and a mischievous smirk. And he had a way with women they found irresistible. In fact, it was almost impossible to have a private moment with him. There was always one girlfriend or other around, at home and at the office.
Home for him was a large penthouse on two levels on the Upper East Side with a view on the park. He lived on the top level which had huge rooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and even a swimming pool on the deck. On the lower level were the offices of L&N Publishers. Dad was the boss. Actually, he was the founder and sole owner. Why L&N then, I asked, what does it stand for? He said that L stood for Lawrence/ Larry, which was his name, and N, for None in Particular. It just sounded good. Dad was like that, he liked to tease. But I thought that, perhaps, he needed someone to stand by him.
A private elevator opened straight into the reception room arriving from the lobby fifty floors below, in fifty seconds. To me, that elevator was sort of a fair ride. And I would go up and down up and down, just for the fun of it. The office suite was very busy, with its team of tweed-jacketed, pipe-smoking editors—the intellectual type—engulfed in loud discussion with each other, and a large staff of pretty women. After work, colleagues would show up in the living quarters for drinks and conversation. The one that came upstairs most often was Molly, the only woman editor. She had a great athletic body—she had been a swimming champion in college—and on weekends she spent hours in the pool doing laps. When she was done, she would give me lessons. At the end of the summer, I was an expert swimmer. I liked her a lot, and so did dad.
But at times, dad felt that he needed a break from Molly, the pretty staff, the office, the authors, the critics, the book launching parties, and the many demands on his private and public life. At those times, he would look at me and say: Now we’re going to disappear. Just the two of us. Alright, girl? Wink.
Once we disappeared for two weeks. Dad kept his word and took me to all the places I had seen on postcards, “from sea to shining sea.” He sang for me while driving his Corvette convertible toward the Rocky Mountains and beyond. We went as far as California where he grew up and where he still had the Santa Barbara mansion he inherited from his parents.
All this was dazzling for a kid her age. But even in her enchantment she would, at times, think of mother back home and feel a sting of nostalgia. Amy wondered why she categorically refused to come and live here. Anna, that was her name, said her life was in Italy, especially her life as an artist, because she could not grow and express herself outside of her own environment. She had achieved some recognition as a young artist, and now her works were internationally known. At the beginning of her career, she had a show in New York. It was on that occasion that Anna and Larry met.
The gallery owner had commissioned the catalogue from L&N Publishers, and at the opening he introduced Larry to the artist. Larry was a big hit with women. Anna was very beautiful. Tall and slender, she moved with the grace of a reed wafted by a light breeze, and her classic features possessed an inner radiance. Larry was smitten. So, that night the two of them ended up in the penthouse. Anna did not leave the next day, as she was scheduled to, or the next week, or even the next month. She stayed in New York much longer than she had planned. When she finally left, Larry followed her and spent several months in Italy. He went back after Amy was born, when he became convinced that Anna would never agree to marry him.
When Amy returned from that first summer vacation, she was bombarded with questions—Tell me about America. It must be fabulous over there. What did you see?—And she must have repeated her story a hundred times, about the swimming pool on the deck, the fifty-floor elevator, the tropical greenhouse in the lobby with its parrots and streams, surfing in the Pacific Ocean, and other marvels. Stella, in particular, wanted to go over the details time and again. They practiced English together, spending long hours on their favorite bench in the rose garden at Villa Flora, reading a wide range of novels from Jane Austen to Mark Twain. Amy was pretty fluent by then. She made a lot of progress during her summer months in New York, and, of course, it helped that she had an English nanny as a child. On the other hand, this contributed to her strange accent, an odd combination of native Italian, stylish British, and ordinary New Yorkese.
“Here we are, miss. Where should I drop you off?” The cabbie wakes her up from her reverie.
“Can you pull up by the pizza place, over there? D’you see the sign, Santa Lucia?”
“Lucheeah...is this how you say it in Italy?! It sounds pretty. Isn’t it misspelled on the sign?”
Jeez, something’s lost in translation, Amy thinks, and I don’t have the time for a language lesson.
“Here, keep the change. And go take your kid to school.” “Thank you, miss. It’s nice of you...”
...and something else she can’t hear. She’s already running, always on the run.
She catches a glimpse of her image in a shop window. She likes what she sees. Slender figure, good legs, bumpy curls, a focused gaze, a smart designer outfit... Overall, a youngish, sexy woman. She’ll turn fifty-four in a month and she looks even better than the glamorous boomers on the cover of AARP Magazine. I’m gonna have a big party, she promises herself.
The door to the pizzeria is locked. She has to go in from the parking lot in the back. Rosa is surprised to see her.
“Hi, beauty!” She actually says: Ciao, bellezza, because she prefers to speak Italian to her. They hug and kiss. “What happened? Did you fall off the bed?”
“Sort of. Way too early for me. Last night I worked until 2 a.m.”
“You need a good cup of coffee. Real Italian espresso.”
Rosa goes behind the counter on which a massive Illy coffee maker towers in all its glory of shiny chrome, black levers, bending tubes, hissing spouts, and steam puffs. As a result of her skillful operation, the machine releases a precious drop of concentrated coffee in each of two tiny cups. Rosa brings them to the table and they sit down.
The dining room is large and bright, with tasteful Mediterranean decor—white walls, terracotta floor, dark wood furniture, and ceramic panels with landscapes of the Amalfi coast imported from the region. On one side, French doors lead to a patio lined with potted lemon and orange trees. On the other side, a wood-burning oven is in full view.
“I had not seen it after the renovation,” Amy says, looking around. “It’s really nice. Simple and elegant.”
“You should tell Chris. He’s the one who designed it and supervised the work.” Chris is Rosa’s son, a successful architect and the owner of a hip design studio, the first in the family to graduate from college. Rosa continues, “It took him a long time to convince his father that the place needed a facelift. Joe didn’t want to hear of it. He liked it the way his parents set it up fifty years ago, with Formica table tops and an electric oven tucked away in the back of the kitchen. But now, he too is happy with the results. Business has been terrific.”
II
