Chapter Thirteen Caroline

Sometimes Max can be especially eye-roll-inducing—like when he tries to order his Zhitomir salad at a luxe chef restaurant.

We are at the spectacular Ristorante Belforte in Vernazza, carved high up into the cliffs, rope railings navigating the stone walls and tables shrouded in white linens, with navy umbrellas overhead. At first there was a mishap about our reservation; they had us down for an hour later. Max began to get heated, raising his voice at the poor, meek ma?tre d’. Hungry Max is a phenomenon best to avoid. I could tell that old Aronov temper was about to geyser out, but thankfully right then the manager arrived, patting a hand on Max’s shoulder, saying we were VIPs, and they would fit us in, nessun problema. So here we are, miraculously at the best table in the house. There is no fight for the good seat—every seat is a good one, with three-sixty views of the sea. I’ve ordered the trofie pasta in Ligurian pesto. Rory and Nate have each opted for squid ink tagliolini. And Max is issuing his precise specifications for his Zhitomir salad.

What is a Zhitomir salad, you might rightfully ask? Zhitomir is the small town in Ukraine from which Ansel Aronov hails. It’s a few hours southeast of Kiev, a fertile place in summer—endless green—and in winter, it’s one long cold that seizes your bones. With antisemitic bullies lurking around frozen corners.

But apparently, they had delicious salads. Salads made of radishes and green onions and tomatoes, chopped small. At the Russian diner next to the Jewish Community Center in our hometown where Ansel was chef, one of the salads on the menu was called the Zhitomir salad. (Not many people other than Max ordered it. The blintzes, on the other hand… chef’s kiss.) But I understand why Max loves it, why he orders it on vacations, even. The salad ties Max to Ansel, and of all his identities—brother, CEO, friend—Max cherishes his title as Ansel’s son the most.

Max is still describing the salad to our patient and incredibly attractive bronzed waiter, Alessandro, with swoopy dark hair. Historically, I’m a sucker for swoopy dark hair. Gabriele’s got it, too—and I definitely noticed Rory eyeing his up. Max’s got the swoopy hair gene as well. His lack of swoopy dark hair has never been our problem. Max drones on with his precise specifications, down to the dressing of olive oil and red vinegar—but not too much vinegar. I feel my chest tighten with each ingredient addition.

When Max finishes, Alessandro smiles good-naturedly. “Sir, you are in Italy. How about you order an Italian salad?”

That’s it—I devolve into giggles. It’s not just me, though—Nate and Rory erupt, too. A shadow passes over Max’s face, and for a tense moment, I wonder if he’s going to unleash. But he clears his throat, and his eyes go light again.

“An Italian salad. Okay, I’ll have an Italian salad.” He throws up his hand in congenial surrender. Then he points to our water glasses. “Can we get some ice for the waters, though, please?”

The waiter chuckles. “You are American, no?” Then he ambles away, his laughs still audible.

“Is it really that weird to ask for ice?” Max asks, his irritation obvious.

Rory shrugs. “Italians like water room temperature.”

“Fine. But is it that egregious to ask? And what is an Italian salad exactly?”

“A caprese, Max.” I roll my eyes. “Progress, though. I remember a time not so long ago that you would have lost it. Insisted on your Zhitomir salad.”

Rory bellows out a laugh. “Gone full-out chess pieces.”

“Ha ha,” Max says dryly.

No need to rehash, we all remember the incident Rory means. Rory and I were in middle school, and the three of us would play casual impromptu chess tournaments. One time it ended in Max and me for the championship. But Max lost; I still remember that sweet final checkmate. And how suddenly, he was throwing Rory’s board and all the pieces into the lake.

“I apologized,” Max grumbles. “I brought you guys Dairy Queen after, didn’t I? And bought you a new set, Ror. And honestly, that happened ages ago. That’s the problem about being around people who’ve known you since you were a kid. They don’t notice your evolution. They want to remember you like you were.”

“Maxie, I haven’t known you since you were a kid, and I still think you are a character, my man.” Nate slaps Max on the back good-naturedly. “But I guess if Maximillions wants a Zhitomir salad, Maximillions can have a Zhitomir salad. You can hire someone to be your full-time Zhitomir salad man. I mean, why not?”

“I don’t quite have the funds for that yet,” Max says, cheerfully now. “But isn’t that the dream?”

“You can’t find the funds in your millions?” Nate fans out his red-and-white-checked linen napkin on his lap and removes that dorky panama hat that ages him a couple of decades into a goofy tourist dad. Or bumbling American. Same vibe.

Max smiles. He turns out his pockets, demonstrating their emptiness. “My millions are all on paper now. Nothing to see here, until we turn a profit. One day, I’ll have my Zhitomir salad man.”

“That’s when you’ll know you’ve made it, huh?” Rory smiles genuinely, and I know something has been smoothed out with her brother. Even though I don’t know what. It bothers me, not knowing. I always need to know where I stand with the two of them. I suppose it’s because of how I needed them, how I’ve relied on them to be my family. How I still do. It’s why…

Let’s just say it’s informed everything in my life. And I don’t know what to do. I truly don’t.… My eyes fizz with the blue of the water. It’s strange to feel so utterly hopeless in a place as majestic as this.

“I’ll know I’ve made it when I’ve cured Papa,” Max says as our waiter returns, pen poised over pad. “Hey, what are we drinking?” Max asks.

“White wine? Something local?” Nate asks. “Franciacorta?”

“What’s that?” Max asks.

“Like prosecco, but from the Lombardy region.” Nate pulls something out of his pocket—two interlinked metal circles. His fidget toy. His fingers begin working it. He’s on edge. We all are, I guess. I can almost feel the vibration of his knee bumping up and down under the table, too.

“Franciacorta, then.” Max shuts the menu, his Italian accent so abysmal normally I would smile. Or laugh.

I don’t.

“I’ll have a vodka neat,” Rory says, then negotiates with Alessandro about which kind of vodka is their best. Alessandro says he’ll have to go check; he’ll be right back.

Into the void, I say, “Ror, how you feeling after that rock attack?”

“Oh.” Rory spins out a smile. “I’m fine. Must have been one of those things.”

“One of those things. I mean, I guess? Rocks getting dislodged. Barreling right toward you? Another day in paradise.”

“Yeah.” Rory shifts in her chair, looks uneasily at the water.

“You know what I was thinking, though?”

“No, what?” Now Nate cocks his head at me.

“If I were the author, I mean. Just putting myself in her shoes. Her last book bombed, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. What does that matter, though?” Rory flickers uncertain eyes at me.

“Well, if I wanted to make sure my next book was on the map, I’d arrange some PR stunt with my new main character.” I cough, clear my throat. “I mean, if I were psychotic. I was just thinking, is all. If that boulder had hit Ror…”

“It would have been all over every newspaper,” Max says slowly.

“That’s insane,” Nate says. “There’s no way the author is that diabolical. Rory could have died.”

“Insane,” I agree. “But is it out of the realm of possibility that she could have leveraged this trip for her ends?”

“Leveraged this trip?” Rory says, her face pale, but I’m not sure if she’s angry at me or at what I’m suggesting, or both. “You’re being so corporate, C. Leveraged this trip? She sent me—she sent us—on this ridiculously luxe vacation, and you’re suggesting she, what? I mean, what exactly are you suggesting? Ginevra can barely walk up a flight of stairs without struggling to breathe properly, but somehow she located this massive rock and pushed it down a mountain right when we were passing, in exactly the right direction to hit me?”

“No! I mean, it’s not like I really think she pushed the boulder. But isn’t it possible she was behind it? Like, she could have other minions on the train. Besides Gabriele, I mean. Look at the people on the train who were on the trail, too. Probably others we didn’t notice.”

Silence, as that lands with a thud. Probably they didn’t contemplate that, but I have. I’ve contemplated a lot of things.

“And another thing.” I’m on a roll, but I can’t stop. “Wasn’t there something in the book? A rock through the window… that narrowly missed you, Ror. I mean… Laci.”

“Oh, wow,” Rory says. “Yeah, actually. During the snowstorm, when they lose power. She’s looking through old journals, trying to find that pivotal clue, when—”

“The rock crashes in. If she hadn’t been crouched on the floor, it would have smashed into her skull. I haven’t finished yet. Don’t know who did it.”

“You did.” Rory doesn’t smile.

“I’m the villain? I’m the murderer? Candace?” Well then. Interesting, that.

“How about that? Caro’s the murderer?” Max asks. “Funny.”

“Is it?” I ask.

“I mean, it sort of is.” Max smiles. “But back to reality, huh? The book isn’t real. No one’s trying to take Rory out.”

The table is now stiflingly quiet. My bag is heavy in my lap—the book. That damn book. Fiction doesn’t grip me like nonfiction. I’d be far more riveted by Roman history or a travelogue, and The Cabin on the Lake is absurdly long. I’m halfway through, though. I should have stayed up to finish, and now I’m deeply regretting that I didn’t. So I’m the villain? Then maybe Ginevra knows. Both things. Both my dirty secrets. Max confided to me now, on the last portion of our hike, that Rory told him Ginevra hired private investigators. To look into us all, apparently. Wild. And now I can’t stop wondering whether this trip is more than simply a frivolous gift. What Ginevra has truly planned for Rory. For us all.

I’m in the most beautiful place on earth, with the most important people in my life, and all I want is to escape. I feel quite like jumping off that rail into the sweet blue water and sinking down into oblivion. Throwing in the proverbial towel.

Suddenly, Alessandro is back, chirpy and oblivious. “We don’t have Zyr, but we do have Grey Goose, signorina.”

“Great,” Rory says. “Thanks.”

I busy myself staring at my nails as I feel the waiter’s eyes move to me. I communicate my decline silently. Hope he’ll get the hint, mosey on.

“C?” Rory asks. “You didn’t order yet.”

Usually I’m the drinker of us all—I can throw back four vodkas in a row, easy. Once in a while I black out, sure, but more in my twenties than now. For the past couple of months, though, I’ve stopped drinking, but if I said so now, I’d invite questions I don’t want. It’s required a bit of subterfuge on my part, like asking the waitress yesterday for a vodka on the rocks when we boarded the train, but then excusing myself for a feigned bathroom break and waving the waitress aside, asking her to please substitute water for the vodka but to make it look like a cocktail. And to keep those coming throughout the trip.

“My stomach feels weird,” I say, adding a bright smile. “Drinking will commence later. For now, mineral water, per favore.”

Indeed, I am aggressively sober when we arrive at the beach in Monterosso, the final stop on Ginevra’s itinerary for the afternoon. On our way into the last of the five towns, we crossed a stone bridge, and a man popped out from a hole in the side; I still have no clue from where. Turns out he was selling limoncello shots, and the rest of them went overboard, toasting to God knows what. My mind was buzzing too fast to listen properly.

Something settles in me, though, when we descend the steps along the sea. My eyes mop up the uniform rows of striped orange and green umbrellas and lime-green lounge chairs, the sand sweeping out to the turquoise sea, with several rock formations close to shore, that people are climbing and leaping off.

“Oh my God, it’s like that movie,” Rory says as we all beeline to the sand and strip off our shoes. “You know? What’s it called?”

“The Talented Mr. Ripley?”

“Oh, right, I almost said Life Is Beautiful.”

“Definitely not that one.” I grimace. “That’s a Holocaust movie.” I still remember watching it, even though it must have been twenty years ago. How painful I found it, for so many reasons. Because I am Jewish, and the Holocaust lives in our collective DNA. But also because I am sensitive and find it horrific to witness anyone being mistreated. Or perhaps it’s simpler—that the movie was memorably excruciating because the little boy in it had such a spectacular father.

My therapist says I am always playing out my father wound.

But I don’t say any of that.

“The Talented Mr. Ripley had striped umbrellas,” I agree. “I’ll order up a young Matt Damon, too, if they’re offering.”

“Really, is Matt Damon your thing, C?” Max asks. “I would have said Ben Affleck.”

“What, because he’s got hair more like yours?”

Max gives me a hint of a smile. I don’t return it.

One of the young bronzed beach guys runs up to us, and Max doles out euros for four beach loungers. The last ones available, it looks like, in the row farthest from the water’s edge.

“I want to explore a bit first.” My eyes flitter back toward the shopping area that, by the looks of it, is more substantial than the main streets in the other four towns.

“By explore, she means shop,” Max says.

“What’s wrong with that?” My voice, my chest, flush with anger.

“Nothing.” But Max’s judgy tone conveys otherwise, and the fact that he’s said it so matter-of-factly to Nate and Rory feels like a betrayal.

“I want to take a walk along the shore first,” Rory says.

“I have to call the office,” Max says.

“Who?” I ask.

“Katerina.”

Katerina. Right. The head of the lab.

“I’ll…” Nate wavers. “I need a new belt.”

“A new belt? Here?” Rory asks.

“It’s Italy,” he says. “They have good leather belts.”

“Okay,” I say, deciding to take charge. “So let’s all meet back here in an hour, why don’t we say? Should we put something down, to save our seats?”

“We just paid for them,” Rory says.

“Yeah, but still, they seem like a hot commodity. And the beach guys don’t look like they’re paying much attention.” I motion to a cluster of them, half flirting with tourist girls, half riveted to their smartphones. “Here.” I riffle in my bag, which was large enough to stuff the book Rory’s author wrote at the top. “I’ll leave this. No one’s gonna steal a book.”

“Good call.” Max unloads his book from his backpack and places it on another chair.

“Oh,” says Rory. “You guys all brought them? So you are reading them?” I can’t tell if she sounds irritated or pleased. She pulls her copy from her canvas backpack. “Lightens the load, anyway.”

“I got mine, too.” Nate riffles in his backpack and deposits his on the fourth chair.

I can’t help but smile at the sight of the four books, all propped up on the chairs. “Your author needs this shot for Instagram.”

“Right.” Rory laughs. “Actually she’d probably like it. She has a rabid following.” Rory takes a quick photo. “All right, I’m gonna walk a bit.”

I know that, despite our conversation earlier, Rory is avoiding me. The two of us love shopping, exploring. Another day we’d squeal around town, me trying to convince her to buy stuff, and her stating all the ways a shirt or jacket didn’t quite work, how it could be improved. And then her trying to convince me not to get the shirt or jacket, that I didn’t need it, advocating that it wasn’t special enough. That I needed to pare back—plus now that she’s been traveling in a single suitcase for months, she’s also become the poster child of minimalism.

It’s okay. I need to think. I guess I’m avoiding her, too.

“See you in a little, guys.” And I head off toward the shops, thinking that I will buy myself something—something really nice. That always works to perk up my mood, to take my mind off things. And, hell, there are a lot of those things.