Chapter 5
The two women sat at the table under the archway in the corner of Andrea’s office, the small window next to them propped open to let a bit of breeze in.
They’d spent the first hour trying to figure out what different kinds of documents there were, then attempting to stack them into piles after a quick check of the names.
Then the next three hours were spent burning out the flashlights on their phones while hunching over reams of chicken-scratch handwriting on almost transparent paper.
Though English and Italian shared the same alphabet, they struggled with the odd penmanship of the handwritten words in Italian and often couldn’t tell one letter from another.
Of the six shelves in the cabinet, they had cleared out less than one-quarter of one shelf, and Lora was starting to go cross-eyed.
“You’ve been staring at Carla and Gino Sanguinetti’s marriage license for the last five minutes,” said Vilmari. “If they weren’t both dead, you should probably be sending them an anniversary card.”
“I think I’m hungry. I also think I’m going to need an optometrist after this. What time is it?” Lora asked.
“Almost one o’clock. Let’s take a little break. Even His Excellency is probably out at lunch.”
Lora looked back at Andrea’s desk. After she’d tried to not be aware of him for hours, the fact that she hadn’t realized that he’d left felt like a win. “Oh,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sure,” said Vilmari, picking up her bag and heading toward the door. She pointed at the doorknob. “Should we lock it?” Lora responded with a frown. “Kidding, kidding—”
Lora squinted into the sunlight as they stepped out onto the piazza.
Swiveling her head around, she remembered that this time of day was the dead zone where businesses would not be bustling.
The only shop that was open was the hair salon, with its wide windows painted with golden shears and the words ACCONCIATURA DI OTTAVIO.
Inside, the bald man she’d seen at the yacht club wore a striped shirt, the collar popped and standing up to his ears as he leaned down behind a woman with wet hair to check the length of the cut.
Lora noticed the other storefronts all featured the same containers of purple and red flowers, and some of the signs looked brand-new.
The crown jewel of the scene was the open café, with its tables spilling out across the cobblestones.
More pots of flowers were scattered around the tables, and the edges of its umbrellas flittered in the breeze while a few people sat under their shade.
“Looks like that’s our only option,” Lora said, edging toward the chalkboard sign on the sidewalk out front: TROFIE AL PESTO, INSALATONA (TONNO), brESAOLA (RUCOLA, GRANA), PANSOTTI.
She had no idea what any of it was, apart from “pesto” and “tonno,” but a quick look around the tables told her two things.
The first was that at least half of those items were pasta.
The second was that even the mayor must be lacking in lunch locations because he sat alone, a large white bowl in front of him filled with a pile of something green and fragrant.
“Buon appetito,” he said, nodding at them as they settled into a table. “Try the trofie. Giada makes them herself.” He turned around in his seat to look back at the woman behind the bar. “Giada, come meet our guests.”
A tiny woman with blond hair wearing jeans, a green T-shirt to match the umbrellas, and a half apron made her way over to them, breaking into a smile.
“Ciao! I’m Giada. You must be the Americans! Andre told me all about you!”
“Already?” said Lora, smiling back. “We’ve only been here twenty-four hours.”
“That’s like a week in a town this small,” said Giada.
“I’m Vilmari. It’s very nice to meet you, Giada,” Vilmari said, extending her hand. Her smile widened. “This is Loretta.”
“Lora, actually,” she said, knocking Vilmari’s knee with her own under the table. “What do you recommend we have for lunch?”
“I told them to try the trofie,” called Andrea from his table.
“What is the insalatona?” asked Lora, ignoring him.
“It’s a big salad, light, with tuna packed in oil, eggs, mozzarella, olives, and we serve it with focaccia.”
“Light,” Vilmari repeated to Lora, her right eyebrow raising a salute.
“She makes the trofie here every day,” Andrea said, pointing toward the back of the café. “Right back there.”
“And the pansotti?” Lora kept her eyes on Giada.
“Oh, those are really good. They are little filled pasta pillows with cheese and wild greens.”
“But you don’t make those.” Andrea poured sparkling water into his glass.
“I don’t,” Giada agreed, scrunching her face at him. She turned back to the women. “They’re still very good.”
Lora wondered what lid he’d clamped down on the poor café owner’s dreams too. Maybe she’d wanted to play music outdoors, and he presented her with a pile of noise ordinances. Maybe she was an ex and had planned a romantic getaway, only to have him tell her they had to stay home and do taxes.
“Why don’t we get both and share?” Vilmari offered.
“Perfect,” said Giada. “Both of these dishes are classic from this region, Liguria, yes? We are obsessed with pesto. Did you know it’s originally from Genova? We have it protected as a national heritage dish. And also focaccia. You’ll love it. Do you want wine?”
“No, no, thank you,” said Lora, thinking it would be poor form to fall asleep after lunch and be found drooling on death certificates.
“Just a little? I’ll bring half a glass of this beautiful wine from”—she leaned forward to look up at one of the surrounding hills rising up at the north end of the piazza—“there.”
“Right there?” Vilmari twisted in her seat. “Wow.”
“Maybe just a sip,” Lora conceded.
“Don’t worry. It’s not like America,” Andrea said, standing. “No one is going to think you are a social deviant for drinking before five PM.”
“No,” Giada said, laughing. “They might be confused if you don’t.
I’ll be back.” She turned to walk back into the café, but not before giving Andrea a look.
What could be going on there? They’d definitely dated.
How awful it must be to live in the same small town and have to run into him day after day. Poor Giada.
“And yet you only drank water with your lunch.” Lora unfolded the paper napkin and laid it on her lap.
“Reflux,” he said. “I have an unforgiving digestive system, unfortunately. It makes me very un-fun at mealtimes.”
“Only then?” Lora looked up, attempting to land a burning stare, but got lost around the fullness of his bottom lip and a vision of gently tugging at it with her teeth. She dug her thumbnail into an adjacent finger.
“Eccomi.” Giada placed two small glasses of white wine on the table and scooted out of the way.
“Usually,” he answered, staring back as if he could hear what she was thinking.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Franca if she would assist in this citizenship project because no one knows the policies and procedures like she does.
If she can look through the information and advise you about anything missing or overlooked, you’ll be a step ahead of everything. ”
“Oh. Thank you. I don’t know what I could have overlooked, but that’s very nice of you.”
“You’re welcome. If you can leave that folder of documents on her desk when you get back to the office, that will be great.
Now, I’ve got to make a visit to the Solaris because they are complaining that the retaining wall behind their house is broken and the deer are eating all of their tomato plants.
See you back at the office,” he said, turning back to call a goodbye to Giada.
Was he helping or trying to prove to her that her concept of the time frame to get this done was completely wrong? He was either a genuinely good guy or hell-bent on being right. But none of it mattered if she couldn’t find the damned birth certificate. She looked at her watch.
“Do not rush me. I am enjoying this breeze,” said Vilmari, closing her eyes.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I can feel you thinking it, though. He’s adorable. Those glasses. Like Clark Kent without red calzoncillos.”
“Do you think he’s legit?” Lora asked.
“Legit what? Hot? Intelligent? In possession of a magnificent hairline? The answer is yes to all.”
“I mean, do you think he’s trying to help?”
“No, Lor, I think he’s trying to keep you from becoming a citizen because you rejected the tuna packed in olive oil.
” Giada approached the table with two steaming bowls in her hands.
She placed the trofie, hand-curled pasta doused in rich green pesto, in front of Vilmari and the pansotti in front of Lora.
“Let the man help, and don’t think so much,” said Vilmari.
“This looks amazing,” said Lora, smiling up at Giada.
“Andrea was correct that I don’t make the pansotti. My girlfriend, Vivi, does. She’s the chef at a restaurant a few towns over, and she’s amazing. If you like them, I can give you the name. It’s worth a drive over there.”
“That would be wonderful! If this tastes half as good as it looks, we are going there tonight.” Lora cut one of the pasta parcels in half and took a bite.
It was so light and flavorful, it disintegrated in her mouth.
The cheese and herbs played perfectly against the savoriness of the olive oil, and for the second time since they’d arrived, she honestly believed the dish in front of her was the best thing she had ever eaten.
“This is spectacular,” she said, turning the dish toward Vilmari. “You have to. Just do it.”
Vilmari took a bite, rolled her eyes back, and placed her hand flat on the table.
“No,” she said. “I can’t. It’s too good.”
“I am glad you like them!” said Giada.
“And to think we almost skipped lunch,” Lora said, forking into another parcel.
“Who is ‘we’? I was going to leave you knee-deep in the History Channel back there if you didn’t leave then,” Vilmari said, tucking into the trofie.
“By the way, I wasn’t listening, but if Andrea is helping you with your documents, you can trust him.” Giada smiled. “I’ve known him my whole life. He’s like a brother.”
“That’s really good to know,” Vilmari said, eyeing Lora.
“He has a good heart. He’s been through a lot, you know?
He carries a lot of heavy things on him since New York.
And he works harder than ten people here, so—” She turned back to the bar, where a customer was waiting.
“He’s the best, really. Let me know if you need anything.
Enjoy!” she said, leaving them with their lunch.
“Well, there you have it,” said Vilmari. “Straight from the source. If you don’t trust this woman, I’m going to call bullshit. A liar could not serve this food.”
Lora drank a gulp of the crisp white wine and glanced at the table where Andrea had been sitting.
What did Giada mean about “heavy things since New York”?
Maybe there was some other reason why he left the city besides wanting to help out here.
Either way, maybe, just maybe, she could be a little more open-minded.
If Franca was able to find some way to rocket her to the front of the citizenship line, she’d have to admit it was because of him.
He could actually be an ally if she played this right.
“I’m not saying anything.” Lora leaned over Vilmari’s dish. “Now let me see what this pesto obsession is all about.”