The station in Naples was nowhere near as nice as the one in Rome, and the line outside for taxis was at least a block long. When we finally reached the front of the line, Maggie and Bernard started to say their goodbyes, if only for a few hours. He was taking a taxi directly to the school where he would teach later in the week, but we’d all promised to meet up for dinner.

“So I definitely have your number, right?” Maggie asked, peering at her phone, then peering up at him, her head cocked back so far that her gold curls hung over her shoulders.

“You’ve got it,” he said, a calm voice, a calm smile. He looked at his own phone, rattled off Maggie’s number.

“But I don’t know how to make a call over here.” Maggie’s voice was worried.

“I know how, Mags,” I said.

“Here.” Bernard raised his phone aloft. “I’ll text you right now so you have it. You text me when you find a hotel.”

“Okay, that’ll work.” Maggie kept gazing up, giving him a sunbeam of a smile.

“And I’m going to call you in one hour,” Bernard reminded her.

He put his suitcase on the ground, bent down and gave her the most gentle of hugs.

When he turned and got in his cab, Maggie turned to me. “He’s so amazing.”

“He seems like a sweetheart,” I told her.

“No, he is amazing.” She shook her head in wonder.

When we got into our own cab, our driver spoke perfect English and Maggie began chatting with him. “So what’s the name of a really nice hotel here in Naples?”

“Grand Hotel Vesuvio,” he said immediately. “On the waterfront. Looks at the bay.”

“Perfect,” Maggie said. “Take us there, please.”

“Mags…” I said.

She held up a hand. “Stop. Please. I’ve got the money right now so let me spend it. When I’m flat broke in the future, you can take care of me.”

“I will take you on a tour of the city on the way there,” the driver said.

“No, no,” I answered. “That will be too expensive.”

“I do not charge for that.”

I looked at Maggie.

“Let’s do it,” she said.

The driver took off, but then right away Maggie’s office called. She spent most of the cab ride on the phone, while the driver pointed out the streets and sights. Naples was different from Rome-dirtier and certainly more dangerous-looking. The driver showed us the massive port where miles of boxy container ships spread out into the sea, Mount Vesuvius hulking over them all. The streets that surround the port were wide and flat, but the real Naples-the bubbling, chaotic inside-consisted of rocky, steeply angled streets, where children played along piles of street-side trash and under canopies of washed clothes strung from appartamento to appartamento. There were cafés on these streets, too, their doors open, their tables with pristine linens pushed against the soot-covered walls.

But when we turned onto the broad street that ran along the bay, Naples got pretty. The sea was a crisp teal-blue. About halfway down, a medieval castle made of brown stone seemed to rise out of the sea.

“Castel dell’Ovo,” the driver said, pointing to it. “Built in the sixth century.”

Like so many buildings in Italy, the ancient edifice was flanked by a contemporary setting, in this case a gaggle of bars and cafés that stretched along piers where boats were tied.

Halfway down the block, the cab pulled in front of Grand Hotel Vesuvio, and Maggie finally hung up.

The bellman began to pull the luggage from the trunk.

“Wait,” I said to him, hopping out of the cab. “Do you know if they have vacancies?”

“Sí, the hotel has rooms.”

I bent down to talk to Maggie, still in the cab. “Let me go see how much it is.”

She shook her head and scooted out. “Whatever it is, I’ll bargain them down, and I’m in desperate need of a nap, so we’re staying here.” She gestured at the bellman to go ahead with the bags and paid the driver.

“Thank you,” I said, stopping Maggie with a hand on her shoulder. “You are a good friend.”

“Of course I am.” She hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder. “Now, let’s go check in.”

Inside, the lobby was indeed grand and decorated with oriental rugs, potted palms and crystal chandeliers that hung from high, sparkling white ceilings. The front desk was made of carved dark wood topped with marble. As the clerk checked us in, Maggie pulled her phone from her bag. “I have to text Bernard.” She smiled as her little fingers flew over the keys.

When she was done, I said, “Okay, can I get your attention for one second without Bernard or your office?”

She put her phone away. “Yes. Shoot.”

“Theo is on his way.”

She slid her credit card across the counter to the clerk. “On his way where?”

“Here.”

“Here, as in Naples?”

I nodded.

“When in the hell did that happen?”

“When you were falling in love with Bernard.”

“I’m not in love.” She made a little face that seemed to say, At least not yet.

I told her the story of how I’d called Theo, how he had a corporate share on a plane and said he’d be in Naples by midnight.

“And then what?” Maggie asked.

I shrugged. “I guess I didn’t think much after that. He said he couldn’t stay more than a day or two.”

The clerk handed the credit card back, and Maggie tucked it into her wallet. “Do you really like this guy, or is this a reaction to finding Alyssa in Sam’s apartment?”

I winced at the memory. “If anything it’s a reaction to Sam and me saying goodbye. It was just so…so final.”

“If it’s a reaction to that, why not just pick up an Italian guy? Why have the kid fly all the way over to Italy?”

“It was his suggestion, not mine.” I thought about it some more. “And there’s just something about him.”

“I can’t believe I haven’t met him.”

“Well, you will tonight.”

The rooms at the hotel weren’t large but they were beautiful. The floors were tiled in blue and yellow. A tall window overlooking the street and bay was covered with tasseled robin’s-egg-blue drapery.

While Maggie took a nap, I went back downstairs to the concierge desk. I was here in Naples to talk about the Camorra, but I had no idea where to do that. Once again, all roads pointed to Elena.

The concierge was an older gentleman who looked as if he took his profession very seriously.

When I asked for information about traveling to Ischia, he nodded somberly and gestured to a seating area to the left. “Please,” he said, “sit down and I will bring you information.”

A minute later, he had spread maps, ferry schedules and hotel pamphlets over the table. He sat down across from me. “Okay,” he said, “you tell me what you want to do in Ischia.”

“Is there a place called Poseidon?”

“Poseidon, yes.” Now he sounded pleased. He riffled through the materials and pulled out a white brochure with blue-and-green lettering.

“I was told that this is a place for healing waters.”

“Sí, sí,” he said. “The island is…how you say…volcano? And so the water on the island is like medicine. Full of minerals. You may go different places on Ischia to sample the waters. Poseidon is one of the best.” He made a gesture, his fingers and thumb together, and brought it to his lips as if he tasted something delicious.

“How do the waters heal exactly?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “how do I explain?” He looked upward, lifted his shoulders high and dropped them slowly, showing me that they did the Italian shrug as well in Naples as they did in Rome. “You sit in the waters. There are different temperatures with different minerals. You move from one pool to another. You relax, you are quiet, you eat well, you do not drink alcohol.” Another shrug. “When you leave, you feel wonderful.”

“Sign me up.”

He opened the Poseidon brochure, and explained that Poseidon Gardens was essentially a park that charged daily admission. You spent the day in the different pools or on its beach and then you went home at the end of the day. We’d have to find somewhere to stay, he said, and showed me different brochures with hotels of varying costs.