Chapter 2
due
Francesca didn’t look back. She couldn’t. The very thought of having to explain or make sense of what she had just done brought the acrid kick of bile to her mouth.
She grimaced and swallowed it all down, silently berating herself as she strode back towards the restaurant with a don’t interrupt me demeanour.
Head down, heart slamming against her ribcage, she darted between the tables laid out in front of Trattoria dei Fiori. She ached to just disappear before anyone caught up with her to ask questions or pry.
She had what she needed in the interim: the key dates and the information about the three cooking rounds. It was all spelled out in black and white on the pages in her hand.
Now what she needed was a plan.
Casting aside the beaded screen, Francesca charged through the dining area and into the kitchen. The saloon doors banged on their hinges, startling Maria into curse words by the stove. Clutching her chest, wooden spoon in hand, she panted, ‘Francé, now will you tell me what’s going on?!’
Francesca stood frozen to the spot, only her trembling hands and wide eyes conveying the shame and fear that rattled through her. Then it all began pouring out of her in a devastated whisper. ‘What was I thinking? I’ve done a terrible thing, Nonna!’
Maria’s brightly startled look turned to deep worry. ‘What did you do?’ She stepped forward, tucking the spoon into her apron pocket.
‘Papà’s sign . . .’ Francesca began pacing the kitchen, as if the movement might dispel some of her panic. With the paper still in her grasp, she breathed, ‘I’ve entered us into the festa.’
Maria’s hands took flight. ‘But how?!’
Francesca closed her chocolate-brown eyes. ‘I lied.’
‘About what?’ Maria caught Francesca’s shoulder and spun her around to face her.
‘That’s what I would like to know.’ A concerned voice drew both women to turn in unison, quickly doubling the fear stockpiling in Francesca’s stomach.
There, leaning over the serving ledge, was Elena.
She fixed her stern gaze upon her daughter.
‘What have you lied about, Cesca?’ She left the counter and came into the kitchen through the saloon doors.
‘Mamma, I . . .’
‘Explain what just happened out there.’
‘You saw—?’
‘All I could do was watch through the dining hall window. Tell me.’
Francesca’s tongue turned to sandpaper. She could only manage stuttered shards of a retort. ‘Mamma . . . You . . . But . . .’
‘I gave you specific instructions to leave this year’s festa alone.’
‘Mamma. The festa . . . It’s not . . .’
‘What’s not?’ Not fair? Not right?’ Elena’s hands came to rest on her curvaceous hips, where her knuckles whitened, betraying her frustration. ‘This entire year has been—’
But Francesca found something resembling courage in her chest and pushed it from her mouth. ‘Mamma, enough!’ Her hands clutched her temples. ‘Papà is gone. He’s not coming back. We all need to move on and . . . and honour his memory in a meaningful way.’
Francesca noted how Elena’s cheeks flushed from olive to garnet. ‘As if we haven’t been doing that every day since he was ripped so cruelly from us! We must protect his legacy at all costs! Everything must remain the same. As it always was. That goes for our reputation, too!’
Maria had taken a supportive step closer to Francesca and attempted to place a reassuring hand on her forearm, but the gesture only startled Francesca from her focus.
‘Tell her, Mamma! Remind her of all we have worked so hard for!’ Elena snipped at Maria, throwing her hands in the air. Her use of ‘Mamma’ reflected the continued respect she showed her mother-in-law, even after her husband’s passing.
‘Let the girl speak!’ Maria pinged back. ‘You . . .’ She waggled a finger at her widowed daughter-in-law. ‘You always jump to conclusions—’
‘Her past actions have taught me to be distrustful. The sneaky menu changes. The secret ingredients. Thirty-three and she still hasn’t learned to follow instructions. Constantly giving me heart attacks for fear of—’
Francesca lunged forward, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Of what? What are you so worried about?’ She gestured to their humble little kitchen. ‘That what happens in here might reflect poorly on Papà’s legacy? Or that it might cast a shadow on you, now that you’re in charge?’
Francesca watched as her mother’s jaw tensed.
Was she also holding back welling emotions?
She rarely saw her mother cry. The day they lost Nonno, of course.
The day they found Giacomo, her father, face down in the wild fennel patch with his trowel in hand, definitely.
But Elena commanded their business – their life, for that matter – with a permanent curt smile and very little sentiment.
It had been like this for many years. The tit for tat.
It got them nowhere other than tense exchanges and digestive issues.
Seeing her mother standing there now, still wearing the black of mourning after twelve months, Francesca realised Elena would never change.
It would always be like this. Some of their regulars saw similarities between them – ‘Cut from the same cloth, those two,’ Francesca often heard.
She despised these comments. On good days she could overlook them, but on tougher days she felt the ache of a genuine insult.
Of course she loved her mother. But what Francesca craved from Elena was unconditional trust and creative freedom.
Sadly, while they shared the kitchen, the best they managed was their own brand of mutual respect, tolerance and space granting.
But these moments seemed fewer and further between as time passed.
Francesca looked at her mother’s pinched and drawn face, so clearly ageing despite her continued efforts to keep herself well maintained, and part of her wanted to give up. What was the point?
Sensing her daughter’s hesitation, Elena repeated, ‘What. Did you. Lie about?’ She gave each word an extra beat.
Francesca pinned her shoulders back and cleared her throat. She gave Maria a sideways glance before saying, ‘I’ve entered us in the festa.’ The rise of Elena’s chest didn’t perturb her. ‘Yes, against your wishes, Mamma. But I just had to.’
Elena erupted in laughter. ‘How is that even possible?! And who, might I ask, will cook for us?’ She took one manicured hand from her hip and gestured to the three of them. ‘Because, Cesca, I see only women here.’
Francesca tapped her foot nervously on the polished brown tiles. ‘Him!’ She pointed to the ceiling.
‘Who?’ Elena’s chestnut eyes squinted in confusion. ‘God? God can’t save us now.’
‘No.’ Francesca stepped forward and Maria’s hold on her arm faltered. ‘Alessio.’
Elena’s immaculately tended dark brows furrowed as she tried to place the name. But it was Maria’s surprise, blooming by way of a knowing smile, that drew Elena’s attention. ‘Who is this “Alessio”, Mamma?’
With feigned indifference, Maria deadpanned, ‘Our new summer guest.’
Francesca watched as Elena inflated, the veins in her neck dilating. ‘A stranger?! Someone we don’t even know?! But our reputat—’
‘Mamma, just listen!’ Francesca stepped forward to catch Elena’s hands in her own, as if that kind of contact might placate her. ‘I have a plan!’
‘You have rocks in your head. That’s all you have! Tell her, Mamma!’ Elena wrenched her hands free, and the rejection drew the breath from Francesca’s lungs.
‘Shh! I want to hear the plan.’ Maria smoothed down her apron, -readjusted the wooden spoon in her pocket, and eased herself back down into the chair that had always sat at the end of the kitchen bench. The joints creaked under Maria’s generous weight.
‘Mamma. Please, just listen.’
Elena closed her eyes and shook her head. Was this a refusal? Or was she giving in? There was nothing for it but to press on.
You can do this. Slow. Steady. Just explain yourself.
‘Alessio Ranieri. He’s just arrived. Perhaps thirty minutes ago.
He can cook for us.’ Elena’s eyes snapped open again and her lips parted to interject, but Francesca raised a halting palm.
‘I don’t know much about him yet. But just give me a few days.
He’s here for the summer. The entire summer.
Please, Mamma, just let me talk to him about this.
He might be willing . . . He told me he’s a—’
‘This is simply ridiculous. And a complete insult to our legacy. I’ve heard enough.’
‘—chef.’
Even though Elena had spoken over her daughter, she heard her final word. Despite the protective stubborn wall she’d thrown up, something altered in her expression.
Francesca added meekly, ‘It could be our ticket to victory.’
Elena’s hands returned to her hips, and there was a long silence as she appeared to consider this information. While she was still stony-faced, she eventually said grudgingly, ‘So what do you propose then, Cesca?’
Francesca saw her opportunity. ‘Mamma, let me get to know him. See what he’s about. I’ll explain the situation to him and see if he might be interested in competing on our behalf.’
‘And under what guise, exactly?’
Francesca’s mind scrambled. She hadn’t thought this far ahead.
She’d just put his name to the paper, then dashed back inside.
She bit her bottom lip while she thought on the spot.
‘How about a cousin? A second cousin?’ Her eyes darted between her mother and grandmother.
‘An Australian cousin with second- or third-degree ties to our family?’
‘Are you serious?’ Elena looked to her mother-in-law for agreement but found only a bright face full of optimism.
‘We can say he’s moved here for the summer to cook with us. To support us during our busiest period of the year. No one would question that. He’s got dark hair and brown eyes. How far do the genetic lines of Puglia stretch?’
Elena’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. ‘How do we know he can cook our way?’
‘I’ll teach him! Nonna too!’ Francesca turned and pulled Maria to standing. ‘Together we can do it.’
‘It’s beyond comprehension. This . . . man . . . may not even know how to boil water! He will drag our name into disrepute!’
Elena turned away, clearly intending to leave, and Francesca panicked.
‘Give me one week to convince Alessio to help us and participate in the festa. If he says no I will walk to the comune, sit Felice down and explain that we are withdrawing from the competition. And you, Mamma, have my word that from that day you won’t hear another complaint or challenge leave my lips. ’
Elena paused and turned her head slightly towards her daughter. ‘Your word?’
They locked eyes.
‘You have my heart.’
Elena exhaled with obvious relief. ‘You have yourself a deal. Then, once we have concluded this ludicrous charade, we can get on with more pressing usual business.’ She checked the clock on the wall. ‘It’s after twelve-thirty. Are we opening for lunch service or not?’
That was it? She wasn’t going to put up more of a fight?
Elena wrapped her apron around her waist and took off into the dining area to prepare for service.
Francesca glanced at Maria. ‘What have I just done?’ she whispered, then threw her hands over her face and dropped into a deep squat on the floury tiles.
Maria cackled from behind, giving Francesca an encouraging tap on the bottom with the wooden spoon. ‘Oh, this is going to be fun!’