Lauren Graham reads preview of Rebecca Serle novel One Italian Summer

Rebecca Serle has a cure for your wanderlust. The author, who has cornered the market on literary rom-coms, is taking her seventh novel to Europe. One Italian Summer follows protagonist Katy after the death of her mother just before their planned trip to Positano, where they were going to recreate the summer in which Katy's parents first met. When Katy decides to travel to Italy on her own, she mysteriously meets the 30-year-old version of her mom.

One Italian Summer will hit shelves March 1, but EW is offering up an exclusive excerpt from chapter 3 below. Or you can hear the audiobook version above, read by none other than Lauren Graham.

Excerpt from One Italian Summer, by Rebecca Serle

Chapter Three

Positano is not an easy place to get to. First you have to fly into Rome, and then you must make your way from the Rome airport to the Rome train station, at which point you board a train to Naples. From Naples, you need to find a ride down the coast to Positano. I land in Rome thirteen hours after leaving LA surprisingly refreshed. I'm not a good flier, never have been. And this is the longest trip I've ever taken, not to mention the only one I've ever taken alone. But I'm strangely calm on the flight. I even sleep.

The train station is a quick taxi away, and the ride to Naples is a beautiful hour and a half through the Italian countryside. I've always loved a train. When Eric and I lived in New York, we'd sometimes take the train to Boston to see his family. I loved the theater of it—how you could look outside and see what season it was, right there on display. Leaves in red and burnt orange in the fall, snow on the ground in December, ushering in the holidays like a red Sharpie on a printed calendar.

The Italian countryside is just like you'd imagine it: green hills, small homes, the tan of farms mixed with the bright aqua blue of the sky.

By the time I arrive at the Naples train station—and spot a man from the Hotel Poseidon holding a sign marked Katy Silver—I'm smiling.

I am not in Erewhon, picking out the week's groceries, wanting to call her and say they have a two-for-one on olive oil, and does she want some. I am not at the bottom of Fryman Canyon, staring out at the trail, waiting for her to join me on our weekend hike. I'm not at Pressed Juicery, waiting for her to walk down San Vicente in her wide-brimmed hat and buy us both a Greens 3. I am not in my home; I am not in hers. I am somewhere new, where I have to be nimble, alert, present. It forces me into the moment in a way I haven't been in a year, maybe even ever. When my mom was sick, it was all about the future—the worry of what was coming, what might happen. Here there is not space for thought, just action.

We chose Hotel Poseidon because it was very close to where my mother had stayed many years ago and also a hotel she remembered fondly. "They had the kindest staff," she said. "Really good people." The hotel was old—everything, my mother used to say, is old in Italy. But it was charming and beautiful and warm. It had so much character and life, my mother said. And the terrace was to die for, somehow constantly bathed in sunlight. I hand my bag over to the chauffeur named Renaldo—the hotel was nice enough to send someone to collect me from the train station—and climb in the back of the sedan. The car is a Mercedes, as plenty of run-of-the-mill taxis are in Europe, but it still feels indulgent. A Honda Civic dropped me off at LAX. "Buongiorno, Katy," Renaldo says. He's a stout man, no more than fifty, with a contained smile and what I imagine is a patient temperament. "Welcome to Naples."

The drive out of Naples is picturesque—apartment buildings with women hanging clothes on the line, small terra-cotta houses, the wild tangle of greenery—but when we get to the coast, the real delight begins to set in. The Amalfi Coast is not so much splayed out before us as beckoning us closer. Hints of clear blue sea, houses built into the hillside.

"It's absolutely beautiful," I say. "Wait," Renaldo tells me. "You wait."

When we finally come into Positano, I see what he means. From high up on the winding road, you can see the entirety of the town. Colorful hotels and houses sit chiseled into the rocks as if they were painted there. The entire town is built around the cove of the sea. It looks like an amphitheater, enjoying the performance of the ocean. Blue, sparkling, spectacular water.

"Bellissima, no?" Renaldo says. "Good for photo."

I grip the side of the car and roll down the window.

The air is hot and thick, and as we wind down—closer and closer to town—I begin to hear the sounds of cicadas. They sing out, the delights of summer in full swing.

We picked June for the trip because it was still a little ahead of tourist season. Once July hits, it's a madhouse, my mother said. Best to go in June when things were a little less touristy, a little less crowded. She wanted to be able to stroll the streets without being jostled by influencers.

I was sent lists of dinner reservations to make and places to visit from friends. Boats to rent for day trips to Capri, beach clubs along the ocean requiring water taxi service. Restaurants high up in the hills with no menus and endless courses of farm-fresh food. I sent them all to my mother, and she planned the entire thing. In my hands is our itinerary, marked down to the minute. I tuck it into my bag.

As we descend I'm met with the stirrings of small-town summer life. Older women stand on stoops, chatting. There are men and women on Vespas, the sounds of late-afternoon activity. A smattering of tourists along the tiny sidewalk have their phones out, snapping pictures. It's summer in Italy, and even though it's nearing five o'clock, it is still bright and sunny. The sun is high in the sky, and the Tyrrhenian Sea sparkles. White boats sit out on the water in rows, like flower beds. It is beauty beyond measure—the sun seeming to touch everything at once. I exhale and exhale and exhale.

"Ah, here we are," Renaldo says.

We pull up to the Hotel Poseidon, which is, like the rest of the town, nestled into the hillside. The entrance is all white, with a green carpeted staircase. Brightly colored flowers sit in potted plants by the entrance.

I open the car door and am immediately greeted by the heat—but it feels welcoming. Warm in its embrace, not at all oppressive.

Renaldo takes my suitcases out of the trunk and climbs the steps with them. I take out the money I exchanged at the airport—one of Carol's rules was to never exchange money at the airport, she said the exchange rate was terrible, but I was desperate—and hand him some crisp bills.

"Grazie," I say. "Enjoy our Positano," he tells me. "It is a very special place." I climb the steps to the entrance and then am greeted by a blast of cool air from the open lobby. To the left, a spiral stair- case leads up to a second level. The welcome desk is to the right. And behind it is a woman who appears to be in her fifties. She has long, dark hair that swings down her back. Next to her is a young man who speaks in clear, enunciated Italian.

"Ovviamente abbiamo un ristorante! È il migliore!"

I wave at the woman, and she smiles a warm and welcoming smile back.

"Buonasera, signora. How can I help you?" She's beautiful, this woman.

"Hello. Checking in. It's under Silver."

Something knocks on my sternum, cold and hard.

"Yes." The woman's face softens into compassion. There is a tenderness behind her eyes. "It's just you with us this week, sì?"

I nod. "Just me."

"Welcome," she says, placing her hand on her heart. Her face radiates a smile. "Positano is a wonderful place to be alone, and Hotel Poseidon is a wonderful place to make friends."

She gives me the keys to room 33. I climb the stairs to the landing level, then take the small elevator to the third floor. I have to close the doors before the machine will move. It takes nearly five minutes to go up the two flights, and I commit to taking the stairs for the duration of my time here. That was another one of Carol Silver's rules—never take the elevator if you can take the stairs, and you'll never have to work out a day in your life. When I was living in New York, this was definitely true, but it doesn't quite work as well in Los Angeles.

My room is at the end of the hall. There is a small lending library just outside, stocked with books. I use the key and turn the doorknob.

Inside, the room is sparse and filled with light. There are two twin beds, made up with white sheets and small quilts, that sit across from two matching dressers. On one side of the room is a closet, and on the other is a set of French doors that are flung open, welcoming in the afternoon sun. I walk to them and then step out onto the terrace.

While the room is small, the terrace is nearly sprawling. It looks out over the entire town. The panoramic views span from the hillside down through the hotels and homes and shops to the sea. Right underneath me to the left is the swimming pool. A couple is in the water, hanging off the side, glasses of wine on the ledge. I hear the splashing, the clink of glassware, and laughter.

I am here, I think. It is really Italy below me. I am not watching a movie in my parents' den or on the couch at Culver. This is not a soundtrack or a photograph. It is real life. Most places in the world I have never touched, never met. But I am here now. It is something. It is a start.

I inhale the fresh air, this place that seems to be dripping in summer. There is so much beauty here; she was right.

I go back inside. I shower. I unpack everything right away, my mother's daughter, and then I wander out onto the terrace again. I sit down on a lounger and tuck my feet underneath me. All around me Italy swells. I feel the air thick with heat and food and memory.

"I made it," I say, but only I can hear.

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