LITMIR.BIZ

      Several weeks after we returned to Charleston, I received a postcard in a familiar handwriting—Terry’s—from Bellagio, Italy. The inscription read: “This is paradise. Aren’t we having a good time? Love, T.”

      We almost hadn’t ended up at Bellagio. From Menton we’d driven along the coast to San Remo where terraced fields of roses, carnations, and camellias filled the hillsides. Our bliss, however, was temporarily punctured in Genoa. I don’t recall exactly what happened. Perhaps I made some remark about his drinking, but I do remember how we sat at opposite ends of an empty city tour bus, pouting like three-year-olds.

      Later that day, we declared a truce as we packed the Renault and headed toward Lake Como.

      “Frannie, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. Why don’t we stop in Como and spend the night?”

      “I want to get to Bellagio today. I read a description in the AAA guide. It’s the town on the peninsula that divides the two sides of Lake Como. Outstanding hotels and restaurants. Plenty to see. So what do you think?”

      “I think you already made up your mind. How long will it take to get there?”

      “The guidebook says about twenty-seven kilometers. What’s that in miles? I always get confused.”

      “It’s about fifteen. But no telling how long it’ll take on these roads. They’re like back home. And you aren’t a very good navigator.”

      “I’ll do the best I can. It’ll be worth it. You’ll see.” I hoped that my enthusiasm for the town would rub off on Terry, and that the AAA guide wasn’t exaggerating.

      As the Renault chugged up a narrow, winding road with hazardous switchbacks, Terry looked straight ahead and gripped the steering wheel. We almost wrecked when an Italian driver in a red sports car blew his horn to signal a blind curve a second before the car shot through a hairpin turn.

      “Basta. Italian drivers. Goddamn. Unbelievable.”

      Later that afternoon, our driving nerves were soothed, as we settled into an elegant room at the Hotel Florence where we were mesmerized by our view of the lakefront. All reluctance and annoyance forgotten and swallowed up in the view from our windows.

      Our guidebook recommended visits to the Basilica of San Giacomo, the gardens of the Serbelloni Villa, the chapel at Villa Melzi, and other “must see” sites. We wound up and down steep stone steps past iron balconies festooned with clay pots of red geraniums or laundry drying under the hot sun. At the many shops tucked below apartments, we admired fine silks and Venetian glass jewelry. I purchased a tee shirt for Matt and silk scarves for Terry’s mother and aunt.

      We drank wine at a café on the lake and sampled food cooked in heaven: lake trout, perch, fluffy risotto, and ripe white peaches. Our lovemaking became another delicious taste to savor, and savor it, we did.

      Like the excursion boats slowly crisscrossing the surface of the lake, we floated in a perfect dream. In my journal I wrote: “I’m totally happy.”

      So was the composer Franz Liszt. In 1837, while cavorting with the Countess d’Agoult, he wrote, “When you write the story of two happy lovers, set them on the shores of Lake Como. I know of no other spot more obviously blessed by heaven.”

      Bellagio soared to the top of my “most favorite” list. Numero uno to this day. Years later, on my fiftieth birthday, Terry surprised me with a savings passbook marked “Italy.” He recorded the sum of $400 in the top column. My birthday card read: “This is a down payment for a return trip to Bellagio. Love, Terry.”

      “I figure if we put away a hundred or so each month, we can swing a return trip in about a year. That’s if you can control your spending. Can you manage to limit your shopping for clothes and household doodads?” Terry asked.

      “Of course. For a return trip to paradise, I’ll try hard.”

      But I continued to spend.

      He continued to drink.

CHAPTER THREE

       Life at Sea

      They are not long, the days of wine and roses.

      Ernest Dowson

      After Europe, Terry spent most nights at my place, but sneaked out early, before Matt woke up. The lease on my rental cottage ran out. When that happened, I rented the top two floors of a cavernous three story house in the East End district near downtown Charleston. Two fun-loving bachelors rented the first floor. Although the house was a “fix ‘er up” special, the location was ideal, with an elementary school one block away. On my $15,000 yearly salary plus child-support payments, I could easily handle the $250 a month rent.

      My impending divorce led to a series of do-we or don’t-we live together discussions for Terry and me. I don’t recall who initiated the topic, but Terry and I volleyed that do-or-don’t ball back and forth in heartfelt conversations at my kitchen table.

      “So what do you think, Frannie? It kind of makes sense for us to live together since I’m practically living with you and Matt already.”

      “I’m not sure I’m ready to live with someone. And I’m concerned about Matt’s reaction. Besides, you’ve never been around kids. You’ve never even been married. Matt adores you. But he misses his father. And two men in his life right now might be confusing.”

      “Matt’s a special kid and we get along fine. And you know I won’t interfere between Matt and his dad.”

      “I know, but this long distance parenting is complicated.”

      “Well, best I can tell, we’re already living together. And anyway, Anthony is living with that woman. So he can’t object.”

      Still bitter over the divorce, I shot back, “I don’t give a damn whether he objects or not.”

      “Hey, calm down. Do you want a drink?” He poured scotch over a tall glass of ice.

      “No thanks. I’ll make some tea. I know you spend a large part of your time here but as long as you’re paying rent on your apartment, we aren’t living together.”

      “That’s a technicality. If I spend all of my time with you here, does it make sense for me to pay rent every month for an apartment I don’t live in?”

      “Is that a rhetorical question?”

      He moved forward, put his arm around my shoulder, raised his glass and grinned. “Cheers.”

      Our decision to “shack up,” as Terry called it, felt as normal as wrapping myself in a bathrobe to retrieve the morning paper or swimming in a calm lake. That was one part of the

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