And for the first time, I felt seen by my daughter. Woman to woman, standing by our choices and owning our journeys, both the good and the bad. My insides relaxed and my breath came lighter into my lungs. Knowing she understood me soothed the previous raw pain and I hugged her extra tight.

When we finally broke apart, Allegra was beaming. Then we all linked hands and used our last twenty minutes to hit Scaturchio pastry shop and buy a bunch of stuff for the trip to Capri—babà, a mushroom-shaped dough soaked in limoncello flavoring; zeppole filled with delicious custard and dusted with powdered sugar; sfogliatelle, a gorgeous almond pastry with flaky crust and filled with creamy ricotta cheese; and ministeriale, a dark chocolate medallion with a cream of ricotta, fruit, and hazelnut filling, and a dash of liqueur.

When we got back on the bus, I stared out the window as we pulled away from Naples and headed to Capri. I said a silent prayer to my parents and to Jack, grateful I was able to visit before I died and make peace with emotions I hadn’t been able to face at home.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Francesca

The mechanics of reaching Capri were exhausting.

By the time my feet hit the top of the hill and entered the cool air of the hotel, I almost wept in relief. My clothes were wrinkled, I smelled, my muscles ached, and I had more blisters on my heels. It was like I was trapped in the movie Planes, Trains and Automobiles. After Naples, we’d taken a bus, then a boat, then a funicular up to the top of the mountain.

I’d hoped it was over, but Enzo had declared we needed to walk up one of the biggest, curviest hills I’ve seen. The group had all turned silent and a bit grumpy, even with the spectacular views and blinding colors of the famous island.

I just wanted my damn room with a big bed and a soft pillow.

I think I let out a whimper when Enzo handed me my key card. He flashed a grin, still looking rested and fresh, in his pressed pants, white cotton shirt, and straw hat tipped over his brow. How did the man do it? Did he ever get cranky? “The hard part is over, signora,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “We’re hosting a casual cocktail hour at seven tonight, but you have the entire evening to recover.”

I felt ridiculous for complaining. I’d kept a close eye on my mother, who’d needed to rest a few times on the hike up the hill, but she’d made it. “Sorry, it’s just been a long day. Why don’t you look exhausted?”

“Because you all rely on me and a tired guide is not fun.”

I couldn’t help teasing him. “Are you fun all the time?”