Lucky Break (8 page)

“She was thinking about shopping, maybe,” my mom prompted, tapping her watch. “About how maybe Flan would like to see another side of Capri before all the stores close? Hint, hint.”

I nodded my agreement, and after my father
bought half the cheese in Marco's shop, we stepped back out to the street, ready to hit the stores.

Mom was right about the shopping scene in Capri. For such a tiny little island, they had a lot of big-name designers lining the streets. One stop into LouisVuitton, Fendi, and Ferragamo later, and even I felt shopped out.

“What's wrong, Flan?” my mom asked. “Do you think the Fendi blazer you bought is the wrong color?”

“No,” I insisted. “I love it. I don't know, maybe the jet lag is still affecting me. I just got really tired.”

“Take a load off.” My dad gestured to the large courtyard full of café tables. “I'll order us a few lemon sodas and we'll people-watch your strength back.”

It sounded like a great idea, and it did feel really great to sit down after all the running around we'd been doing. The people-watching was hilarious and fun too. Italians were certainly in love with their hot pinks and electric blues. But what stood out more was that they were also in love with each other. Literally. Everyone around us was a couple: young and old, short and tall, fabulously dressed and even more fabulously dressed. And every single one of them was making out. It was like I'd suddenly ended up in the capital of PDA-ville, and I was all alone. I closed my eyes and started rubbing my temples.

What was my problem today? I just couldn't get Alex out of my head. I remembered what SBB had mentioned the other day about Bianca, the Serbian breakup expert, and it started to make sense why people had to resort to such drastic measures. Was I going to be one of them?

I shuddered. No. This was only the beginning of my trip. I still had a whole week to make progress. All I needed was a good night's sleep, a can-do attitude, and a better day tomorrow.

When the warm kiss of the Amalfi sunrise woke me up the next morning, my broken heart wasn't the first thing that popped into my head. Okay, it was the second, and the third, and the fourth—but at least I was making
some
progress!

On my bedside table, someone had left another gorgeous breakfast platter. Was it bad that I was getting used to this kind of special treatment? I was just about to pop a perfectly fuzzy apricot in my mouth when I heard the doorbell ring.

At first, I figured one of my parents would answer it, but after a minute, the doorbell was followed by a rough knock and the words, “
una casella da FedEx
for Signora Flan Flood.”

The forgotten apricot plummeted from my fingers as I raced to pull on my robe. What if it was something from Alex? As I dashed to the front door of our villa,
I tried not to envision what he might have included in his “forgive me” care package. Black-and-white cookies from Pick a Bagel? That new Magnetic Fields CD we'd listened to at his apartment? A piece of jewelry from Bird, my favorite boutique in Brooklyn? No—it'd be better to be surprised.

But when I opened the door to the muscular Italian deliveryman, all he had in his hand was a tiny brown box. It seemed too tiny to make up for Alex's
huge
mistake. I gulped as I reached to sign the delivery slip. They
did
say good things came in small packages.

I glanced down at the handwriting on the box, and I hated to admit it, but my heart sank when I recognized it as Camille's. Instantly, a tidal wave of guilt hit me. I should be glad that I had friends who remembered to send me things even while they were having the time of their lives with their boyfriends in the most romantic city in the world.

With a sigh, I gave the FedEx man my best attempt at a smile and took my package out to the balcony. It was only eight o'clock, but our villa was already so quiet. My dad's golf clubs were gone from their spot in the corner and so was my mom's massive purple Longchamp shoulder bag. I guessed both my parents were already hard at “work.”

Using the keys to our villa, I cut open the tape on the box to find a small gold-wrapped package and an envelope with my name on it. Inside the envelope was a group photo of the Paris crew, arm in arm at the top of the Eiffel Tower. All eight of them looked like they were having an amazing time—with big grins on their faces and big baguettes poking out of their tote bags. It would have been totally frameable if Camille hadn't drawn in a grinning stick figure next to where she stood in the photo. Her drawing had straight, shoulder-length hair, a crude depiction of the GPA binder in her hand, and the words
Flan in spirit
written above an arrow over her head. Despite myself, I was smiling when I read the card:

DEAR FLAN,

PARIS EST FANTASTIQUE, MAIS TU NOUS MANQUE!
ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN'T JET UP FROM ITALY? WE MISS YOU DESPERATELY!

(It was right about then that I started to feel the tears well up again. Was my mom right? Was there no end to a woman's tear production? I read on.)

OKAY, OKAY, I KNOW YOU NEED THIS WEEK TO RECUPERATE, BUT WE'RE THINKING ABOUT YOU EVERY SECOND. IN FACT, I WAS THINKING ABOUT YOU THE WHOLE TIME I WAS READING THIS BOOK ON THE PLANE. READ IT—MAYBE IT'LL HELP. CALL ANYTIME.

EVERYONE SENDS
MILLES BISOUS
,

C.

I held the package in my hand. The silky wrapping paper was so pretty that I almost didn't want to rip it. Carefully, I pulled at the tape until the paper fell away and I could see the title of the book:
Feast, Fast, Fall.

I opened the cover to read the jacket copy and started to understand why Camille had thought of me while she was reading—it was a memoir about a woman trying to get over a really bad breakup. It was sweet of Camille to think of me, but I wasn't sure it was going to do any good.

Occasionally, SBB would send me to the self-help section of one of the bookstores in my neighborhood when she was too paranoid of paparazzi to go herself. So I'd spent a lot of time flipping through the books on the shelf to find something suitable for her insanity du jour. But personally, I'd never been too into the self-help books for myself. Then again, I'd never really been through anything like this.

With no parents to entertain me, and no real way to get anywhere (after yesterday morning, I wasn't going to risk taking out the scooter on my own), I stepped back into my bedroom to grab the tray of breakfast food. I guessed I could just hunker down on the balcony, reading and eating the day away.

Only a few pages into the book, I was hooked. This woman really had the right idea. She wasn't trying to rush herself into getting over her breakup—in fact, she was totally indulging herself. A woman after my very own heart. She was in Italy; I was in Italy. She was stuffing her face with pizza; I was stuffing my face with
pane alla cioccolato
. Though pizza sounded really good—I wondered if any of the pizzerias in Sorrento delivered. Hmm …

“Yoo-hoo, darling!” I heard my mother's voice followed by the click of her stilettos on the marble floor.

I looked up from my book to see my mother, fully done up in snakeskin Derek Lam heels, a navy blue Calvin Klein bathing suit with matching cover-up, and the biggest straw hat I'd ever seen. She actually had to lift it up with both hands to make eye contact with me.

“Oh, hi Mom,” I said sleepily.

“‘Oh, hi Mom'?” she repeated. “What are you doing lazing around like this all alone? Come laze around with me—on the beach. I just had the most marvelous facial at Donatella's. I'll tell you all about it once we're spread out in the warm sun. And you can tell me all about what you've been up to!”

I yawned and settled back into my lounge chair. “You're looking at it,” I said, reaching for another pastry. “There isn't really much more to tell.”

“Then let's get out there and make some memories!” She grinned. “I know how you love the feel of the rushing waves at your back. I'll be your photographer—like the paparazzi. You can pretend you want your privacy, and I'll just snap away!”

“Eh, I'm pretty comfortable here.” I shrugged. “Hey, do you know of any good pizza places that deliver? I was thinking of ordering in.”

My mom cocked her head at me and reached over to read the title of my book. Her eyes narrowed into a squint.

“Oh, no, you don't,” she said, shaking her finger at me.

“What?”

“I read that book. That woman gained thirty-five pounds when she was in Italy.”

“But—I just—Alex—”

“I'm not saying don't enjoy the local cuisine to the fullest, but drowning yourself in delivery pizza because you're sad about a boy is no way to experience Italy. I won't let you wallow on a balcony all day. Put that book down and get your bathing suit on. Pronto!”

I wasn't used to my mom being such a drill sergeant. I kind of liked it. As much as I'd gotten used to the idea of daylong balcony wallowing, she did have a point. I put down the book and stood up.

“That's more like it,” Mom said, giving me a quick shove toward my bedroom.

When we were comfortably seated on a giant terry cloth blanket under a huge green umbrella on the beach, my mom reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of just about every trashy magazine that existed, both in the States and in Italy.

“I know we can't really
read
the Italian tabloids,” she said, shrugging, “But surely we can still enjoy the photos. Look at those pecs!”

I leaned in to check out the glossy centerfold of the Italian movie star, Giuseppe Gianni. I didn't recognize his face. I guessed he hadn't yet broken out onto the American silver screen—but if muscle mass meant anything in Hollywood, I imagined he was on his way.

Then, something just above the pages of the magazine caught my mom's eye.

“Look at that guy,” she said, pointing at a real-live attractive bronzed muscleman walking along the beach in front of us. “I think he and Giuseppe must be on the same workout regimen.”

I tried to laugh, but I didn't really feel like scoping out guys with my mom at the moment. Still, she was determined. She flipped up her sunglasses and
rotated my chin back toward the Italian stallion, just as he dove into the water.

“What?” I said. “I see him.” I was fully aware that I sounded sort of whiny, but I couldn't really help it.

“I'm trying to prove to you how many other gorgeous fish there are in the sea,” my mom insisted.

“I guess I'm just not interested.” I sighed and reached for my book again.

My mom sighed too and reached for her magazine.

For a moment we read in silence, but both of us could totally feel the tension. Finally, Mom threw down her magazine.

“This isn't working,” she said, sounding upset. “I thought a little R and R with M and D would help, but clearly Italy just isn't the remedy.”

“I'm sorry, Mom,” I said, meeting her sad eyes. “I know you're trying.”

“Don't apologize. But no mother likes to see her daughter fall into such a slump. Not when I could do something about it.”

She scratched her head, then picked up her phone and typed a few thousand words in about a minute.

“What would you say to a flight to Thailand to visit Feb tonight?” she asked.

My eyes lit up. I'd never been to Asia.

“Maybe the pace is too slow for you here,” she
continued. “Maybe what you need is to keep busy. And we know Feb. She'll put you right to work in one of those little rice shanties.”

Her description was pretty funny, but actually, keeping busy with my bossy big sister did sound like it might take my mind off things.

“Anyway,” Mom continued, “they're staying at the Four Seasons, so it's not like you'll have to rough it
that
much. What do you think? Sound good?”

I flung my arms around my mom and bobbed my head with more energy than I'd had in days.

“Sounds great!”

When I opened my eyes on Tuesday morning, I had no idea where I was. The room was dark and cold, and the bed was uncomfortably small. Everything around me was shaky, but I couldn't figure out why. Was this what an earthquake felt like? Did they even
have
earthquakes in Manhattan?

“The captain has turned on the ‘fasten seat belt' sign, indicating our initial descent into Bangkok.”

When the seat belt sign illuminated over my first-class seat on the small Alitalia plane, all the painful details came flooding back to me. I wasn't in Manhattan at all. I was on a plane to visit Feb in Thailand … because my mom was worried about my “slump” … because I was having a miserable time in Italy … because I'd just had my heart broken. Hmph, I would almost have preferred a minor earthquake.

How did the rest of my family keep up with where in
the world they were, when, and why? Jaunting around three continents in under a week had totally thrown me for a loop. But this was typical for the rest of the Floods, just like a walk in Central Park was for me.

On the bright side, at least my family was aware of my habits. They expected me to need a little extra hand-holding this week. After my mom had booked my plane ticket from Naples direct to Bangkok, I'd overheard her on the phone with Feb. The phrase “she's in a fragile state” escaped her lips more than a few times.

The plan was for Feb to pick me up at the airport and take me back to our adjoining rooms at the Four Seasons. I pushed through the throngs of people at baggage claim, thinking how glad I was going to be to see a familiar, sisterly face in the crowd. This place was crazy! I could barely breathe, let alone see over the heads of all the men in business suits, shouting into their phones, to find my luggage.