Chapter 7 - The Sky Over Positano
The private terrace of Villa Bellisima smelled of crushed wild rosemary, sea salt, and lemon blossoms.
Below the limestone balustrade, the Tyrrhenian Sea stretched toward the horizon like a sheet of hammered blue silk, dotted with the white triangles of luxury yachts carving lazy wakes into the water. The sun was hot—clean, brilliant Italian gold that warmed the stone tiles beneath my bare feet.
"Signorina Henderson?"
I turned. Marco stood at the edge of the terrace, dressed in a crisp, cream-colored linen suit, holding a silver tray bearing a chilled bottle of Franciacorta and four crystal flutes.
"The chef has prepared the carpaccio of red gamberi with citrus oil for your lunch," he said, bowing with immaculate grace. "And the private launch is fueled at the marina. Whenever you and your guests wish to visit Capri, the skipper is at your disposal."
"Thank you, Marco. That sounds perfect."
"May I say," Marco added, his dark eyes sparkling with quiet amusement, "the villa is far more peaceful with four guests than with twenty. A party of four allows the estate to breathe."
"It breathes very well," I agreed.
Behind me, the double French doors opened, and Rebecca stepped out onto the terrace wearing oversized sunglasses and a silk headscarf, looking like a movie star escaping the paparazzi.
"If I ever return to London," Rebecca announced, sinking into a plush lounge chair under the canvas pergola, "it will only be under armed escort. Maya, this place is indecent. I just saw the private wine cellar. There are bottles in there older than my father."
Aunt Sarah emerged a moment later. She was quiet, holding a straw sunhat against her chest, her eyes wide as she took in the dizzying drop of the cliff and the endless expanse of blue. She looked twenty years younger without the nervous twitch she always wore around my mother.
"Evelyn used to talk about this place," Sarah murmured, stepping up to the marble railing. "She had a picture of this exact terrace pinned to her refrigerator for three years. She told everyone at church that Arthur was surprising her with it for their anniversary."
"Arthur couldn't surprise a dog with a bone," Rebecca said dryly, pouring the sparkling wine into four glasses. "Drink your champagne, Sarah. It tastes much better when it's paid for with self-respect."
Sarah took a glass, her hand trembling slightly, and looked at me. "Maya... thank you. You had every right to leave me in Surrey to rot with the rest of them."
"You owned your cruelty, Sarah," I said, clinking my glass against hers. "In my book, that earns you a seat at the table. Evelyn and Chloe still think they're the victims. That's why they're sitting in the rain."
As if summoned by the mention of their names, my phone vibrated on the teak table.
It was an alert from Instagram.
I had blocked Chloe, Evelyn, and Mark on all my personal profiles, but my cousin Toby had sent me a screen recording of Chloe's public account.
I tapped the screen.
The video had been taken at Gatwick Airport, Terminal South, approximately four hours ago.
Chloe was standing in front of the British Airways check-in desk, wearing a white resort jumpsuit and oversized sunglasses, shouting at an utterly unmoved terminal supervisor. Her husband Dan was nowhere to be seen. Beside her stood my mother, looking haggard in an expensive travel cardigan, clutching a stack of printed papers—the very same plastic folder she had ripped from my hands at Sunday dinner.
"What do you mean the voucher is invalid?" Chloe's voice shrieked through the phone speaker, thin and hysterical against the ambient roar of the airport. "We have the confirmation number! The lead guest is our sister! She's meeting us there!"
The British Airways supervisor, a woman whose face suggested she had heard every lie invented since the dawn of commercial aviation, looked down at her screen.
"Ma'am, as I've already explained three times: the reservation reference you are holding was modified five days ago by the primary cardholder. Your names are not on the travel manifest. Furthermore, the private transfer vouchers you've printed are registered exclusively to a party that departed on the 6:30 AM flight from Heathrow. You do not have valid boarding passes for this group booking."
"This is fraud!" Evelyn’s voice cut in, shrill and desperate, as she leaned over the baggage scale. "My daughter stole our holiday! Call the police! I demand you call the police!"
"Ma'am," the supervisor said, her voice dropping into the terrifyingly calm tone of airline security protocol, "if you do not step away from the desk immediately, I will signal airport constabulary to have you removed from the departures hall."
The video cut off as Chloe swung her designer handbag at the phone camera, screaming at an onlooker who was filming the spectacle.
Rebecca leaned over my shoulder, watched the final three seconds of the video, and took a slow, theatrical sip of her Franciacorta.
May you like
"God," Rebecca sighed happily. "There really is a heaven, and it has an Italian post code."
***