By grace or oversight, there are corners of Eden that God left on this earth.
Beth Cardall’s Diary
Capri is a dream, a jagged chunk of limestone that juts out of the cobalt blue Tyrrhenian Sea just west of the Sorrentine peninsula. Julius Caesar so coveted the beautiful island that he traded fertile farmland for the rock. Since that time it has been a favorite of artists from around the world, from the great Russian writer Gorky to the French classical composer Claude Debussy, who even named one of his preludes “Les collines d’Anacapri” in homage to Anacapri—a small commune nestled atop the Capri mountains. It was the perfect setting for our life at that time, a dreamscape. A symphony.
Matthew had found a villa for us in Anacapri. The wide, spacious home was already furnished and had white stucco walls hung with paintings from local artists and vibrant ceramics. Behind the home there was a large, terra-cotta–tiled terrace that overlooked the sea. The outside walls were also whitewashed, though mostly covered with purple bougainvillea, a flowering plant that climbed the walls like ivy. The yard beyond our villa was lush with cyprus, yellow oleanders and lemon trees that produced fruit as large as grape-fruits.
As I look back over my life, I have never been so happy as I was in Capri, and the days passed all too quickly. Unfortunately, happiness came with an expiration date.
Beth Cardall’s Diary
October came. There was a particular evening I will never forget. We had spent the day in a small motorboat exploring inlets around the island until we were all exhausted and sunburned. We stopped near the port for dinner, then came home, where Matthew put Charlotte to bed and I retired to the terrace, looking out over the shimmering sea. The air was cool and moist and filled with the sweet scent of the Capri oleanders.
I just sat content to do nothing, my thoughts as vague and drifting as the sea. My reverie was broken by Matthew’s voice.
“May I join you?” He carried a porcelain teacup in each hand.
I looked up and smiled. “Of course.”
He set the tea on the small, tile-topped table next to me and sat down, sharing with me the view. “It’s beautiful tonight,” he said.
“It’s always beautiful,” I said.
“Sempre bella,” he repeated softly. “You’ve been quiet today. What are you thinking?”
“It’s the anniversary of Marc’s death.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” I said sadly. I looked at him. “I wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t come down with cancer. Would he have ever told me? Or would my whole marriage have just been a lie?” I took a sip of tea and let the moment fall into silence. “My life would have been different,” I said softly, downplaying the enormity of the understatement. It was a few more minutes before I asked, “How do you and Charlotte meet?”
He turned back toward the sea. “We meet at a friend’s party. She was with some of her friends. I was a goner the moment I saw her. You should have seen her.” He smiled. “I guess you will.”
“Are you happily married?”
He hesitated. “We are very happy. Charlotte taught me how to love. As I told you on our first date, she’s my everything. But watching her suffer through the cancer . . .” He stopped. “It was like having my heart peeled one layer at a time.” He set down his tea and turned toward me. “I fear the future, Beth. I need to go back to it, but I fear it more than I could ever tell you.”
“When do we go back?” I asked.
He took a long drink of his tea following the golden horizon with his gaze. “We’ll know when it’s time,” he said. “You’ll know.”
