Chapter 19
diciannove
Monday proved to be particularly hot, with the mercury skipping past thirty-eight degrees, and no reprieve of an overnight cool change on the cards. The steamy piazza held all the day’s heat.
The people of Impastino kept to the shadows and darker corners of the town, stepping out of their homes only to seek the beach or life’s necessities.
Alessio was no exception; following his pasticciotto and coffee breakfast at the bar, and after collecting supplies for his evening’s cooking tutorial after their Secret Life of Pasta session, he spent an hour in the comune archives searching for traces of Nonna Immacolata, still to no avail.
He rechecked the same files and folders he had filtered through a few days before, in case he’d missed anything.
He even touched base with his parents to update them on his lack of progress, and once again they advised him to take it easy and enjoy his break.
Thankfully, Joe and Silvana didn’t see Alessio’s eye roll.
While the thought of spending his Monday afternoon relaxing with a book was appealing, Francesca’s offer of something even more refreshing on her day off piqued his interest.
The water was up to their waists and rising with each step they took.
Francesca indicated twenty metres ahead, to the edge of the rock face.
‘Where the rocks jut out over the water, that’s where the shelf drops.
’ She turned to face him, another wave lapping at them, now reaching their chests.
‘It’s too dangerous to swim around, as the current can push you against the rocks. That’s why no one comes here.’
‘So how do we get to this cove of yours, then?’
‘We go under.’
‘Under?’ Alessio’s expression tightened. ‘Under what?’ His wide eyes flicked up to the jagged dark rocks reaching across the water.
‘Follow me.’ Francesca’s hand caught his, and she walked him towards the cliff face. She had promised to show him a very special local ingredient which grew in a hard-to-reach place. But this wasn’t what Alessio had envisaged.
When they reached the rock face, she assessed it, looking for a specific spot.
‘Here,’ she said, pointing to a small red love heart painted against the facade.
‘Smalto. Nail polish. So I always know the safest entry point. See it?’ He nodded.
‘You drop down about a metre or so, push and kick for another two, and you will pop out the other side.’
‘You’re joking?’ Alessio took in the enormity of the rocky cliff.
‘This bit of rock is mostly narrow. Difficult to see at this angle. Like a fin, rising from the water.’ She prepared herself with a deep breath then disappeared under the water.
Alessio’s jaw dropped open. Just like that? No practice shot? No test run?
It took a few moments but then Alessio heard Francesca’s voice calling from the distance. ‘Alessio, dai! You can do it! Just swim under!’
Alessio couldn’t see any other option. He simply had to trust her. He filled his lungs and dove under the water’s surface.
The clear blue reflected the sun’s light all the way down to the pebbles below. Eyes open under the water he could see the tunnel-like space under the rock, and with a few solid kicks he pushed through then resurfaced, breaking the top of the water with a splash.
‘Non è difficile, eh?’
He laughed. ‘Looked more intimidating than it was.’
‘This is why no one comes here. They all stay on the main beach. But the privacy here is worth it.’
Privacy . . .
It took only a few steps before the water line receded back to their hips, then knees, and then they were on the shore.
The inlet was secluded and quiet. They were completely hemmed in by the cliffs behind them and to the right, and the rock face behind them.
The small length of beach, perhaps ten metres wide, was pristine, the grey pebbles reflecting the sunlight.
‘I can see why you like to come here. Quiet. Alone.’
‘Just me, myself and I.’ Off in the distance a gull called loudly. ‘And them, of course.’ She waved Alessio out of the water. ‘Come. This is what I wanted to show you.’
The moment her back was turned Alessio couldn’t help but allow his eyes to roll over her from head to toe.
The wild tresses that usually sprang from her crown were soaked through, dripping long water lines down her olive-skinned back.
Her simple black bikini accentuated all her curves – natural, full and feminine.
Alessio felt desire rise within him at the sight of her middle; the way her waist narrowed just before her hips, and the muscular pull along her spine.
The breeze flowing off the sun-kissed water dotted her skin with goosebumps.
Alessio checked himself. Stop it. That’s not helpful, least of all when I’m in wet bathers.
She turned towards him with a smile. It was then that the outline of her nipples, pert against the black Lycra of her bikini top, cast whatever questions he had about his attraction to her to the depths of the sea.
She’s so fucking amazing. Arrrghhh.
‘Here,’ she beckoned with her hand, ‘look.’
Alessio crunched across the pebbly sand and took stock of the -spindly-looking plant she pointed to. ‘What is it?’
‘Finocchio di mare. You may also see it referred to as finocchio marino. Sea fennel. It grows all along the coast, no? But for some reason, along our coast here . . .’ She pointed back beyond the cliff face.
‘. . . This is the only place it grows. This little hidden inlet. And no one ever comes here except me, I’m sure. ’
‘What do you use it for?’
‘Tantissime cose! Think salads. As a side dish simply dressed. In stews and soups. Tossed through orecchiette and cavatelli. I like it just like this.’ She reached across and plucked some of the meaty succulent-like lengths from the longer stalks, avoiding the seasonal yellow flowers. ‘Try it.’
Wiping his sandy fingers on his bathers, he accepted the finocchio di mare and brought it first to his nose, catching only the scent of his own sea-soaked skin.
He nibbled one length and closed his eyes.
Bright.
Citrus overtones.
Savoury.
Earthy.
A mix between normal fennel and . . . celery.
Peppery.
‘I like that.’ He nibbled another globe. ‘Needs olive oil. Sea salt. Black pepper.’
‘I dress it with succo di clementina.’
Bang! She’s nailed it.
‘Yes, clementine juice! The floral kiss to the citrus . . .’
She winked. ‘You like it?’
‘Love it.’ He reached for more. ‘Who uses it?’
She shrugged, and her abdominal lines tightened. ‘Just me, I think. I come here with a zip-lock bag. Seal the finocchio inside, then swim back under.’
‘Smart.’
‘I used to do it with Papà. We would come here together to gather the finocchio, then just stay and relax. When I was younger we even made castelli and torri out of the rocks and pebbles. It was our special hideaway. And Mamma would get so mad because we were late back for service.’ She smiled through her nostalgia. ‘He was birichino. You know, cheeky?’
And there it was. The heart of the story.
She’d gone out of her way to share this treasured private place with him.
It wasn’t really about the sea fennel; it was so much more.
This sacred private cove along the Adriatic symbolised the unique bond she’d shared with her father.
And she had welcomed Alessio to it with open arms and an open heart.
‘I imagine he’s where you get your cheekiness from.’ Alessio grinned.
‘Me?’ She pressed a melodramatic hand to her breast. ‘I am not cheeky!’
Alessio bit down on his lip before rebutting, ‘Oh, you definitely have a cheeky streak.’
‘How?!’
Alessio took a step forward, as if being drawn to her by a magnetic force. Separated by only a few inches he looked down at her and said, ‘Your eyes give you away.’
‘Really.’
He nodded, enjoying the way her defiant energy matched his playfulness. ‘Bright. Beautiful. Full of life. I think you know exactly what you’re doing . . . Cheeky.’
Francesca’s cheeks flushed. ‘And what am I doing, Signor Ranieri?’
His eyes darkened. ‘Turning me on.’
It was a bold statement, but he had to say it. Alessio wanted to assert himself in this duel of nerves.
He watched as her eyes closed. ‘Alessio . . . we can’t—’
‘I know. I get it. You don’t need to remind me.’
At that moment a fishing dinghy putt-putted into view, crossing the horizon along the cove’s opening. Once it had passed, Alessio moved towards her, pressing a kiss against her salty forehead. ‘But that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it.’
Francesca reached out a hand and caressed the bronzed skin of his chest, tracing the outline of his chef’s knife tattoo. He exhaled at her touch and bit down on his desire.
‘Francesca . . .’ he panted. ‘If we can’t do anything . . . please, don’t tease me.’
‘I’ve thought about it too . . .’ He watched as her eyes suddenly sought his for permission, and her fingers moved lower. Down his abdomen, past his belly button, and finally to the elastic waist of his bathers.
His gruff breathy moan caught in her hair as he leaned into her. ‘Francesca . . .’
With her fingertips she grazed the hair which accented his taut skin. ‘I can’t help it . . .’
Alessio felt her palm brush over him for the briefest of seconds before a second dinghy tracked along the horizon. The shock of its appearance pulled them apart.
Francesca’s hands trembled over her lips. ‘Scusami. I . . . I know better. I shouldn’t have. I can’t risk . . . I’m sorry, Alessio.’
‘I know.’ Still trying to catch his breath, he nodded, defeated, hands on his hips. ‘But fuck that felt good . . .’
And with that she ran off into the water and dove under the surface, disappearing under the jutting cliff face.