Chapter 50
FIFTY
ENRICO FERRARA
The idea sounded great in theory.
Clara wanted a lemon cake.
Valentina had gone out and hadn’t come back yet.
The chef was off for the day.
And I thought to myself, How hard can it be to mix a few ingredients and put them in the oven?
The answer, I learned in less than twenty minutes, was simple:
All of it.
“Tio Enrico, the flour flew again!” Clara announced, laughing uncontrollably, her cheeks completely dusted white, like a tiny soldier in a culinary battlefield.
“It wasn’t just the flour,” I muttered, laughing too as I tried—futilely—to clean the sink, the counter, the floor… failing miserably at every attempt. “The whole bag went airborne.”
The batter was far too sticky, definitely because of the excessive lemon zest Clara had insisted on adding. And maybe—just maybe—because I had set the oven to the wrong temperature.
But… Clara was laughing.
Really laughing.
And I couldn’t stop laughing with her.
The kitchen had turned into the perfect disaster movie set: bowls and spoons scattered across the floor, flour coating absolutely everything—including my hair—and smoke.
A lot of smoke.
The oven hissed like it was protesting. The timer beeped relentlessly. The batter overflowed from the pan, dripping slowly, as if it were alive.
“Do you think we can eat that?” Clara asked, pointing cautiously at the thing growing inside the oven.
I took a quick look and made a face.
“Definitely not. But if anyone asks, we lie.”
She burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the wrecked kitchen like the best kind of music.
In that moment—amid the smell of burnt lemon and crystallized sugar spread across the floor—I finally understood what making memories really meant.
And maybe—just maybe—I was getting something right for the first time.
That was exactly when we heard the front door open.
Seconds stretched endlessly until Valentina appeared at the kitchen doorway, as if she had been struck by a scene too absurd to immediately comprehend.
She froze.
Her eyes swept slowly across the kitchen, as though she were witnessing a culinary crime scene.
“My God,” she said, more stunned than angry.
Clara, of course, found that even funnier.
“Mom! Look at the mess we made!”
“I see that,” Valentina blinked a few times, still processing the chaos. “I really see it. And I can smell something that died tragically inside the oven.”
“It didn’t die,” I defended quickly, raising my hands in surrender. “It just… was born wrong.”
She didn’t laugh.
But her eyes betrayed that familiar mix of exhaustion and suppressed amusement—the one that always appeared whenever I did something too unexpected to fit the image she insisted on keeping of me… and hated to admit she still admired.
“I really wanted lemon cake, Mom,” Clara explained earnestly. “And Tio Enrico made it for me.”
“I see…”
“But we can’t eat it, Mom,” Clara warned seriously. “It must be really bad. But Mom—if anyone asks, we lie, okay?”
Valentina’s eyes immediately found mine, accusing.
I smiled, not ashamed in the slightest.
“Clara. Bath. Now,” Valentina said calmly. “After that, I’ll make an edible cake in this house.”
“But we tried!” Clara protested, still laughing.
Valentina sighed, shaking her head with an almost-smile.
“I can tell, sweetheart. You’re turning into a miniature version of your Uncle Enrico.”
She held out her hand, and Clara went to her immediately.
They started up the stairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen, surrounded by flour, smoke, and a strange pride that made my chest tighten in the best possible way.
Clara looked back over her shoulder and waved, satisfied, climbing the steps.
Valentina stopped halfway up the stairs and turned slowly toward me.
She looked over her shoulder with that unmistakable gleam of someone who wanted to scold—but couldn’t hide how much she was enjoying every second.
And then she said, her voice soft, sharp, and dangerously affectionate:
“Go take a shower. You too.”
And she disappeared down the hallway upstairs—taking with her the smile she thought I hadn’t seen, leaving behind the sweet, burnt scent of lemon…
…and my heart fuller than that damn cake pan that never rose.
Because she said it like an order.
But I heard it like someone almost saying, stay.
I went to my room with a foolish smile on my face, and the steam had already completely fogged the mirror by the time I stepped into the shower.
The hot water came down hard—almost aggressive—slamming against the white marble tiles, as if it were trying to wash away the mess inside my chest too.
It wasn’t enough.
It never was.
The same words that had made me smile now began to awaken a slow, aching pain.
“Go take a shower. You too.”
That was exactly the kind of thing she used to say before—different tone, different smile, an entirely different story.
“Hurry up, Enrico, or I’ll use all the hot water myself.”
“Want me to wash your back?”
“Stay. Just a little longer.”
I closed my eyes under the hot spray, letting the water run over my face, my chest, as if it could wash away the memories that refused to stop surfacing.
The image of Valentina laughing with me, completely soaked, sliding against the shower wall while accusing me of being terrible with liquid soap came back as vividly as a punch to the gut.
She always laughed with me in the shower. Always teased me with that light smile, those bright eyes—like she knew exactly the effect she had on me.
And now…
Now there was only silence, cold white tiles, and the brutal certainty of what I had lost.
I rested my forehead against the cool wall, water running down my back, soaking my neck—trying uselessly to erase the smell of burnt cake, the bitter taste of longing, the guilt that clung to my skin like badly rinsed soap.
There was still flour stuck in my hair. Dried batter between my fingers.
And a four-year-old daughter who—somehow—still believed her father was some kind of hero.
And that hero wasn’t me.
He didn’t even have a face yet.
She had no idea that for years—long, cowardly years—that same father hadn’t even had the courage to exist for her.
I exhaled deeply, staring at the vast, luxurious bathroom.
It was big. Beautiful. Spacious. The kind that could easily hold two—maybe four—people.
But in that moment, it felt larger than ever.
Larger and emptier. Colder.
Because what was missing there was exactly what had been missing from every corner of my life since the mistake I would never forgive myself for:
Valentina.
And that damn stay that never came back.
***
I went downstairs slowly, my hair still damp, clinging lightly to the back of my neck. My T-shirt stuck faintly to my skin as the fresh scent of shampoo mixed with the soft, inviting aroma drifting from the kitchen.
Vanilla and lemon.
I stopped at the doorway.
And there she was.
Valentina stood with her back to me, stirring a bowl with focused concentration. Her shoulders were tense, her hair tied up carelessly, exposing the delicate line of her neck. The warm yellow kitchen light cast soft shadows over her bare legs beneath her short shorts.
She turned the instant she sensed me.
As if she had been waiting.
Because she knew I would come.
Because I always did.
“Clara came out of the bath pretty wiped out,” she explained quickly, before I could say anything. “The kitchen chaos drained the last of her energy. I laid her on the couch with a blanket—she passed out in less than five minutes.”
I nodded slowly, stepping closer.
“And the cake?”
“I’m trying to make a real one now.” She shot me a quick, teasing look. “Without a fire hazard this time.”
“Can I help?” I offered, my tone lighter than the ache in my chest.
She raised an eyebrow immediately—suspicious and amused.
“As sous-chef?”
“I promise I won’t overdo the lemon zest this time.”
Valentina laughed. Softly. Almost silently.
The kind of laugh I could listen to every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of.
“You really think you’re getting promoted in this kitchen after nearly blowing up my oven?”
“I have faith,” I replied, half-smiling.
“Take that faith to the living room then.” She went back to stirring, trying not to smile. “Tonight, I’m not planning to burn the house down.”
I took another step toward her.
At the same moment, she moved too—reaching for a spoon while lifting one leg slightly for balance.
It didn’t work.
The floor was still slick—a remnant of our earlier culinary disaster—and her foot slipped.
I moved on instinct.
In a heartbeat, my arms were around her—solid, steady—keeping her from falling. One arm firm at her waist. The other supporting her back.
Body to body.
Heat against heat.
Valentina sucked in a sharp breath.
So did I.
Our faces were dangerously close. Close enough to count her lashes, to feel her quick, shallow breaths against my mouth.
She lifted her eyes to mine, looking like someone staring straight at an entire past—and the unavoidable danger of the present.
“Do you still hate me?” The question escaped my mouth before I could stop it, my voice lower than intended, threaded with desperation.
She took her time. Then answered.
“I’m still afraid to trust you.”
I nodded, the ache in my chest tightening.
“And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you can.”
She blinked slowly. Her gaze dipped briefly to my lips, then returned to my eyes. She shifted slightly, weakly.
“Let me go.”
“Afraid of falling?”
“I’m afraid of forgetting all the reasons why us being this close is wrong.”
I inhaled deeply, breathing in her sweet, intoxicating scent as it flooded my senses—my body, my mind, my defenses.
“Then remember quickly,” I murmured, far too close to her lips, “because the urge I have to kiss you is becoming unbearable.”
We stayed like that for long seconds—the tension so thick it felt cuttable.
Valentina exhaled slowly and stepped out of my arms, regaining her balance, her breath, her composure.
She tugged irritably at her shirt, grabbed a dish towel like someone gripping a sword.
“Clean the floor,” she said without looking at me. “And if possible, make it look like this moment never happened.”
I turned slowly. Picked up the towel.
And smiled to myself in silence as I knelt to clean the mess.
Because if she was asking me to pretend it hadn’t happened…
It was because it had.
And it wouldn’t be easily forgotten.