Now, sitting there on the beach, Carter turned his gaze away from the surfers and scanned the crowd around him. Looking about at the people reclining on the sand, he recognized some of his fellow patrons at the bar from the night before. He chuckled to himself, for there were many, he was sure, who were still feeling the ill effects of staying out too late and drinking far too much. Carter breathed deeply and gave a contented sigh. He loved the beach. The air thick with the salty scent of the sea. The incessant roar of the waves tumbling to the shore. The touch of the ocean breeze, and the feel of the warm sand on his feet. He loved staring out across the bay, watching the sailboats and ships come and go. And his eye, of course, was invariably drawn to the females, the way they ambled by so smoothly, almost in rhythm, smiling from behind their dark sunglasses. He could not help but watch them as they padded across the sand and stretched out on their blankets or beach chairs in the most delightful way, their well-lotioned skin glistening in the sun, their faces turned upward to receive its warmth. Looking at them made him think of Elena, and he wondered if, perhaps, somewhere across the great expanse of sea, she was sitting on a beach, as well, enjoying the same brilliant sunshine. Then it occurred to him that Italy was six hours ahead of the United States. Her day would just be coming to an end. Carter imagined her pulling on a skirt over her swimsuit, tossing a beach bag over her shoulder, and walking away barefoot as the sun slipped toward the horizon.The thought of her brought a smile to his face.

Thinking of Elena reminded him of his Italian studies in general and his first week of lessons in particular.Things had not gone quite as he had anticipated.When he’d first contemplated the study of the Italian language with a private tutor, Carter had no preconceived idea of what type of experience he should expect, just a vague notion that it ought to be a lighthearted, pleasurable undertaking. He knew next to nothing about Italy, or Italians, but the thought of it and them conjured up in his imagination enticing visions of wine, red and delicious; of pasta and cheese and olives and bread; of gondolas slipping along beneath moonlit skies; of violins and accordions; and of course of romance. When he thought of Italy, he thought of Elena, and so could only marvel at what type of country it must be that it could produce such a beautiful creation as she. Thinking of being there with her made him happy, so it stood to reason that studying her language, the thing that would bring them together, would make him happy, as well.