Sex and Vanity(5)

Charlotte interrupted her reverie. “Tell me the name of Isabel’s fiancé again? The count?”

“Dolfi. His full name is Adolfo De Vecchi. I don’t think he’s a count—that’s his father.”

“And he plays polo?”

“Yes, he’s got a nine-goal handicap. His whole family has been into polo for generations.”

“The polo-playing son of an Italian count marries a Taiwanese heiress. My, Lucie, you’re really running with the international ooh-la-las these days,” Charlotte teased.

Soon they arrived at the town of Capri, which was built high on the mountain overlooking the harbor. Waiting by the bustling taxi stand on Via Roma was an Italian man in his twenties wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and white trousers that appeared at least two sizes too tight. “Welcome to Capri! I am Paolo, from the Bertolucci. Please allow me to escort you to the hotel. It is just a short walk away,” the man said.

They strolled into the main public square, where a gleaming white clock tower stood opposite from the historic Cathedral of Santo Stefano. Four competing outdoor cafés lining the square bustled with chic patrons sipping their cappuccinos, chatting, and people-watching from their bistro tables.

“This is the piazzetta. We call it ‘the living room of Capri,’” Paolo noted.

“You would never find a living room like this in America—everyone is so nattily dressed here!” remarked Charlotte.

As they walked beyond the piazzetta and down Via Vittorio Emanuele, Charlotte’s discerning eye did a quick assessment and she found herself quietly impressed. Capri seemed to embody the most marvelous blend of historic and modern, high and low, simplicity and decadence. Here they were, strolling along a cobblestone street where a humble tobacco kiosk neighbored a sleek boutique selling hand-sewn driving moccasins, and a shop glittering with the most lust-worthy jewels stood just a few paces down from the rustic gelateria, where the scent of freshly baked cones wafted into the air. “How charming! How charming!” Charlotte kept saying at every turn. “Can you even believe this place exists?”

“It’s glorious,” Lucie replied, relieved that everything met with her cousin’s approval so far. All the same, she couldn’t imagine how anyone—even her extremely jaded cousin—could find fault with this island. She loved seeing the clusters of Italian children running up and down the street laughing wildly, the old grandmas resting their tired feet on the steps of designer boutiques, the impeccably dressed couples walking along hand in hand, bronzed and glowing from their hours under the sun. And no matter where you turned, there was the view—of undulating hills dotted with white villas, ancient fortress ruins commanding every ridgetop, and the sea sparkling in the golden sun.

Charlotte made a dead stop outside a sandal shop, seemingly transfixed.

“We are famous for our sandals, signora. Beyoncé, Sarah Jessica Parker, all the famous stars buy sandals in Capri,” Paolo said proudly.

“If I had Beyoncé’s budget, I’d take that tangerine pair over there. And the gold ones. And the ones with those cute little pom-poms. Hell, I’d take every single pair in the window!” Charlotte gushed.

“You’re welcome to buy me the ones with the pink suede tassels,” Lucie remarked.

“That’s so you! You know, we should get a pair for your mother. Don’t you think she’d like those braided leather sandals? Let’s make a note of this place, please!”

Lucie suddenly caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window and let out a shriek. “Charlotte! How could you let me walk through town looking like this? I look like a cocker spaniel!”

“You do not! You look like you’ve just been on a joyride along the Amalfi Coast, which you have,” Charlotte said with a reassuring smile. She knew Lucie had always been self-conscious about her natural curls and spent half her life straightening her hair. The lucky girl had no idea how ravishing she looked with her long, lustrous locks loose and wild, coupled with that improbably perfect blend of Eastern and Western features. Perhaps that was a good thing—she would have to spend less time fending off all the boys on this trip.

Paolo guided them down a twisting narrow lane, and before long, they arrived at the Hotel Bertolucci, a charming white modernist villa bursting with purple bougainvillea vines along every wall. Stepping into the breezy lobby and taking in the plush white sofas, Solimene ceramics, and gleaming blue-and-white majolica tiles, Charlotte registered her approval. “This is exactly as I imagined! How marvelous is this place? Now I feel like we’re truly on holiday!” They were shown into a tiny elevator, which took them two levels up, and were led down a hallway smartly carpeted in a cream-and-navy-striped sisal.

“We go first to your room, and then I will take your friend to her room,” Paolo said to Charlotte.

“She’s my cousin,” Charlotte corrected.

“Oh? Your cousin?” Paolo glanced reflexively at Lucie in surprise, but Lucie simply smiled. She knew that within the next few seconds, Charlotte would automatically launch into the explanation she had always given since Lucie was a little girl.

“Yes, her father was my uncle,” Charlotte replied, adding, “Her mother is Chinese, but her father is American.”

So is Mom. She was born in Seattle, Lucie wanted to say, but of course she didn’t.