Chapter 40
quaranta
Impastino had gathered under the silken moon. The lights and firepits in the piazza cast glowing shadows across the wispy low-lying clouds, all grazed by the sea breeze.
The party was in full swing: the crackle of meat turning on rotisseries; the clinking of glasses, cutlery and servingware; the rattling bells of the folk singers; the timeless drawl of the piano accordion; together with the banter and battute of the town’s people, who had come along to join in the celebration in droves – well, most of them.
This was the soundtrack of Impastino, with Francesca Fiore its muse.
Despite the still-hot days, the end-of-summer evenings were remarkably cooler. Short sleeves were swapped for long, and the warmth from the firepits was welcomed.
Francesca’s plate was loaded with local fare: orecchiette with broccoli; golden-skinned potatoes with bristly woody lengths of rosemary; skewered orange-tinted shrimp and pearlescent octopus brandishing grill marks; tomato salad spiked with parsley, garlic and red onion; and a few inches of sea salt–encrusted pork crackling.
She carried this in one hand, an Aperol Spritz in the other, and at her side was Alessio.
He picked a potato from her plate, assessed it then popped it in his mouth. His brow creased and he nodded while he chewed. ‘Oh, yeah. They taste like the earth. Grazie.’ He proffered his plate to welcome a scoop from the elderly gentleman server.
Francesca nudged him, nodding at the potatoes, and Alessio held one of his to her mouth. Her eyes rolled as the crispy skin gave way to a fluffy core. ‘Buonissima! Another, please! My hands are occupied.’ She laughed as he dutifully fed her another.
They continued down the long serving line that had been set up along the back of the piazza, in front of U Ssale, the tabaccheria and the bar. Francesca’s red midi-dress caught on the breeze, which also pulled her cardigan from her shoulder. The flush of cooler air drew goosebumps to her skin.
Alessio set his plate down and pressed a tender kiss to her collarbone. It shot tingles of a different kind through her. ‘Ale . . .’
‘Hmm?’
Another kiss, only slower. His mouth lingered for an extra beat.
‘You do realise that’s . . . not helping?’ She bit her bottom lip.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Bravo. Just . . . checking.’ He eventually pulled her cardigan back over her shoulder, and she sighed. ‘Is it too early for dolce?’
His eyes scoured the long tables ahead of them. ‘Dessert?’
Francesca leaned into him. ‘Not that kind of dolce . . .’
He laughed. ‘It’s always time for dessert. And we never finished this morning’s helping from the grain store.’
She grinned, but just as she turned to put down her drink and plate, she was intercepted by Sebastiano Bellomo.
‘Buonasera,’ he began. He stood with his arms tensely folded, struggling to hold eye contact.
‘Buonasera,’ she replied after a hesitant pause.
In English, he said, ‘I just wanted to come and congratulate you, I guess.’ Again, his eyes were elsewhere.
‘Grazie, Sebastiano.’ She forced the pleasantries out of respect for his gesture. He hadn’t needed to come and find them. He hadn’t needed to congratulate them. But he had.
‘Sorry about the first two rounds,’ Alessio put in, acknowledging that his deception had forced Sebastiano out of the competition.
Sebastiano waved it off. ‘You’re a far better cook than me, no matter who you are. And I never got to thank you properly for your help in the second tappa—’
But Alessio beat him to it. ‘Relax, mate. All good. It’s in the past.’
Sebastiano took a step forward and lowered his voice. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see the joy on Elio’s face when I was in trouble . . .’
Francesca and Alessio shared a loaded look.
‘Sebastiano,’ Alessio began, ‘people do all sorts of crazy things when they’re stre—’
Sebastiano waved this away. ‘No. Don’t make excuses for him. Basta! He’s always like that. It’s just taken me a while to realise that it could extend to me, too.’
Francesca felt her chest fill with sadness for him. ‘Dai! Come and sit with us, there’s room at our table. Get some food and make your way over.’
They could both see that Sebastiano was weighing up this offer.
It would be the ultimate betrayal of his ties to Elio, and perhaps, between their two restaurants.
But from the way his eyes darted to and fro, and his lips parted to speak but then snapped shut again, Francesca knew it would be a difficult decision.
One he couldn’t necessarily make on the spot with an audience.
Sebastiano’s gaze flicked across to Da Martino. The Martino supporters’ flags and banners had been pinned to the upper floor’s balcony and terrazzo, and flapped in the breeze. And naturally, the supporters, including Elio, were safely inside licking their wounds.
‘Erm . . . Sì. Grazie. I’ll come. Just let me get some more . . .’ He gestured in the direction of the grill.
Under her breath Francesca said, ‘Non ci credo . . .’
‘I know. That was huge.’
Just as they were about to turn, a hand grabbed Francesca’s shoulder, and she spun around on the spot.
‘Francesca!’ A bright-eyed flat-cap wearing gentleman in his mid-eighties beamed.
‘Oh! Ettore, lovely to see you,’ she began in Italian.
Ettore grabbed Alessio with his other hand, pinning them at arm’s reach. ‘Bravissimi! Bravi!’ Then he rolled into a colourful pugliese monologue of praises, which Francesca knew would be lost on Alessio.
‘Ah. I know Ettore!’ Alessio said, giving their elderly companion a neighbourly pat on the back. ‘Ettore and I met when he was down on his luck in a game of cards at the bar. Isn’t that right Ettore?’ He mimed out the card scene as best as he could with his plate-filled hands.
Francesca translated between them, causing Ettore to howl with laughter at his own misfortune. ‘Alessio, Ettore is a very special friend of my nonno. The nonno who was married to Nonna Maria.’
‘Francesca, I want to tell you something . . .’ Ettore pulled them closer. ‘We know why you did what you did. We all do. The whole town’s been talking about it all afternoon.’
Francesca felt her cheeks prickle. ‘Ettore. I was despera—’
‘Shh!’ he hissed, drawing her to silence.
‘We loved your papà. We loved what he did for Impastino, and for so long. But now, you need to be free to forge your own path. Make the Fiore legacy your own.’ Ettore released his hold on them and pulled down his flat cap, clutching it to his chest. ‘Your Papà and nonno would have been so proud to see you up there today. We all were.’ Their attention was momentarily drawn to Da Martino to their right, where a flag had come free from the terrazzo and had blown off down to the sea path.
Francesca giggled through welling eyes. ‘Thank you. I needed to hear that.’
‘Grazie Ettore,’ Alessio said, having understood enough of the kind sentiment.
‘No guilt now. Just hard work and focus. We know what you’re made of. Pride. Determination. You’ve shown Impastino what you can do. Now, you need to do it.’ Ettore tapped the side of his nose and gave her a wink.
‘Grazie. I’ll try.’
‘And you,’ he said, turning to face Alessio. ‘I’ll teach you how to count cards my way. That way you can join us at the bar and play on my team. Together we’d be unstoppable.’
Francesca translated and Alessio cackled. ‘You’re going to corrupt me one coffee at a time, aren’t you Ettore?’
Francesca relayed and Ettore caved. ‘I like him,’ he said, giving Alessio’s middle a playful rub. ‘Keep him. He’s good for you, Francesca.’
‘What did he say?’ Alessio asked.
Francesca waited a beat, and with flushed cheeks said, ‘He likes you.’
She watched as the men hugged and shared in some bilingual nonsensical banter, before Ettore turned and left.
‘He’s good for you, Francesca . . .’ I know. I wish I could keep him . . .
Francesca caught her breath and nodded in the direction of the main table where Elena, Maria, Maria’s boyfriends Mimmo and Santino, Carlo, Simona, Felice and Giovanni awaited them.
She blew out a sigh, and continued to smile to those around her. ‘I think dessert might have to wait,’ she whispered.
‘That’s fine,’ he said, giving her a sweet shoulder bump. ‘You’ll never curb my sweet tooth anyway.’
She gifted Alessio a kiss as they approached the table. ‘Vero?’
He pulled them to a halt. ‘You, Signorina Fiore, put the dolce in my vita.’
Francesca turned to Felice a few places down and raised her glass. ‘Grazie, Felice, for the party this evening. I am truly touched by the sentiment and I appreciate it.’
Politely, Felice took a sip of wine. Then he set his glass down and replied, ‘You’re very welcome, but none of this was my idea.’
‘Oh?’ Francesca’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Then whose was it?’ She looked to Giovanni. ‘Was it your—’
Both shook their heads and gestured to Alessio, who, with a mouthful of wine, did his best to seem aloof, mindlessly staring up into the starry night sky to avoid eye contact.
‘You did all this?’ She reached for his face to turn it towards her.
‘I have no idea what you’re insinuating.’ Alessio could barely contain his joy.
She looked to Maria and Elena seated across from her. Both offered kind, appreciative smiles, with Elena nodding in affirmation.
‘Noi? No, no!’ Maria chimed in, draining the last of her red and gesturing for the return of the bottle from Mimmo. She cast a covert wink across the table to Santino.
Francesca’s palms now cupped Alessio’s face and she found his eyes. ‘This was your idea?’
He grinned. ‘You deserved to be celebrated properly. With the entire town.’
She pulled him close so that her lips grazed his ears, and whispered, ‘How is it possible for a man like you to exist? Not just in Impastino, but at all?’ She felt the warm breath of his stifled laugh caress her neck.
‘I only exist here, like this, because you brought me back to life,’ he said simply.
Hearing this – feeling the shadow of the pain that had gone before – she held him a little tighter. ‘I’m honoured to have been a very small part of this change for you, Ale.’
‘Not small. The part.’
She pulled back and her thumb caressed the soft stubble of his cheek. ‘Are you ready for dessert now?’
He raised an eyebrow to the heavens and they were gone.