Chapter 13 #2
‘Cazzo,’ she breathed, and reached back into her basket to retrieve her phone.
‘Signora Ricci’s stubborn ass! Just one moment .
. .’ She dialled, and Alessio watched on, amused, as the donkey turned to note the presence of their car, only to drop down on his hind legs to sitting.
‘Pronto? Signora . . . Sì, buongiorno. Francesca. Sì. Senta, in mezzo alla strada. ?Sì. Di nuovo.? Grazie.’ She ended the call and explained, ‘This is Carciofo, he belongs to Signora Ricci. The woman who—’
‘Didn’t take plastic bags to the supermarket. The one who has a certain “reputation”. I remember.’
A delighted smile filled her face, drawing the apples of her cheeks high. ‘I’m impressed. You’re quickly becoming a local.’
‘Ha!’ he chimed. ‘Don’t speak too soon.’
Returning her gaze to the road ahead, she said, ‘He escapes through her gate. She always forgets to lock it.’
Alessio couldn’t help himself. ‘Maybe it’s her lovers who leave the gate open, darting out for a quick escape in the early hours of the morning.’
‘Alessio! Who told you that?’ She laughed, but then sighed, giving the car horn a sharp toot. Carciofo, unimpressed by the noise, brayed and snorted through his muzzle, but he stood up and walked to Alessio’s side of the car.
Alessio wound down the window and reached out his arm, patting Carciofo tenderly along his flank as he moved slowly past. His mane was bristly and coarse.
‘He’s a pet, right? Or is he likely to be eaten?’
‘Everything around here stands to be eaten. We live off all the land. How do you feel about that?’
Alessio saw the covert glance she gave him over her outstretched arms, her hands fixed tightly to the steering wheel. ‘I’ll try anything,’ he replied.
Just as Signora Ricci appeared by her open gate with a weathered leash in hand, Francesca hit the accelerator, and Sophia zipped off down the road.
‘A man after my own heart,’ she said wistfully, and they drove in companiable silence for a while, passing fewer properties as they moved into farming land.
The grass-scented summer breeze filtered in through Alessio’s open window.
As they drove past a field of fruit trees he got a whiff of overripe stagnant fruit and vines; an almost acrid smell.
Then on the lower plains, the air took on the tangy kick of animal excrement as they passed a field of black and white goats. Alessio took it all in.
Beyond it all was the land with its salinised soil, kissed by the Adriatic.
But Alessio saw that much of it was dry; the grasses crisped to yellow and brown, patches of mud cracked and splintered.
Skeletal trunks of trees poked from the ground, their knots and bare branches the only evidence of a former, leafier, life.
‘It’s all so dry,’ he commented, pointing ahead of them. ‘Drought?’
‘I like to think of it as thirsty. Always thirsty.’
‘The word is sete, right?’
‘Sì, we say avere sete. To be thirsty. Or, literally to have thirst.’
Alessio tried his best to scramble what sounded right in his mind to form a conjugation. ‘So, la terra ha sete?’
‘Bravissimo! Sì, la terra ha sete. Impastino ha sete. Francesca ha sete. But, Alessio e Francesca hanno sete. Hanno, because we are plural. They.’
‘Ok.’ His eyes caught the lines of prickly pear cacti which now flanked the road.
‘Fichi d’India,’ he said. ‘Nonna loved them.’ Leaning his shoulder against the window frame, an image appeared in his mind: of his nonna sitting on her back veranda, ratty old tea towel over her legs, bowl in her lap and plastic-handled serrated knife in hand, expertly peeling prickly pears without so much as a splinter, let alone a prickle.
‘We always ate fruit after a meal,’ he said.
‘Whatever was in season in her garden, or whatever a zio or zia, or cousin had dropped over. Always fruit. And always peeled. She and Nonno we expert peelers. One long line of peel. No breaks. They would show off the curls of apple peel, orange. Whatever it was. They took pride in everything they did.’
‘There is great humility in such things.’
‘I guess there is.’
Francesca gestured up ahead and to the right, behind a particularly thick patch of cacti. ‘We are going to stop over there. I want you to try something.’
She pulled Sophia over to the shoulder and the two got out, with Francesca carrying her wicker basket over her arm. Alessio immediately felt the sting of the morning summer sun. ‘That’s unforgiving,’ he said, flicking up the collar of his short-sleeved white linen shirt.
‘But it’s hot where you’re from too, no?’
‘Yeah. But this heat feels different.’
‘You will grow accustomed to it sooner than you think.’ She looped her free arm around his and led him to a point along the road where the dry grassy roadside was overrun with dense green foliage. ‘Did you have breakfast?’
‘No, not yet.’ On cue his stomach rumbled. ‘I am holding out for today’s pasticciotto.’
‘I may be able to tempt you away for a day.’
He scoffed. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Close your eyes please, Signor Ranieri.’
‘Seriously?’ The spirited glint in her eye stirred that familiar tingle in his middle. Feeling a little self-conscious, he did as she asked. ‘Is this the part when you walk me off the edge of a cliff?’
She gave her trademark chuckle. ‘No! Just walk a little with me.’ Alessio succumbed to her gentle pull.
It was intoxicating, the way he barely knew her, yet somehow trusted her so completely.
‘Stop, per favore. But keep your eyes closed.’ He felt her grip release for a moment or two, then he heard the rustling of foliage.
A few steps, another rustle. ‘Ahh, eccole,’ she said, and then he felt her by his side once again.
‘Now, open your mouth. I want you to try something. Careful, it has a pit.’
Open my mouth? Is she kidding?
Suddenly, this all felt too much. Too intimate. His self-consciousness morphed into embarrassment. ‘Francesca, really?’
‘Alessio, you want to know these lands? You need to try this.’
With an effort of will he relinquished his final shred of control and gently opened his mouth, unsure of what was to come.
Then he felt it press against his lips. It was warm, sun-kissed, having absorbed the morning’s rays. The scent rose to his nose, unmistakable, even before he took a bite. Its smooth exterior. The size and shape.
‘You know that smell, no?’
The scent of that cherry held to his mouth, or her smell?
The all--encompassing, magnetising redolence of Francesca, teamed with the press of her fingers which grazed his lower lip.
It was all too much, yet not enough. Part of him wanted to open his eyes and see how close she was to him.
Where was she looking? Was she studying him, taking in his finer details? Or was she respectfully distant?
There’s nothing respectfully distant about this. What’s she doing to me? What’s changed today? I feel . . . possessed.
She pressed the cherry into his mouth, and he caught it between his tongue and top teeth. Alessio carefully bit through it, releasing the intense fruity hit of cherry across his palate.
Sweet, bright, subtly tangy.
Like sunshine.
‘How is it?’ Her finger dragged its way from his lip and caught his chin, giving it a gentle caress.
Alessio felt his middle flinch in response.
Fuck . . . Just breathe.
He blinked his eyes open to find her standing just inches from him. And he watched as her eyes traced lines over his face, as if recognising him for the first time after a long separation. Alessio cleared his throat. ‘You know that was good.’
The cherry, or that touch?
He wanted more of both.
She hadn’t moved, but her eyes simmered.
In her left hand she held another smaller cherry.
Locking his gaze with hers she brought it to her lips and took it in one, closing her eyes.
‘These are my favourite. Wild. Untamed. They grow here where no one suspects them. I found the tree by accident one day.’
Beauty found by accident . . . like you.
She turned and reached up. Pulling her basket close she began picking the ripe cherries, fishing through them, scrutinising every single one before deciding whether or not it would make the cut.
‘Let me help you,’ he managed, thankful for the distraction. But the sight of her legs in that position drew the strength from his own.
Didn’t see this coming today. Not at all.
Francesca started rattling off all the recipes she used the cherries for, but it all washed past his ears, never catching.
Alessio’s libido couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly happen between the two of them.
They had all summer. She lived right next door.
Things were comfortable and easy between them.
They shared a love of food, of eating and cooking .
. . She was gorgeous beyond his wildest dreams.
As a smile broke across his lips, she caught his shoulder with her hand and said, ‘What’s that about?’ Her chin flicked in his direction. ‘Why are you smiling?’
Reaching for another cherry he said, ‘I’m really happy to be here with you, Francesca. Honestly.’
She righted herself, her shoulders pinned back. ‘I’m glad. But our time here hasn’t even really begun. We are going to spend many nights together yet.’
Was she teasing him? ‘Nights?’
‘Yes, for our Secret Life of Pasta lessons.’
‘Ah, yeah. Right.’
‘We have all summer, remember?’ She carried on picking and plucking the cherries from the branches, adding them to her basket.
But Alessio paused for a moment, noting how the sunlight glinted in her dark chocolate curls, how it bounced off her golden skin, how her toned arms moved and worked with dexterity and enthusiasm. He sighed.
All summer. Will that be enough?