[Dalyia]

3





THEY ARRIVED IN PORTOFINO AT FOUR IN THE AFTER-noon, just as the shops were opening again after lunch. They had to stay at anchor just outside the port, as the keel of the Blue Moon was too deep, and the depth of the water in the port too shallow. People were swimming off other boats, as Adam, Gray, and Charlie did when they woke up from their naps. By six o'clock, a number of other big yachts had come in, and there was a festive atmosphere all around them. It was a gorgeous golden afternoon. By the time dinnertime rolled around, none of them wanted to leave the boat, but they decided that they should. They were happy and relaxed, and enjoying the scenery, and the food was always delicious on Charlie's boat. But the restaurants in town were good too. There were several excellent places to eat, many of them in the port, tucked in between the shops. The shops in Portofino were even fancier than those in St. Tropez: Cartier, Hermès, Vuitton, Dolce & Gabbana, Celine, a number of Italian jewelers. It was a hotbed of luxury, although the town itself was tiny. All the action centered around the port, and the countryside and cliffs looking down at the boats were absolutely gorgeous. The Church of San Giorgio and the Splendido Hotel sat perched on separate hills, on either side of the port.
“God, I love it here,” Adam said as he grinned broadly, looking at the action all around them. A group of women had just jumped into the water topless from a nearby boat. Gray had already taken out a sketch pad and was drawing, and Charlie was sitting on deck, looking blissful and smoking a cigar. It was his favorite port in Italy, and he was happy to stay there as long as they wanted. He was in no hurry to move on. He actually preferred it to all of the ports in France. It was an easier place to be than dodging the paparazzi in St. Tropez, or wending their way through the crowds in the streets, as people ebbed and flowed out of discothèques and bars. There was something much more countrified about Portofino, and it had all the charm and ease and quaint beauty typical of Italy. Charlie loved it, as did his two friends.
All three of them wore jeans and T-shirts when they went into town for dinner. They had reservations at a delightful restaurant near the piazza, where they had gone several times before in previous years. The waiters recognized them when they walked in, and knew about the Blue Moon. They gave them an excellent table outdoors, where they could watch people drifting by. They ordered pasta, seafood, and a simple but good Italian wine. Gray was talking about the local architecture, when a female voice interrupted them quietly from the next table.
“Twelfth century,” was all she said, correcting what Gray had just told them. He had said that the Castello di San Giorgio had been built in the fourteenth century, and he turned his head to look at who had spoken when he heard her. A tall, exotic-looking woman was sitting at a table next to them. She was wearing a red T-shirt, sandals, and a full white cotton skirt. Her hair was dark, and she wore it in a long braid down her back. Her eyes were green, and she had creamy skin. And when he turned to look at her, she was laughing. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, “that was rude of me. I just happen to know it's the twelfth century, not the fourteenth. I thought I ought to say something. And I agree with you, it's one of my favorite structures in Italy, if only for the view, which I think is the best in Europe. The castello was actually rebuilt in the sixteenth century and built in the twelfth, not fourteenth,” she repeated, and grinned. “The Church of San Giorgio was also built in the twelfth century.” She glanced at the paint splattered on his T-shirt, and identified him immediately as an artist. She had managed to impart the information about the castello without sounding pompous, but knowledgeable and funny, and apologetic about her intrusion into her neighbors' conversation.
“Are you an art historian?” Gray asked with interest. She was a very attractive woman, although not young or eligible by Gray or Charlie's standards. She looked about forty-five years old, maybe a little younger, and she was with a large table of Europeans who were speaking Italian and French. She had been speaking both fluently with them.
“No, I'm not,” she answered his question. “Just a busybody who comes here every year. I own a gallery in New York.” Gray squinted at her then, and realized who she was. Her name was Sylvia Reynolds, and she was well known in the art scene in New York. She had launched a number of contemporary artists, who were now considered important. Most of what she sold was very avant-garde, and very different from Gray's work. He had never met Sylvia before, but had read a lot about her, and was impressed by who she was. She glanced at him, and the two men at his table, with a look of interest, and a warm smile. She seemed to be full of life, energy, and excitement. She was wearing an armful of silver and turquoise bracelets, and everything about her said she had style. “Are you an artist? Or did you get paint on the T-shirt painting your house?” She was anything but shy.
“Probably both.” Gray smiled back at her, and held out a hand. “I'm Gray Hawk.” He introduced the others to her, and she smiled easily in their direction and then back at Gray. She responded instantly to his name.
“I like your work,” she said with a warm tone of praise. “I'm sorry I interrupted you. Are you staying at the Splendido?” she asked with interest, momentarily ignoring her European friends. There were several attractive women in the group, and a number of very good-looking men. There was also a very pretty young woman speaking to the man next to her in French. Adam had noticed her when they sat down, and couldn't decide if the man next to her was her husband or her father. She seemed to be on very close terms with him, and that sector of the group was obviously French. Sylvia appeared to be the only American in the group, which didn't seem to bother her at all. She seemed equally at ease in French, Italian, and English.
“No, we're on a boat,” Gray explained in answer to her question about where they were staying.
“Lucky you. One of those nice big ones, I assume,” she said, teasing them. She didn't really mean it, and at first Gray didn't answer, he just nodded. He knew that she'd been joking, and he didn't want to show off. She looked like a nice woman, and her reputation was that, in spite of her success, she was.
“Actually, we came here in a rowboat from France, and we're pitching a tent on the beach tonight,” Charlie quipped amiably, and she laughed. “My friend was embarrassed to tell you. We managed to scrape up enough for dinner, but couldn't manage the hotel. The story about staying on a boat was just to impress you. He lies constantly, whenever he finds women attractive.” She laughed at him, and the others smiled.
“In that case, I'm flattered. I can think of worse places to pitch a tent than Portofino. Are the three of you traveling together?” she asked Charlie, intrigued by the three attractive men. They were an interesting-looking lot. Gray looked in fact exactly as an artist should, she thought Adam looked like an actor, and Charlie looked as though he owned or ran a bank. She loved guessing about what people did. In some ways she wasn't far off the mark. There was something theatrical and intense about Adam, it would have been easy to imagine him onstage. Charlie looked extremely proper, even in T-shirt and jeans and Hermès loafers without socks. They didn't look like three playboys to her. They had an aura about them that suggested they were men of substance. She found Gray easiest to talk to, because he had opened the conversation first. She had been listening to their conversation, and liked what he said about the local architecture and art. Other than his one mistake about the date of the castello, everything he had said had been intelligent and accurate. He obviously knew a lot about art.
Her dinner partners had paid the check and were ready to leave by then, and the whole group stood up. Sylvia followed suit, and as she walked around the table, all three of her new American friends noticed that she had great legs. Her friends glanced at the group at the table behind them then, and Sylvia made polite introductions as though she knew Gray and his friends better than she did.
“Are you going back to the hotel?” Adam asked Sylvia. The French girl had been looking at him, and he decided the man she was with had to be her father, since she was flirting openly with Adam, and showed no obvious interest in anyone else.
“Eventually. We're going to walk around for a while. The shops are open till eleven, unfortunately. I do too much damage when I come here every year. I can never resist,” Sylvia answered.
“Would you like to have a drink later?” Gray asked, getting up his courage. He wasn't pursuing her, but he liked his new friend. She was easy and open and warm, and he wanted to talk to her more about the local art.
“Why don't you all come up to the Splendido?” she suggested. “We seem to spend half the night in the bar. I'm sure we'll still be there at whatever hour.”
“We'll be there,” Charlie confirmed, as she hurried off to join her friends.
“Score!” Adam said, as soon as she was out of earshot, and Gray shook his head.
“I don't think so. She just wanted to talk about art,” Gray corrected, and Adam shook his head.
“Not you—me, dummy. Did you see that French girl at the other end of the table? She's with some old fart I thought was her husband, but I don't think he is. She was giving me hot eyes.”
“Oh, for chrissake,” Gray said, rolling his eyes. “You just got some last night. You're obsessed!”
“Yes, I am. She's very pretty.”
“Sylvia Reynolds?” Gray looked surprised, she didn't look like Adam's type. She was about twice the age of what he usually liked. She was more in Gray's range, although he had no romantic interest in her, just artistic, and she was a good connection for him to have. She was an extremely important woman in the New York art world. Charlie said he hadn't recognized her at first, but was now fully aware of who she was.