Story of Us Read Online Free PDF Page B

need much.”
    “I didn’t make the rules.”
    “Then let’s move off base.”
    “We can’t do that, either. I don’t want you alone in the city when I’m away.”
    “But you’re here with me. You’re not away.”
    “Gracie. Sometimes I have to go. It’s my job.”
    “If I keep the dog, I won’t be alone,” I pointed out.
    The logic didn’t work on Steve. “We can’t keep it. You’ll have to give it up or you’ll get hurt,” he said. “I don’t ever want to see you hurt, Grace.”
    We took the dog to his friend Whitey, who had a wife and two kids in the little town of Bacoli. When I saw the dog in the tiny walled yard with two happy boys, I couldn’t deny that it was the best situation all around. Still, I wanted that dog. I wish I’d fought harder to keep him.
    I wouldn’t call that our first quarrel. But it was…something. Like a hairline fissure in a ceramic piece, harmless unless brought under pressure.
    Steve worked long, hard hours at the base at Agnano, and I came to realize that pursuing his dream carried a huge price tag—for both of us. He described his workweek as six Mondays in a row, but he never complained, and neither did I. If I felt any prickle of discontent when he left our bed before dawn and often came home after dinner had grown cold, I pressed it down and shoved it into a corner of myself, leaving it unacknowledged.
    Most of the time, we found a rare, heart-soaring bliss as we discovered each other. Steve was funny and sexy and strong, and he was devoted to the Navy and to me.
    We were in a lot of ways two strangers bound by a wedding ring, getting to know each other. I experienced doubts, excitement and lord knows, passion. Sometimes in a quiet moment, I’d wonder how this could possibly last a lifetime. My love for Steve felt as beautiful and fragile as a soap bubble, and I had to treat it with caution. I felt as though I was peeling away his layers, finding more to love as each new facet was revealed.

Chapter Thirteen
    On a warm September weekend, Steve surprised me with a three-day leave. In our tiny yellow Fiat 600 we drove away from the city with the windows rolled down and opera music playing on the tinny radio. The winding, impossibly narrow road along the sheer edge of the Sorrentine Peninsula was treacherous and exhilarating, the oncoming traffic a challenge around every curve. Scooters, pedestrians and the occasional herd of goats crammed the motorway. The lumbering local buses had scratches along the sides from cars trying to squeeze past them.
    Tiny towns clung to the rocky hillsides, the houses and shops stacked like sugar cubes in white and pastel hues. Each town had its duomo with bells that rang every hour. In Ravello, where we stayed, the duomo contained a vial of blood from St. Pantaleon in a vessel amid the stonework of the altar. Although the vessel was never touched, the blood was said to liquefy on the saint’s feast day in June. The locals swore that this was so, and who were we to argue with their sturdy faith?
    We found a place of magic there, in an ancient town perched like an eagle’s nest atop craggy mountains. The sea was a deep and dazzling azure. The hills were banded by terraced groves of lemon and olive trees. It seemed that every square inch that wasn’t rock had been cultivated. The stone halls and splendid gardens of the ancient hilltop villas seemed to whisper to me, and I sensed the presence of ghosts. Steve smiled at me when I told him that, but he never laughed.
    The Villa Ilina, where we stayed, was a tiny house done in the Moorish style, with white plaster arches and floors tiled in blue and green painted ceramic. We wandered the winding streets and stone staircases, pausing often to look out in wonder at the scenery. Somehow, these stops always ended with a kiss, and in Italy, that was normal behavior.
    We drank wine with dinner each night and when the stars came out, we sat on the patio, sipping ice-cold limoncello from tiny