Page 44 of Angel

In truth, I had no energy to plaster on fake smiles and act like a happy traveler when I was nothing but.

‘You can skip the cattle-car tours and the terrible traffic jams at the Blue Grotto,’ she insisted.

‘How?’

‘We’ve a private skiff right here on the property. You can head out with Carlo for a morning on the water with him as your guide and captain. He can stop in hidden coves for swimming, and I can pack lunch, prosecco and snacks for you. It’s the best way to see our coast.’

I smiled.

‘That actually sounds decent.’

‘You also must take a stroll outside the gates to immerse yourself in our natural beauty,’ she continued, leaning forward with an enthusiastic grin. ‘The path to the right of the property takes you through the quietest part of the island. You’ll walk under soaring pine trees to the most scenic cliff on earth. My own son, Matteo, strolls there to find inspiration. He’s a painter, you know.’

A genuine connection sparked between us as she shared stories of her family.

She was proud of their accomplishments and whipped out her phone to scroll through a slideshow of their graduations, weddings, births, and the feasts they prepared at home.

‘You too can make memories in Capri, cara,’ she told me, tucking her device away. ‘You can walk safely by yourself or ask Carlo to come with you. You don’t even have to go far; the views of the Faraglioni rocks are impressive. Along the way, you catch glimpses of lavish hidden villas, the ocean, and the private beaches. Perhaps even a Hollywood celebrity or two.’

Her maternal warmth was endearing, but imagining the walks by myself made me sigh.

She caught on to my mood change.

‘Tell me why you’re so sad and why that handsome man of yours plays soulful songs on his guitar?’

I jolted at her words, emotion arcing through me at the thought of Angel’s despair.

He had to be suffering so much, I thought as my heart squeezed in empathy.

‘It’s a lost cause,’ I murmured.

‘Tell me anyway, sharing the burden halves it.’

Comforted by the lack of judgment in Mrs. Campanelli’s gaze, my dam broke.

With a sigh, I spilled everything, letting every sordid detail rush out about how Angel was a jilted groom, and how I ended up as his surrogate wife.

When I mentioned my sister was the bride who got away, our hostess gasped, her hand flying up to her face.

‘Your sorella?’

I nodded.

‘Che tragedia!’

She listened to the whole chaotic mess, making soft, cooing sounds and soothing me whenever my voice cracked, and I wiped a stray tear from my cheek.

‘Oh, piccolina,’ she murmured when I was done. ‘The heart wants what the heart wants, but you’re not the villain in this story.’

I appreciated the fact that she never hit me with a lecture or tried to fix my life with cheesy solutions.

Instead, she refused to let me drown in my own self-pity.

‘Come,’ she said, giving my arm a firm tug. ‘No more crying over men who lock themselves away. We make bread.’

‘Right now?’ I sniffled, wiping my nose.

‘Si, idle hands make for a suffering soul.’