Chapter 7
sette
Francesca paced back and forth on the tiles by the foot of the bed, keeping time with Maria’s snoring in the adjacent bedroom. After a nervous afternoon trying to reconcile Alessio’s story with the desire to simply drop to her knees and beg for his help at the festa, she felt completely torn.
He had been so completely vulnerable with her.
Achingly so. And what had she done? Tensed up?
Withdrawn? It wasn’t that what he had divulged had made her uncomfortable – if anything it had made her respect him for his strength and honesty – it was that now, knowing what she knew, she couldn’t see any respectful way to broach the topic of the festa with him.
Even so much as suggesting he uphold a charade, lie to the townsfolk and battle it out in the kitchen on her behalf, was an insult to his injuries.
Not to mention the trust he had placed in her.
‘Ughhh!’ she moaned into her palms as she came to a stop at the piazza-facing window. She unlatched the shutter and pushed it open, and a warm breeze danced past her, drawing goosebumps across her bare arms.
Francesca pulled the oversized tee she ritually wore to bed down a little further and hugged her arms across her body. The cotton was cocooning and comforting.
She took a moment to lean out onto the ledge. The trill of the cicadas’ night-time serenade distracted her for a moment. A few curls flicked across her cheek, pulled by the wind. Shaking her head, she looked to the sky.
Papà, I’m trying. I really am. But I feel stuck again. Please, just find a way to help me keep moving.
She pulled the gathered bundle of gold charms dangling from her necklace out from under her t-shirt. Finding the most precious of them all – the little fusillo pasta spiral – she pressed her lips to the warm metal for a few moments.
I’m at breaking point here, Papà. Please.
Francesca padded into the kitchen the following morning, her head heavy with the previous evening’s insecurities, which she had been unable to shake.
Maria sat comfortably in the wooden chair at the end of the kitchen bench, a bowl at her side, shelling peas.
Elena was sorting through supplies, noting quantities and items on a pad, tapping the pen to her lips between jots and scribbles.
Francesca couldn’t lift herself from this malaise. ‘Morning,’ she mumbled, reaching for her apron.
‘Have you eaten?’ Maria asked, nibbling on a freshly shelled baby pea.
‘Not hungry.’ Francesca washed her hands, then turned to Elena. ‘What are we serving today?’
‘Mamma wants to offer orecchiette with peas and broad beans. She is prepping already, and there are fave in the fridge for you to get started on.’ Francesca didn’t miss the fleeting glance Elena gave the wall-hanging clock, her eyes full of disapproval.
‘And I will prepare our usual eggplant parmigiana with ragù.’ Elena pulled a waxed paper parcel from the fridge and set it down on the bench.
She opened it, revealing a two-kilo stack of freshly ground veal mince, six pork sausages still connected by their white butcher’s twine, and two large beef ribs. ‘I’ll start with the ragù.’
‘As you wish.’ Francesca grabbed the large bowl of freshly picked broad bean pods from the fridge and dragged a dining chair from the restaurant, pulling up alongside Maria.
She snipped the ends off each pod with a serrated knife, catching then pulling the beans’ strings from them.
She pried open the pods with her thumbs, plucking free each pale-skinned broad bean.
The empty pods dropped to the floor in a pile, while the beans quickly gathered in the bowl nestled in her lap.
They worked in silence for a few moments, before Maria eventually asked, ‘And Alessio? Have you spoken yet with him about . . .?’
Elena’s gaze shot to Francesca as she poured extra virgin olive oil into the large pot on the stove.
Francesca swallowed. ‘No. Not yet.’
Elena scowled into the pot, just loud enough for Francesca to hear.
‘Mamma, don’t be like that. I am trying to get to know him first. Build rapport and trust. That’s not helpful.’
‘What’s not helpful is a daughter who doesn’t follow instructions and just does what she wants, threatening our stellar reputation in the town, not to mention our period of mourn—’
‘Your period of mourning.’ Francesca’s eyes locked on the ceiling, allowing the frustration to leak from her lips in one loaded sigh.
She gestured to her own duck egg–blue cotton dress with capped sleeves, the hem of which just grazed the tops of her knees.
‘You’ve spent your time, Mamma. Please, now you need to be kind to yourself. ’
But Elena’s only retort was a forceful push of her knife through a papery-skinned onion. It fell in two with a smack.
‘Black suits her,’ Maria chimed in, tossing another pea into her mouth. Munching, she added, ‘Matches her mood . . .’ She laughed under her breath.
‘Mamma!’ Elena snapped, holding her knife aloft.
But it was at that moment that Alessio’s face appeared over the top of the saloon doors. ‘Buongiorno,’ he announced politely, before stepping inside. ‘May I?’
His unexpected presence pulled all three women from their bickering. Francesca turned to lock eyes with Maria, and she saw the same question reflected on the older woman’s face: How much had he heard?
But there was nothing to fear, as Alessio smiled and his hazel-brown eyes found Francesca’s. ‘Sorry if I’ve interrupted your work, but I was ju—’
‘Alessio, was it?’ Elena stepped forward, her politely curated English slightly halting.
‘Yes. Elena, I presume?’ he asked, offering a courteous hand, which she shook. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Francesca watched her mother’s sickly sweet guest-facing routine kick into gear, and for once she was thankful for it. She needed Elena to play along, for now at least, until she could work out her next move with Alessio.
Francesca cringed internally, watching as Elena’s eyes rolled over the tattoos marking Alessio arms. They were so damn sexy, but there was no way Elena would share that sentiment.
Don’t pull ‘The Face’, Mamma . . . Ugh!
‘Elena Ladisa. Welcome to our home.’ Elena’s arms opened welcomingly, and her smile seemed genuine.
But to Francesca’s trained eye it was obvious Elena was sizing him up.
Quietly, covertly reading him. Trying to suss what she could from the ‘first impressions last’ moment.
Francesca felt the tension build in her shoulders and made an effort to let them drop.
‘Ladisa. That’s a great surname,’ Alessio said.
Francesca jumped in before Elena could. ‘In Italy, Alessio, women don’t usually change their names when they marry. So Mamma isn’t a Fiore.’
‘Ah. I didn’t know that. Interesting.’
‘Yes.’ Elena’s smile tightened. ‘Women are forever connected to their families this way. To their fathers, in particular. A somewhat unshakable bond.’
Clearing her throat, Francesca interjected, ‘How did you sleep last night, Alessio?’
‘I think I’ve kicked the jet lag for good now. After our lunch I simply headed back to bed and slept off the meal. Cruised right through until six am.’
‘Lunch?’ Elena’s eyelids fluttered. ‘I must have missed the invitation.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. Francesca kindly prepared me lunch on the terrace to welcome me to the town.’
‘Did she now?’ Elena turned, her smile barely reaching the corners of her lips. ‘That was very kind.’
‘It was delicious. She’s a very talented chef.’
‘Our Cesca is a naturally talented cook. All stemming from her learnings here in this kitchen.’
Though Elena had delivered that last statement without any detectable inflection, it was her choice of the term ‘cook’ that got under Francesca’s skin.
Cook? Is that all you see me as? Just a cook following a recipe? Even after all I’ve already proven to you?
Could Alessio sense Francesca’s unease? Had he read the well--disguised layer of tension in Elena’s comment, and the chagrin it had caused her daughter?
He pursed his lips for a moment before he carefully rebutted, ‘She’s no cook.
Francesca’s skills and intuition, not to mention her experiences in this kitchen, well and truly make her a chef. ’
Elena’s smile tightened and her hands came to rest on her hips. ‘Respectfully, Alessio, a chef has studied formally in the culinary arts. Not one of us in this kitchen, myself included, has ever done such a thing. We are and always will be cooks. Passionate ones, but the fact remains.’
Stop talking. Just stop talking now.
Alessio gave a slow nod. ‘I guess we must agree to disagree, then.’
Francesca wondered if Alessio would reveal his own professional background in the moment.
‘Actually, I am a chef. A well-respected and highly acclaimed chef . . . So my opinion trumps yours . . .’ But thinking back on his reluctance to cook at all in the wake of his trauma, she figured he would keep quiet on this point.
And so he did. Turning to Francesca, he said, ‘I was hoping you might be able to direct me to a pharmacy? Or the supermarket? I need to grab a few things.’
Francesca suddenly realised how dangerous it might be to send Alessio out into the town unchaperoned. What if he introduces himself to someone? Or people ask who he is? This charade might come undone before it’s even begun.
She tried to think logically. No one except Felice and Giovanni, and perhaps anyone at the comune managing the administration of the festa, would know she had nominated Alessio to represent them.
Ok, breathe. This can be managed. But I can’t risk him saying he’s here for any other reason just yet. Especially if he somehow, by some miracle or magical twist of fate, actually agrees to this plan . . .
‘Ermm,’ she stammered. ‘Please, let me come with you.’ She passed her bowl of shelled broad beans to Maria. ‘I’ll give you a super-quick tour of the town and show you where to go.’
He raised a concerned hand. ‘No, it’s fine, I can see you’re busy. Just point me in the right direction. I’ll find it.’ He slipped his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose, ready to set off.
‘Not at all.’ Francesca turned, and with wide eyes communicated her fears to Maria, who nodded her understanding and began a wild rant in deeply native pugliese dialect, marked by hand gestures and finger pointing.
A word Alessio would have understood in the midst of the vocabulary torrent, however, was patate.
‘Ah, sì,’ Francesca sighed. ‘We do need potatoes. Thank you for the reminder, Nonna.’
‘We don’t need potat—’ Elena attempted to chime in.
‘Dieci chili!’ Maria pressed firmly. ‘Per gli gnocchi!’ Then the word scramble was unleashed once more, with Maria pointing to Alessio’s toned arms.
Wanting to cheer at the brilliance of Maria’s quick thinking, Francesca tried her best to remain neutral. ‘Nonna is wondering if you might be able to carry some potatoes back from the supermarket for her. She wants ten kilos.’
Alessio gave Maria a cheeky wink. ‘For this beautiful nonna, I’d bring back twenty.’
Francesca translated and Maria erupted in laughter, despite Elena’s wary eyes a few feet behind.
‘Let’s go,’ Francesca said, untying her apron and slinging it over the hook on the wall. ‘I’ll just collect my things.’
Alessio had stepped out of the kitchen and Francesca heard him push past the beaded door. She exhaled, ‘Nonna, that was brilliant!’ She gave her two passionate cheek kisses, ignored the worried expression which had filled Elena’s face, and reached for her bag.
The charade starts now!