Charlotte caught a quick glimpse of the cliffside plunging down to the sea hundreds of feet below and gasped, “Sweet Jesus, I’m going to get vertigo! I’m purposely not looking!” She searched around for something to grip on to but found nothing except a chilled bottle of champagne with a jade-green ribbon around it. Tied to the ribbon was a card embossed with their names. “Oh, look, this champagne’s for us! Your friend’s being rather generous, isn’t she? Two first-class plane tickets, the helicopter transfer from Rome to Capri, this gorgeous car, champagne—and you’re not even one of her bridesmaids!”
“Issie’s always been tremendously generous. She was my neighbor back when we lived at 788 Park, remember? She used to pass along her hand-me-downs. She wore many of her outfits only once or twice, and that’s how I got that little—”
“That little white Chanel purse when you were in the third grade!” exclaimed Charlotte, finishing Lucie’s sentence. “That’s right. I had forgotten—I thought you knew Isabel from Brown.”
“Not really—she was so many years ahead of me. But she’s always been like the big sister I never had.”
“Well, you are being quite spoiled by your big sis, aren’t you? A week of grand parties culminating in a wedding that I bet will put Kate and William’s to shame,” Charlotte remarked in a tone that sounded excited and disapproving at the same time. “How much did you say her father was spending on the whole affair?”
“Issie didn’t say. She’s much too polite to ever tell me anything like that, but I’m sure the wedding will be everything!” Lucie said, still not quite believing her luck. Not only was this the first wedding she’d been invited to as a grown-up, rather than just one of the kids dragged by default to some family wedding, but this was also the first real trip she’d been on without her mother and brother.
When Lucie first received the ornate hand-engraved invitation, her heart sank when she caught sight of the date: July 20. Though she was nineteen and could of course do as she pleased, Lucie, being the dutiful daughter that she was, still deferred to her mother. The third weekend in July was reserved for her mother’s annual fund-raising summer gala for the Animal Rescue Fund of Long Island, of which she was president of the board, and she relied heavily on Lucie’s help at the event. It was only after UN-level negotiations that her mother finally relented—Lucie could attend the wedding, with the caveat that her older cousin Charlotte would accompany her. Her brother, Freddie, nicknamed their forty-four-year-old cousin “Madam Buzzkill” behind her back, but Lucie felt that she could handle her cousin well enough, and any little annoyance would be worth it.
Lucie might have grown up in the same prewar Rosario Candela–designed building as her friend, but Isabel’s life was several notches more glamorous. For starters, her father was a diplomat who, according to the building’s elevator men, hailed from one of Asia’s most successful business dynasties, so the Chiu family occupied the sprawling eighteen-room duplex penthouse, while the Churchills lived in a classic seven on the tenth floor.*2 Likewise, the doormen whispered that whenever the Chius went away, it was always via Teterboro Airport, which was a dead giveaway that the family flew only private.
With her striking beauty, effervescent charm, and academic drive, Isabel was easily one of the most popular students at the Lycée Français. When she turned eighteen, s
he made her debut at Le Bal*3 in Paris and graced the cover of Taiwan Tatler, and by the time she graduated from Brown, she had more than thirty thousand followers on Instagram. Nowadays she worked in Los Angeles for a film production company, and Lucie mainly kept in touch by following her on social media, admiring the places she got to travel to—London for the Frieze Art Fair, Park City for Sundance, Bahia for a party at Caetano Veloso’s—and the cool friends who surrounded her wherever she went.
Charlotte interrupted her reverie. “Tell me the name of Isabel’s fiancé again? The count?”
“Dolfi. His full name is Adolfo De Vecchi. I don’t think he’s a count—that’s his father.”
“And he plays polo?”
“Yes, he’s got a nine-goal handicap. His whole family has been into polo for generations.”
“The polo-playing son of an Italian count marries a Taiwanese heiress. My, Lucie, you’re really running with the international ooh-la-las these days,” Charlotte teased.
Soon they arrived at the town of Capri, which was built high on the mountain overlooking the harbor. Waiting by the bustling taxi stand on Via Roma was an Italian man in his twenties wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and white trousers that appeared at least two sizes too tight. “Welcome to Capri! I am Paolo, from the Bertolucci. Please allow me to escort you to the hotel. It is just a short walk away,” the man said.
They strolled into the main public square, where a gleaming white clock tower stood opposite from the historic Cathedral of Santo Stefano. Four competing outdoor cafés lining the square bustled with chic patrons sipping their cappuccinos, chatting, and people-watching from their bistro tables.
“This is the piazzetta. We call it ‘the living room of Capri,’?” Paolo noted.
“You would never find a living room like this in America—everyone is so nattily dressed here!” remarked Charlotte.
As they walked beyond the piazzetta and down Via Vittorio Emanuele, Charlotte’s discerning eye did a quick assessment and she found herself quietly impressed. Capri seemed to embody the most marvelous blend of historic and modern, high and low, simplicity and decadence. Here they were, strolling along a cobblestone street where a humble tobacco kiosk neighbored a sleek boutique selling hand-sewn driving moccasins, and a shop glittering with the most lust-worthy jewels stood just a few paces down from the rustic gelateria, where the scent of freshly baked cones wafted into the air. “How charming! How charming!” Charlotte kept saying at every turn. “Can you even believe this place exists?”
“It’s glorious,” Lucie replied, relieved that everything met with her cousin’s approval so far. All the same, she couldn’t imagine how anyone—even her extremely jaded cousin—could find fault with this island. She loved seeing the clusters of Italian children running up and down the street laughing wildly, the old grandmas resting their tired feet on the steps of designer boutiques, the impeccably dressed couples walking along hand in hand, bronzed and glowing from their hours under the sun. And no matter where you turned, there was the view—of undulating hills dotted with white villas, ancient fortress ruins commanding every ridgetop, and the sea sparkling in the golden sun.
Charlotte made a dead stop outside a sandal shop, seemingly transfixed.
“We are famous for our sandals, signora. Beyoncé, Sarah Jessica Parker, all the famous stars buy sandals in Capri,” Paolo said proudly.
“If I had Beyoncé’s budget, I’d take that tangerine pair over there. And the gold ones. And the ones with those cute little pom-poms. Hell, I’d take every single pair in the window!” Charlotte gushed.
“You’re welcome to buy me the ones with the pink suede tassels,” Lucie remarked.
“That’s so you! You know, we should get a pair for your mother. Don’t you think she’d like those braided leather sandals? Let’s make a note of this place, please!”
Lucie suddenly caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window and let out a shriek. “Charlotte! How could you let me walk through town looking like this? I look like a cocker spaniel!”
“You do not! You look like you’ve just been on a joyride along the Amalfi Coast, which you have,” Charlotte said with a reassuring smile. She knew Lucie had always been self-conscious about her natural curls and spent half her life straightening her hair. The lucky girl had no idea how ravishing she looked with her long, lustrous locks loose and wild, coupled with that improbably perfect blend of Eastern and Western features. Perhaps that was a good thing—she would have to spend less time fending off all the boys on this trip.
Paolo guided them down a twisting narrow lane, and before long, they arrived at the Hotel Bertolucci, a charming white modernist villa bursting with purple bougainvillea vines along every wall. Stepping into the breezy lobby and taking in the plush white sofas, Solimene ceramics, and gleaming blue-and-white majolica tiles, Charlotte registered her approval. “This is exactly as I imagined! How marvelous is this place? Now I feel like we’re truly on holiday!” They were shown into a tiny elevator, which took them two levels up, and were led down a hallway smartly carpeted in a cream-and-navy-striped sisal.
“We go first to your room, and then I will take your friend to her room,” Paolo said to Charlotte.