A/N: Wow—writing this story has got me dreaming about my honeymoon! My husband may just have to take me back to Italy to get me stop talking about it. Most of the places I mention in this chapter are places we visited, though we did not make it to the Cetrella church—I've only read about that, but someday, I hope to see it. The Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote a poem about the church's Madonna—I tried to find an English translation of the poem to share, since I mention it in the story, but had no luck. If you'd like to see what the chairlift ride up Monte Solaro is like, just search "chairlift" and "Monte Solaro" on youtube and you'll find plenty of videos. While you're there, search for "Blue Grotto," too—it's an amazing sight! Anyway, just a short chapter this time. It may be a month or so before Chapter 3 goes up—I'm getting ready to travel to Ukraine in a couple of weeks and have to get my focus on that. Then again, if the muse strikes, I'm going to have lots of writing time on the flight over!

July 19, 1997

I try to remember what happened that last day. We had it all planned out—the morning ferry to the island of Capri, the chairlift ride over the orange groves and the terraced gardens of Anacapri and up Monte Solaro, a picnic lunch under the fragrant wisteria at the Cetrella church, a moment to admire the Madonna (during which of course you would treat me to a recitation of Rilke's poetry), then back down to sea level and a visit to the Blue Grotto before taking the ferry back to Positano. But I have no memory of doing any of this. I remember waking up early that morning and watching you sleep, completely in awe that you ever chose to love me. I remember sitting on the balcony eating our breakfast of bread and jam and fruit as we gazed out over the bay. I remember the fragrance of honeysuckle wafting up from the garden. I remember the walk from the inn to the docks, the call to board our ferry, the sense of anticipation as we joined the crowd of people filing up the gangplank, and then… nothing. Suddenly, I was waking up here in this room to the darkness and the endless headache and the terrible news that you were gone… had been gone for three long months. I think they told me what happened, but… I cannot remember. I do remember the doctor's glib words, telling me to accept my loss and move on. She does not know that the very thought of losing you has caused a vast chasm to rip its way through my heart, that without you I am lost and broken. She insists you are gone and calls my feelings otherwise nothing but "unscientific superstition." But if it were true, wouldn't I have felt it the moment I awoke? How could I continue to live without the rhythm of your heart keeping time with my own? I feel that you are alive, that you are near, but I cannot explain why. And still there come moments of doubt—why would they lie to me? If you were alive, surely you would be with me. You would never leave me alone. I am alone, so you must be gone. But you can't be. The more I try to think on it, to reason it out, the more my head aches. Giving in to the pain, I let the nurse wheel me to my bed and settle me under the blanket. Soon I feel the rush of morphine through my veins. The headache eases, the sedative works quickly, and I sink into a dream of you...

Laughter and sea spray… your eyes sparkling in the sunlight… your joy at the sight of a dolphin leaping gracefully from the water… the warmth of your hand in mine… your kisses behind my ear and your whispered assurance of love… these sights and sounds and sensations fill my dreams and I feel whole again. I hear voices from outside my dreams, feel hands attempting to prod me into wakefulness, but I resist and sink deeper into the comfort of you.

July 21, 1997

Francisca Bonfiglio frowned at her patient from the doorway, wishing (not for the first time) that he was in a real hospital where he could receive the proper care. Of course, she had the necessary training and her uncle had provided the medical supplies she needed, but she was not really a doctor… not yet, at least, and probably never would be now. She sighed and shifted her attention back to the patient. She understood why he resisted awakening, because she had been there herself, grieving the loss of all that was dear to her. Sleep was easier than sorrow, and even now she welcomed the dreams that brought her family back to her in brief snatches of memory. Her fingers rubbed absently at the scars just under the cuff of her left sleeve. She remembered little of the fire that had taken everything and left only those scars in exchange. Perhaps that was why she felt such sympathy for Jonathan Hart. His body was not burned as hers had been, but he bore scars on his heart just as she did.

In defiance of her uncle's orders, Francisca moved quietly into the room to sit beside Hart's bed. Once he was out of danger, she had been instructed to stay out of his room unless he required life-saving care, but she knew that as long as she was very careful about what she told him, she could get away with showing some sympathy to a poor, grieving man. Giuseppi Galleti was cruel and corrupt, but he held a soft spot in his heart for his niece. Francisca only wished she trusted that soft spot enough to do what was right and give Jonathan Hart the help he really needed—perhaps then she could forgive herself for what she had become a part of.

Casting a quick glance toward the door to be sure no one was watching, she slipped a hand into Jonathan's and squeezed it tight. "Take heart," she whispered gently. "You have much to live for."

"Take heart, Mr. H." A shadowy fog surrounds me, but that familiar gravelly voice sends a wave of comfort through me. For the first time since it—whatever It was that brought me to this place and time—happened, I don't feel alone. Then Max steps out of the shadows and smiles at me. He looks young and strong, like when I was a kid hawking papers on the street corner and he first stepped into my life. A cigar dangles from the fingers of one hand and what looks like a racing form from the other, and a small grey dog prances happily at his heels. Overwhelmed with longing, I reach for them, but all at once a great chasm lies between us and they are miles away. I lower my hand and raise my eyes to Max's and suddenly they are close again. "Sorry," he says, "but it ain't your time to cross, Mr. H. You got lots to live for." He takes a long draw on his cigar, then breathes it out in a puff of smoke. "Take it from me, Mrs. H ain't here. You gotta wake up and get well and then you gotta find her. Come on, Mr. H… time was when you would do whatever it took to protect her. You can't just hide here when she needs you!" I open my mouth to respond, but suddenly Max and Freeway and the fog are rushing away from me and I am left standing alone again. But his words echo in my mind. "Take it from me, Mrs. H ain't here… Mrs. H ain't here… ain't here…"

With a shudder, Jonathan awoke. He felt warm fingers curled around his and for an instant, he thought Jennifer was with him again, but only for an instant. A woman's soft and gentle hand, yes—he could feel that—but it was not the hand of the only woman who truly mattered to him. "Who?" he asked, deliberately keeping his words to the bare minimum.

Her hand tensed briefly and he realized he had startled her. She must not have known he was awake. Then she spoke. He could not place her voice, and yet it seemed oddly familiar, and brought to his mind the image of Max from his dream, telling him to "take heart."

"I am your doctor, Francisca Bonfiglio," her voice said. She sounded neither cold nor distant. Was she the same doctor that had told him… he couldn't remember exactly when… that he needed to accept his loss so that he could heal? His mind could not reconcile the two, but he knew trying to reason it out would bring the headache raging back.

"W… where?" he asked. "And why?" And in the back of his mind, he could hear Jennifer coaching their godson on a report he was writing—"A good journalist always remembers the five Ws and the H: Who, what, where, when, why, and how." The memory turned up his lips in a slight smile that faded almost as quickly as it had come.

"You were in a car accident on the Amalfi Coast Road," the voice said. "You are in the hospital with a head injury."

And in that instant, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was all a lie. As much as he loved a wild ride in a fast car, he and Jennifer had agreed years ago that they would never travel the Amalfi Coast Road again. "You… lie," he ground out between his teeth. He heard the quick intake of breath and figured he'd hit a nerve. "T… tell me… the truth."

She dropped his hand and he could hear her moving about the room. Then she lifted his hand again and he felt the rush of morphine into his veins once more. "N… no… more!" he protested, reaching with his right hand to find the IV line going into the back of his left hand. He pushed her hand away, then gave a firm yank to remove the cannula before enough of the medication could get through to knock him out. Though every muscle screamed in protest, he pulled himself into a sitting position, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed. She had backed off, and he hoped he was facing her—at the moment, the blood rushing through his ears was too loud for him to gauge her location by her breathing. "I… want… the… truth," he enunciated carefully, unwilling to allow even a hint of a stammer. "Where… is… Jennifer?"