The House on Lake Como – Part 1: Borrowed Summer

The house stood on a green promontory, with a boathouse, a jetty and a lake so blue it looked painted.

"It's too quiet," said Marco, standing in the middle of the sitting room with his hands in his pockets.

"It's beautiful."

"It's beautiful, but where is the noise?"

Elena laughed. They had two children, a dog, a mortgage and fourteen years of marriage, and the sudden absence of all of it was disorienting. For a week, her parents had the children. For a week, she and Marco had a villa with a terrace, a rowing boat and no schedule.

She was thirty-eight, with dark hair going silver at one temple and a sundress she had not worn in years. He was forty, a little rounder than at the wedding, in an old linen shirt, with the kindest face she knew.

They unpacked. They made coffee. They sat on the terrace in the early light and for a while said nothing, watching ferries cross the lake and mist lift off the far mountains.

"Do you remember our honeymoon?" said Elena.

"We argued about the train timetable."

"And then we didn't."

He smiled, sheepish. "I remember that part."

She leaned across the little iron table and touched his hand. "I miss us, Marco."

"We're here."

"We're here, but we're always tired. We're always the parents."

"Then let us be someone else this week," said Marco. "Elena and Marco. Strangers. We just met."

"Pleased to meet you," said Elena, solemnly, offering her hand.

He took it, and kissed her knuckles. "Charmed. Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Is it very forward to say you're beautiful?"

"Not at all." Her heart skipped. "Green?" she said, the old word.

"Green," said Marco, softly. "Very green. Shall we take the boat?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Jetty.