Why did her life suddenly seem like a jigsaw puzzle that had been overturned? She had always gone through the world with such certainty, such methodical precision, like a perfectly sung aria, and now in just a few days it seemed like everything had become so confusing. Messy. And more than anything she hated messy. Was George actually the one who slipped the poem under her door? It had to be him, right? After all, he was the only person who had mentioned Neruda to her. What exactly was he trying to say with that line?

Lucie was a bundle of conflicting emotions. On one hand she was willing to admit that she found herself intrigued by George, but on the other hand she was repelled by her own interest. He was the absolute antithesis of the type of guy she liked. She sat there, fixating on all the things she couldn’t stand about him. He was a mama’s boy. A pretty boy. A surfer/jock. A tank-top-and-Birkenstock-wearing slob. A self-righteous eco-warrior. A brooding weirdo who took himself much too seriously.

Kiri capped off the concert with her most enduring song, “O mio babbino caro,” and the audience murmured in approval. As the swoon-inducing aria filled the chapel, Lucie found her eyes wandering to the fresco under the dome of the chapel, where some artist centuries ago had painted the typical scene of God and Jesus with saints, angels, and cherubs, their limbs all tangled up together in the clouds. At the apex of the fresco, Jesus floated above the clouds partially swathed in teal-colored robes that had been pulled down to his waist, exposing his muscular torso. Lucie stared at this decidedly hunky Jesus, counting the muscles in his six-pack, following the line of shading that accentuated his pecs, thinking, What beautiful nipples. God, what is wrong with me? I’m going to hell for thinking of Jesus’s nipples in a monastery!

As Kiri sang the last notes of the aria, her voice effortlessly trailing off into a delicate whisper, Mordecai was the first to jump out of his seat. “Brava! Bravissima!” he shouted, clapping wildly as the rest of the audience rose to give the legendary soprano a rapturous standing ovation. After a few minutes, as the guests began to disperse outside for cocktails, Lucie and Charlotte headed toward Olivia, who was standing in the middle of the chapel chatting with Dolfi’s parents.

Through the crowd, Lucie caught sight of George at last. He was standing near the altar speaking to the conductor, and as he stretched his arms out, gesturing enthusiastically, Lucie was surprised at what a commanding presence he cut tonight. In his cream linen suit, crisp white band-collar shirt, and suede oxfords, there was a distinct air of sophistication about him. Thank God I wore the Tom Ford, she thought.

As Lucie got closer to George, she racked her brain thinking of what she might say. Was there some subtle reference she could make about the poem? Should she compliment him on his outfit, maybe say something like, “I didn’t realize you cleaned up so well.” Ugh, no, that was terrible. Maybe she ought to quickly google a poem of Neruda’s and recite a line to him as a greeting. It would be very enigmatic. Yes, that’s what she would do. As Charlotte and Olivia began oohing and ahhing over each other’s outfits, Lucie got out her phone and quickly typed: Pablo Neruda poem.

The first thing that popped up was this:

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

Hell no, Lucie thought. As she scrolled through the next poem, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. Oh God, it’s him. She braced herself and turned around, taken aback to see Auden smiling at her.

“So what do you think of Diefenbach’s paintings?”

“Um, who?” Lucie put her phone away quickly.

“Karl Diefenbach. The paintings in the refectory?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen them. We got here a bit late.”

“Here, come with me,” Auden said, taking her by the arm and whisking her down the corridor before she could protest. “You really must see them.”

They entered the refectory—a large, serene space where the austere white walls were hung with massive oil paintings by Karl Diefenbach. The paintings were uniformly dark and moody, depicting the island from different vantage points. There were dramatic cliff-top landscapes, stormy seascapes, and even nighttime views of a grotto seemingly lit by candlelight. Lucie studied the canvases intently, quietly moved.

“What do you think?” Auden asked.

“I love them.”

“I knew you would,” Auden said with a little laugh.

“This isn’t what I was expecting. What are they even doing hanging in a monastery?”

“I believe Diefenbach spent his final years living on the island.”

“They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen. So haunting … surreal almost,” Lucie said as she stared at a particularly dramatic painting of the Faraglioni glimmering in the moonlight. She remembered being at Da Luigi and standing in the same spot that Diefenbach had, gazing out at the mystical rocks. Turning to Auden, she said, “I wonder why he chose to paint everything so dark, when to me Capri is all about the light.”

“I would venture to ask the same thing about your paintings. Diefenbach was a symbolist. I feel like painting was for him a way to explore the inner landscape, rather than the outer one, don’t you think?”

Lucie smiled, revealing nothing.

Suddenly, the sound of a familiar piano composition could be heard echoing through the chamber.

“The Goldberg Variations, my favorite!” Lucie exclaimed. They wandered back into the chapel and found it empty except for Isabel, Dolfi, and a few others clustered toward the front of the altar where the grand piano was. Isabel turned to beckon Lucie to join them, and that’s when she saw George seated at the piano. Lucie stepped closer to the piano and watched in astonishment. George’s fingers were gliding over the piano keys with such apparent effortlessness, such grace and fluidity, it didn’t even look like he was actually playing. She noticed for the first time George’s long, elegantly tapered fingers and saw that his eyes were closed as he swayed slowly back and forth, completely lost in the music that he was creating.

She knew then exactly what she wanted to say to George. She was going to say, “I wonder if Neruda could play Bach as well as you can.” Now she just needed to get one second alone with him. She would seize the moment after he finished playing, and maybe she could use the excuse of showing him the Diefenbachs in the refectory. But just as he was finishing the piece, Gillian, the hyperefficient wedding coordinator, marched into the chapel with a panicked look and whispered something urgently into Isabel’s ear.

“Oh, shit! Sorry,” Isabel said to Gillian before turning to the rest of the group. “We need to get to the banquet. Apparently Dolfi’s grandmother started making a toast, not realizing that we weren’t even there!”

The group dashed quickly toward the central cloister where the banquet was being held, and when Lucie first caught sight of the space, she gasped in delight. The vast courtyard was filled with round tables covered in silver brocade and groaning with immense antique silver candelabras that looked like they had come straight from the Vatican. Over each table were suspended silver orbs of varying sizes, each containing candles floating on water. The water and flickering candles within the translucent silver cast a rippling, gossamer light over the entire space, making the already enchanting cloister look even more luminous and otherworldly.