Chapter Twelve Rory

Max and I continue along the path between Riomaggiore and Manarola, down a steep rocky way that makes me rethink my questionable hiking attire again. Caro and Nate are far ahead, not even visible from my current vantage point, where all that exists is a panorama of waves swirling in white froth, then smacking the cliffs dizzyingly far below. Max scrambles to the bottom of the path and I follow more tentatively. He reaches out his hand, and I take it, jittery from the heights and exertion and the still-present adrenaline rush of the boulder rolling at me.

“I got you,” Max says, which teases out my smile. It occurs to me that our roles were reversed as kids—it was I who had him. Had Papa, too.

Papa always said, “My tough girl. My bulldog. My strong one.” Something pulls at my heart, wrings it up like a rag, when I remember him calling me those things, his voice filled with pride, but maybe also with need.

I feel Max bear some of my weight, and finally I leap. I smile at my brother, dust my pants off.

“You’ve changed,” I tell him.

“What do you mean?”

“Just… you’ve got it all together.” I give him a weak smile. “And I’ve got nothing together.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says breezily, but not at all convincing.

We stop to look out over the peninsula jutting into the sea, with what appears to be ruins of a medieval castle at the far end and a mélange of tin rooftops, nestled close. Orchids mingle with the thick brush, and ginormous yachts litter the water, anchored as far along the coastline as I can see. The silence between us now is stretching, yawning; I think we’d both rather it engulfs us. That we can continue to pretend there weren’t so many lies. Lies told by Max, but more pivotally by Papa.

“I’m thinking about Ginevra still,” Max says. “Like, Ror, why this trip? Why you? Does she do this for every main character she hires?”

I consider it, the surprise, the extravagance. All the subterfuge. Her note—the stuff about Caro, and the lunch reservation at Le Sirenuse after the trip. So bizarrely mysterious.

“You think she…” My lips begin to form a theory, running ahead of my brain.

“I don’t know, Ror. I hardly know her. Just our couple chats on Zoom. Which were kind of strange in themselves. But I mean, I was happy to do them for you.” I nod. “How do you even know this author in the first place?”

I think about five years back, how I didn’t even have my own show yet but was part of a team building a new network from scratch. How exciting that felt to be creating something that was going to make a mark, make a difference. Insane hours, so much enthusiasm, the magic of the studio—the lights, the frenzy, how in but one day, you could prepare and interview and then produce something tangible. I was only doing field reporting and filling in when other anchors were out, but I was thrilled, because all of it was a step up from my radio days. It was happening—it was all happening, the dreams I was bent toward achieving. And Ginevra Ex—the private, bestselling author—decided to give an interview to our brand spanking new network to launch her latest book. It was a huge get, teasing the infamously reclusive author out of her cave. It meant we were creating the kind of prestige we desired, attracting good guests and talent, of which I was one. The talent. Crazy to believe, and how it stoked my ego, too. Somehow I was assigned the gig to interview Ginevra, and we hit it off—even though she was a hard person to probe. Since I was a child, I’ve noticed that people naturally open up in my presence, that I’m a good listener—both important qualities of a successful anchor.

Ginevra, though, was a challenge. She evaded personal questions. She wanted to talk writing, the process, her courting of the muse, even fashion and design, subjects in which she was interested, although her taste ran to the frankly garish. She decidedly did not want to talk about her past or her personal motivations—only those of her main characters. Which still proved fascinating, both to me and to our audience. The first interview was a rousing success, and so others followed. Each time Ginevra released a new book, it became my thing to invite her on air along with her main character. To talk about what was truth and what was fiction, and how she achieved the dance between them both.

Now, though, I wonder, why me? Why I was the chosen one, of all anchors she could have picked?

I tell Max the backstory. He exhales slowly, clearly skeptical. “Huh.”

“She’s never even lived in Michigan. It’s impossible she’d—”

“It’s weird, though, LS.”

“But then why would she have told me about my adoption in such a strange way? If she gave me up for adoption, if she orchestrated my main character thing because she’s—I don’t know—curious about me, or wants to reunite, then why wouldn’t she have just told me so?”

“I’m probably off, then.” Max shrugs.

But I don’t feel so confident either, about any of it. “I could ask Papa.”

“You could. But, Ror—”

“I know. It’s unlikely that he’ll be able to give me clarity.”

Max is quiet. Finally, he says, “Sometimes it’s like he’s the old Papa. For a few minutes we have him fully. But a huge thing like this, this emotional—a secret he’s clearly kept for his own reasons, well, I just think you have to be careful about approaching him with something like this.”

“Yeah, I know. I need to call him anyway. God, sometimes, though… sometimes I dread it.”

Max nods. He of anyone gets it—the little stabs I feel in my chest when I notice Papa has deteriorated, that a skill he used to have mastered has now disappeared through his fist like sand. Or when I have an entire conversation with him that I find almost shockingly nice and connected, and then when we say goodbye, he smiles and says, “You are a very wonderful lady. Now, who are you again?”

“I haven’t talked to him since right before the silent retreat,” I admit.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, he won’t remember.” Max smiles, the smile of a person who sees Papa all the time, who can actually joke about these things.

I grimace. “It’s harder for the person who’s always far, I think.”

“I don’t know about that, Ror.” Max’s tone is sharp. “Could be harder for the person who’s right there. Who has to rush over when Papa wanders out for a walk and doesn’t return. Who has to drive across Farmington like a maniac, trying to find him.”

I nod, ashamed. That was a couple of months ago. Max told me only after he’d found Papa, at a park where we used to play as kids. “Sorry. I know.”

“You don’t know, though. Not really.”

I bristle, but don’t want to argue. “I appreciate your being there. I really do. If you weren’t…”

If you weren’t, I would have to be. And I don’t think I could do it.

Aloud I say, “I’m calling Papa later.”

It might not solve any mysteries. He might not even know it’s me. But I know I need to.

We walk in quiet for a while, occasionally peel a few purple grapes off dangling vines from the vineyard and munch on them. Two kids pass ahead of us, giggling. Kids, because they look to be in their early twenties, their pale arms unblemished by the spots and freckles that the years seem to hoard.

“Were we ever that young?” I ask Max.

He laughs, then snorts, a classic Max move. “I was. You had the soul of an eighty-year-old as a newborn.”

He didn’t know me as a newborn, I almost say, but decide to take the high road. “I always had it together, huh?”

“Always.”

“Guess I was due a breakdown at some point,” I say cheerfully.

“Is this the breakdown?” He gestures at my outfit. “If so, you make breakdown look good.”

I laugh. “Thanks. I got that going for me, at least.”

We’ve nearly caught back up to Nate and Caro. They’ve stopped at a terraced lookout on a cliff high over Riomaggiore and the coastline, with endless vineyards to their backs, wedged against mountains covered in shrubby Mediterranean macchia. They’re in what looks like an intense conversation, all terse hand motions and pinched faces. When Caro spots us, she suddenly stops midstream.

“What’s… um, you guys okay?” I call out.

Caro nods. Her lips crater into a wide salesy smile. “Great.”

“Yeah, all good.” Nate dusts his hands of invisible dirt and goes to stare out over the guardrail. I wonder if they’ve been talking about me.

In a few moments, Nate is back, poring over his map. “Okay, I say we take the train to Corniglia. Otherwise it’s three miles, a lot of that uphill. Or do you guys want to hike it?”

“Train,” Caro and I say in unison.

“Right. Okay. It’s supposed to be the least exciting town, set away from the sea but with incredible views. Then we’ll hike to Vernazza. That’s an easier one. Flat terrain. We can explore the castle there, go to a lunch place Ginevra put on the itinerary. Ristorante Belforte. Then we’ll hop on the train again to Monterosso, explore the town a bit, and spend the rest of the afternoon lounging at a bagno.” He says the Italian word for beach club proudly, in his Fabrizio voice.

“What do you guys say?” Then his eyes crease with concern. “How you doing, Ror? I didn’t even ask.”

“Perfect. But can we add a coffee stop in the mix in the foreseeable future?”

“Sì, signorina.” Then Nate sings, again, “Dipinto di blu.” I groan, but he winks at me, a wink I well know. Still, I can feel something in me that’s hardened—stiff where it would usually soften.

Then Nate, Max, and Caro set off toward the train. I pause for a moment, drop my attention into my body, like they taught us on the retreat, and watch them—Max and Nate chattering, Caro off to the side, scrolling on her phone, her expression weirdly gloomy.

“Coming, Ror?” Nate glances back, and the rest of them do, too.

“Yep.” I slowly walk over.

“Ror.” Caro’s at my side. “Hi.” She says it softly, almost afraid.

“Hi yourself.”

“Look… maybe I’m off, but gonna say it anyway. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.” I hear the implication in her tone—that this is weird, that we are weird. We aren’t ourselves, our typical Rory and Caro.

“I’m not avoiding you. It’s just… a lot. This trip. Nate.” I think how to sum up our breakfast conversation, then don’t have the energy to. “That boulder. Stuff with Max. God, I have stuff to tell you. Not now, though.”

I have stuff to ask her, too.

“I have stuff to tell you, too.”

“Yeah?” I cock my head at her, trying to get a sense of what’s going on.

Her eyes flit over to the guys. “Not here.”

“Okay. Later, then.”

She squeezes my hand as we wait to board the train to Corniglia. I squeeze hers back, and appraise her panther ring, running my finger over the emeralds.

“This new?” I ask. “I’m obsessed.”

“You want it?” She pulls it off and plops it in my palm.

“Shut up.” I laugh.

“No, I’m serious. You can have it. I want you to have it.”

“I don’t want it.” I push it back at her, slide it on her finger. “You’re crazy. You’re way too generous.”

She shrugs, pushes the ring back down past her knuckle. “What’s mine is yours. And you don’t have a job at the moment, so I thought…”

“Well, buy me a sandwich, not a Cartier panther ring!”

“I’m happy to buy you both.” Then Caro smiles at me, her wide, warm smile, and a thousand memories lodge themselves like little pillows propping up my heart. Caro, aged nine: a girl in my class I didn’t know well, quiet, head down, the only one, other than me, who never had money for a hot school lunch. She approached me on the playground one afternoon and said shyly, “I like your shorts.” I looked down, confused. They were brown cloth with faded daisies and a bleach stain in the back. Then I saw the hopeful tilt of her chin and understood. She’d chosen me. Needed me. Later I discovered why. Caro’s father was always gambling over the border in Windsor, and Caro’s mother was obsessed with horses. Some winters, her mom chose to fund the horse’s keep instead of paying their heating bill. Caro once overheard her mom say to a friend that she loved her horse more than she loved her daughter.

Caro always says that the person she is, and all she has achieved in life, is a credit to me, Max, and Papa. We took her in. We gave her a family when the one she had royally sucked. And in return, she’s the most loyal friend to me and Max, and to Papa. And the most thoughtful, like making scrapbooks for my birthday with ticket stubs she saved from when we were twelve, organizing a blowout surprise party for my thirtieth, and randomly buying me a shirt she got herself, too, because she knew I’d love it. She’s also beyond generous. Offering up her Cartier ring is typical Caro. It’s probably one of the reasons her finances haven’t been tip-top. But it’s not just money—she’s attuned to the littlest needs of those she loves. Whenever I come to Michigan, she picks me up at the airport with bottles of water and my favorite snacks. She insists on filling our cabin ahead of time with all my favorite foods, and then stays with us at Papa’s, putting out fresh peonies and the wafers I love on the nightstand. She does that kind of stuff for Papa even when I’m not there—replenishes his stock of halvah, takes him to his longtime barber. She sends me videos of Papa, hugs him extra for me.

Caro is the best. Ginevra simply has to be wrong. Caro can’t be embezzling from Max. She just can’t.

The train pulls into the station, and once we’re ensconced inside with a crush of tourists all yammering in a tangle of languages, I spontaneously hug my best friend.

“I love you so much. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Later,” Caro agrees, her breath a tunnel on my neck, her tone odd, though, prickling all my little hairs. It feels like some kind of promise.