Chapter 4
quattro
Alessio woke at eleven. Where am I? What day is it?
It was only after he had showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes – a plain grey crew-cut tee, tan shorts and brown leather scuffs – that he was able to shake some of his disorientation.
It’s just the jet lag.
Alessio made himself an espresso and stood at the window, sipping it.
He realised he stood at a crossroad. His suitcase, which now sat on the end of the bed, beckoned action.
If he unpacked, it meant he was committing to stay, to confront the demons he knew would be waiting for him if he ventured into the kitchen downstairs to cook for himself.
He knew it could also be a moment of acceptance, of challenge, a sign of strength to face the past, or push beyond it.
If he up and left, if he tried to find somewhere else to stay that didn’t come with a side order of kitchen nightmares, would that render him a coward? Or in denial?
A knock on the door tore him from his reverie.
‘Alessio, buongiorno! Are you in there?’ Francesca’s voice trilled through the heavy wood. ‘I was just wondering . . .’
Shit!
‘Coming!’ he called, checking his phone. It was almost noon. He realised he had all but forgotten Francesca’s kind invitation to lunch. He opened the door and there, with her knotted fist poised mid-air, stood the ethereal Francesca.
A breeze blew into the apartment from behind her, catching the scent of her perfume and her clothing, evaporating Alessio’s resolve.
There’s the brown sugar . . .
She looked radiant this morning, even more so than yesterday. Perhaps it was the midday sun outlining her silhouette, or the freshly washed mop of curls? Something about Francesca caught Alessio off guard.
The apron and sundress of yesterday had been replaced by a low-cut V-neck white tee with rolled sleeves and skin-tight dark rinse jeans.
They grazed Francesca’s ankles above sandal-clad feet.
The shadow of a black bra was visible from under her top, and Alessio made a respectful point of not giving it the attention it deserved.
Three or four gold necklaces bundled together at her cleavage, featuring at least one crucifix and Madonna.
But it was her curves that stole Alessio’s attention.
Just as the sundress had narrowed her waist, today those jeans revealed all of her form.
Francesca’s shapely hips gave way to her peach-shaped bottom, dropping to her feminine thighs.
Alessio thought her reminiscent of Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida and Monica Vitti, icons of the Italian screen, eternally splashed across popular culture for their glorious womanly curves and unbridled talent.
The intrigue he had felt for Francesca yesterday suddenly morphed into something which resembled desire. Longing. A sensation Alessio hadn’t felt for a very long time.
Clearing his throat he found his voice. ‘Buongiorno. Sorry. I haven’t forgotten about your lunch invitation. I just allowed myself a sleep-in. Would you like to come in?’ He stood to the side so she could pass.
‘No, thank you. I was just checking to see if you were still coming. I hadn’t seen you up and about yet. But I see you have more colour than yesterday.’ Her smile was radiant.
‘Yes, I’m feeling more human today.’
The tinkle of her laugh was effortlessly charming. ‘Eccellente!’ Francesca playfully extended her bent right arm. ‘May I escort you to lunch then, as my guest of honour?’
Alessio laughed and looped his arm around hers. ‘How could I refuse this service?’
‘Andiamo, straight up to the terrazzo.’
Was it the comforting warmth of Francesca’s arm around his, or the way her eyes seemed to trap him with their spirit that tied his conscience in a knot?
The last thing Alessio saw before pulling the door closed behind him was the suitcase on the end of the bed. Somehow he knew that lunch on that terrazzo would answer the question that rattled through his chest.
Would he stay, or would he go?
‘Welcome to my little piece of paradiso in Puglia.’ Francesca turned and held out a hand to pull Alessio up the final rung of the ladder.
‘Nonna never comes up here, and Mamma stopped long ago. It’s just me who uses this space now.
’ She clasped her hands behind her back and smiled. ‘And now you, too, I guess.’
The terrazzo offered the same charm iconic of Impastino’s town centre: whitewashed, rendered ledges and low walls gave it structure and provided privacy from prying eyes, while smooth terracotta pavers gave it a sense of space and warmth.
To their left ran a maiolica-style white and blue patterned tiled workbench which led to a wide farmhouse-style wash trough.
Beyond that was a small bar fridge and a large freestanding wood fire oven.
It was also whitewashed and its smooth rendered dome with terracotta brick-fringed opening gave way to a wide-set aluminium flue that reached for the clear summer sky.
Neatly sawn logs filled the storage space under the oven like a completed jigsaw puzzle, packed to perfection.
Alessio walked over to the oven and ran a curious hand over its domed top. ‘Do you use this much?’
‘I haven’t used it for a long time. Papà used to use it daily to make the bread for the restaurant.
’ There was something about the way her smile became forced that told Alessio all he needed to know.
Used to use it . . . Francesca shook her head.
‘But we have plenty of time for that talk. We have all summer.’
Alessio felt a twinge of guilt about his indecision over whether to stay or go. Presumably Francesca and her family were relying on the rent his stay would bring in.
‘Allora,’ Francesca said, clearly keen to change the subject.
She gestured to the tiled benchtop behind them.
‘I’m going to finish lunch, please take a seat.
’ She motioned to the long wooden table, already set for two, with enough room for at least another ten.
The thick glass tumblers tinted pistachio green matched the stark white plates with green trim, reminiscent of something from the seventies.
Mismatched cutlery and linen napkins lay to the side, with a blue pitcher of iced water.
Perhaps noting how Alessio took in the scene, she added, ‘Please, help yourself.’
Alessio felt a little self-conscious. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with someone cooking for him, but rather that she was waiting on him hand and foot.
He was thankful for her kindness and professionalism, of course, but he recalled this was her day off and she was going out of her way for him.
‘Francesca, let me help you.’ He came up next to her at the bench and instinctively washed his hands. He double-lathered to a cream, scrubbing halfway up his forearms before rinsing.
Noting this, Francesca passed him a red-checked tea towel. ‘A true chef’s wash-up, eh?’
Catching himself, he breathed, ‘Yeah . . . and from a restaurant family.’
Did his eyes give him away? Could Francesca sense his reluctance, his reticence? The energy and spirit he had just witnessed in her seemed to ebb. He forced himself to focus on drying his hands.
‘I guess not all is well.’ Francesca tilted her head gently to the side, as if sizing him up. But there was a softness behind her dark, alluring eyes. Alessio found it calm and reassuring.
Glancing at her, he said, ‘It took you all of a minute to get this out of me.’ Despite himself, he laughed.
‘Alessio, I have no idea what is going on for you.’ Her hands gestured between them. ‘But if you want to talk about it, I’ll listen. I can be your friend here.’
His eyes traced the lines of Francesca’s face. The deeply rich olive of her skin. The warmth of her brown eyes. That tangle of dark curls, spiralling from her crown, collecting over her shoulders. He swallowed.
Friends? With this incredibly, ridiculously stunning . . .
A feeling bubbling in the depths of his belly pushed him, told him to let go.
‘Shame’ was a word he had spent a lot of time reflecting on and unpacking.
All those sessions in the chair, talking, rehashing, reliving.
If ever there were a moment to let someone in, inexplicably, Alessio felt that this might just be it.
And it had everything to do with this beautiful perfect stranger.
Swallowing past the knot of tension which had looped itself around his throat, he steeled himself. ‘Ok, Francesca. I’ll tell you. On two conditions.’
Her eyes locked onto him. ‘I’m listening . . .’
‘The first, we finish lunch prep together.’
‘I can agree to that.’
‘And the second, if I tell you my story, you tell me yours.’
Alessio studied her for a moment as her lips pursed. Her face gave nothing away.
Francesca eventually gave a slow nod. ‘I’ll do my best.’ Her smile slowly returned, and Alessio let out a relieved breath.
‘So, lunch?’ he said, turning his attention to the myriad of dishes and ingredients on the bench in front of them. Out of habit, he pulled the corner of the tea towel through one of the belt loops of his shorts, securing it by his side.
‘Allora,’ Francesca started. ‘We will begin with these cuore di bue tomatoes.’ She gestured to the palm-sized beauties awaiting attention on the chopping board.
Their shape was similar to that of a pumpkin, with deep recessed lines tracing towards the still-green stem.
‘I just picked these from the orto. Can you please collect the mozzarella from the fridge?’ Alessio did as he was told, and within moments she had thickly sliced the tomatoes and was tearing generous chunks from the ball of buffalo mozzarella.
It was all laid out on a white platter. Francesca reached across to a small ramekin and took a pinch of course sea salt, scattering it across the top of the tomatoes.
‘From this part of the Adriatic coastline,’ she said, taking another pinch.
Opening Alessio’s palm she sprinkled the white crystals over his skin.
‘Assaggia . . .’ she welcomed, gesturing for him to try it.
And try it he did, like always, flattening his tongue so that it pressed against his open palm.
The crystals caught and their sharpness dissolved within seconds.
The salty kick came, followed by the resin undertones of the sea.
His mouth watered. ‘Oh, that’s good.’ He helped himself to another pinch.
From the corner of his eye he saw Francesca smile as she reached for the mortar and pestle. ‘Pesto?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Better.’ Off to the side sat a collection of large, repurposed jars filled with water and freshly cut herbs.
Francesca pulled a handful from two, which didn’t look anything like the marinated artichokes and fire-roasted peppers indicated on the faded, peeling labels.
She tore her selections to shreds. It all went into the mortar.
‘Finocchio selvatico e centocchio,’ she explained.
Taking a solitary garlic clove she sliced it in half lengthways and proceeded to rub it on the inside of the mortar, leaving a wet sheen.
In went a decent pinch of the sea salt, a crack of fresh black pepper, a drizzle of aceto di vino rosso and a dramatic glug of viridescent extra virgin olive oil.
As she righted the bottle she caught a stray drip with her thumb and brought it to her mouth. Alessio watched as she rubbed it across her lips, both top and bottom, before sucking her thumb clean.
‘Ecco,’ she said, handing him the pestle. ‘You can do the honours, Chef.’
Alessio wondered when that word might stop setting off an adrenaline surge. It wouldn’t be today. But without context, without the backstory, he knew she meant nothing by it. How could she?
‘How fine do you want it?’ he asked politely, although he knew instinctively how fine he would grind the paste.
‘Like a pesto, but—’
‘Better?’
She turned and that cheeky smile returned. ‘Just wait. It will be better than any basil pesto you’ve ever eaten.’
‘I shall wait.’ Alessio pounded and twisted the cool black pestle until the herbs and other ingredients had formed a loose paste, just as he thought it should look. He wanted to test it, dip the tip of a finger in and collect some to try, but decided to wait.
And by decided to, he forced himself to.
‘I can sense you want to try it,’ she said, with that uncanny intuition of hers.
‘No I don’t.’
‘Just try it. You will love it.’
His eyes flicked back to the caprese salad of tomatoes and mozzarella on the platter. ‘No basil?’
‘I’m sure. Trust me.’ She folded her arms, exuding a smug confidence. ‘If you won’t try it, then just dollop it over the salad and you can put it on the table.’
Alessio fought all his natural urges to track down a handful of spongy fragrant basil leaves and tear them from their stems. Insalata caprese demanded basil.
The iconic trio of green, white and red warranted a serenade from Luciano Pavarotti himself.
Alessio wanted to watch the basil leaves mingle with the pooling tomato juices, drawn from the fruit by that briny sharp sea salt.
Set in his ways.
Stubborn fucking control freak.
With him? It’s HIS way or . . .
He swallowed the pride that made his fingertips tingle and laid the platter on the table. He reminded himself that the fact that he could see and acknowledge this resistance and desire to just take over was a good thing. He had worked through this phase with Patrick. This was growth.
Focus on the positives. You can see it now.
‘Vino?’ Francesca asked, already pouring him a glass of profoundly red wine.
‘I haven’t had breakfast yet, apart from an espresso, but what the hell.’ He accepted the proffered glass and clinked it against hers.
‘Alla nostra estate pugliese!’ she chimed, taking a sip. ‘Here’s to our summer in Puglia!’
Just as his lips dipped to catch the glass rim, one word looped in his mind.
Our . . .