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 glasses. Then we made love, of course, late into the night and again in the morning with the sun falling across the bed. These are the moments that define us, not the grand gestures or anniversaries, but the small things we hold in our hearts. I knew I’d always cherish memories of the kindness of Steve’s smile and the way he held me as though I were precious and breakable.

When we drove back to Naples, replete with great sex, good food and sunshine, I didn’t think anything could mar the perfection of our life together.

I was wrong, of course.