Chapter 11
Allegra
“HEY.” I SWIPED my cell phone to answer and put it on speaker. “Hang on one second. I’m getting something out of the oven.”
“Umm…I must’ve called the wrong number,” Cassie said. “The woman I’m trying to reach needs a recipe to boil water.”
I laughed. “You’re never going to believe me, but I’m actually taking a beautiful torta di ricotta e spinaci out of the oven. I made it from scratch.”
“You’re right, I don’t. So I’m switching over to FaceTime to see this shit. Hang on.” A few seconds later, my phone flashed with Cassie’s name. I answered wearing two red oven mitts.
“Oh my God. What are those things on your hands? Was there an accident of some sort?”
I chuckled and tilted the phone so my friend could see the pie I’d set on the counter. “Wiseass. Look at my torta di ricotta e spinaci.” I said the last part with my best Italian accent.
“You didn’t really make that, did you? It’s like a Mrs. Smith’s or one of those frozen kind you stick in the oven at Thanksgiving and pretend you made, right?”
I slipped off one oven mitt, then the other. “Nope. This is all my doing. It’s one of my nonna’s recipes.”
“Wow. Look at you.” She leaned closer to the camera. “Actually, look at you. You’re absolutely glowing, Allegra. You’re so tan, and your hair has that sexy wind-blown thing going on. And if I’m not mistaken, I don’t see any stress lines on your face or a rash on your chest.”
“I haven’t broken out with my bumps since I arrived. But I think the camera on my phone is being kind to my lines. The tan and the hair I owe to my new favorite mode of transportation—a Vespa.”
Cassie’s brows jumped. “You’re driving a motorcycle?”
“It’s a scooter, and it’s also bright purple. But yeah, I love it.”
“I’m not even sure I’ve ever seen you drive. Have I?”
“Once. When we went to The Hamptons for the weekend a few years back, remember?”
“Oh yeah. You drove home from the beach and almost ran over that little blond boy’s toes.”
“Who lets their kid stand that close to the road?”
“You were driving on the shoulder.” She laughed. “I hope you’re better with a scooter. Did you rent it or something?”
“No, it was my grandmother’s.”
“How old was your grandmother?”
“Eighty-five.”
Cassie laughed. “I’m sorry I never got to meet her. From everything you’ve told me, she really sounded like a hoot.”
I sighed. “She was. She knew how to live life.”
“It looks like maybe you’re learning a bit of that yourself over there.”
Her comment reminded me of one of the pearls of wisdom my grandmother had shared with Matteo for his birthday—about how the land teaches future generations how to live.
But Cassie was right, I did look different.
I’d noticed it myself this morning when I looked in the mirror.
I was no longer wearing my shoulders as earrings, and the constant pain I’d had in my neck from countless hours working on a computer was gone.
I wasn’t even sure where my laptop was at the moment.
How long had I been in Tuscany now? A week?
Maybe not even? Last year I’d gone on a fourteen-day vacation to the Caribbean and hadn’t been half this calm at the end of it.
Sure, I’d still been gainfully employed back then, so I had responsibilities.
But it had been more than my job making me feel that way.
It was the way I was living—always in overdrive, addicted to the hustle, even as it slowly burned me out.
I walked over to the stove and double-checked that I’d turned the oven off before my gaze found its way out the window and over to Matteo’s property.
I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was probably still in the fields picking grapes, especially since I’d interrupted his day for my scooter lesson.
As if she was reading my mind, Cassie interrupted my thoughts. “Meet any hot Italian men yet?”
I wasn’t sure why I hesitated. Maybe because I knew talking about my insanely hot neighbor would lead to Cassie encouraging me to explore what was between us, so I held back. “I haven’t really gone out too much, just to my grandmother’s attorney and some stores and stuff.”
“Well, now that you’re settled in, you should definitely put yourself out there. What could be hotter than a Tuscan fling with some tall, dark Italian stallion who speaks broken English?”
After having my arms wrapped around Matteo this morning, I was starting to agree with her. Still, I steered away from the subject. “We’ll see. How are things at the office?”
“That’s one of the reasons I was calling, aside from checking in to see how you are.” She lowered her voice. “Mr. Ellington fired Sierra.”
“Oh, wow. Did something happen?”
“Apparently, she went to the hearing scheduled for earlier today unprepared, assuming that Judge Paxon would give her a continuance since she only just took over the file.”
“Oh boy. We’d already had two extensions, and when he gave me the last one, he read me the riot act. But I was always prepared in case he turned me down. Our requests for more time were strategic. We were still trying to get evidence that Mrs. Ellington was having an affair.”
“Yup, you never went to court without being ready. Anyway, Judge Paxon denied her request for a continuance and made her argue the motion, which she was not prepared for at all, and he ruled against her within a few hours of the hearing.”
“That motion to compel was winnable.”
“That’s what Ellington said. Sierra came back to the office with him right after the hearing so he could sign some paperwork, and he was there when the notification came in that she’d lost the motion.
I heard him going off on her even with the door shut.
After, he demanded to speak to one of the partners. ”
I frowned. “Let me guess which one Sierra directed him to…”
“Of course. Though apparently, even Harry couldn’t smooth things over. I saw Mr. Ellington in the hall when he was leaving, and he asked me for your personal cell phone number. I didn’t think you’d mind, so I gave it to him.”
“No, of course not. But his case is coming up for trial soon.”
“It’s on the calendar to start in a little over four weeks.”
“I’m supposed to stay here three months, and it’s barely been a week.”
“I know. And now that I see how relaxed you look, I feel bad for even calling you about it. But Ellington defecting to your new firm would be a score—not only because he’s a high-dollar billable client, but you know how it is.
Word gets around, and once other clients find out one client went with you, they’ll follow.
You might not be allowed to solicit them, but they’ll all start calling you. ”
I’d seen it happen before. Law firms weren’t allowed to put noncompete clauses in their employment contracts, like most employers could, but Kasoff, Faust & Moore had a stringent no-solicitation clause in all the associate contracts.
So while I couldn’t ask the clients I’d worked with to leave with me, they could solicit me.
And in the past, defection had been like a slow leak—once a few drips escaped, the floodgates opened.
The only problem was, I hadn’t even started looking around for a new firm, and I wanted to do my homework before making a jump.
“I have no idea where I’m going to land yet. ”
Cassie shrugged. “Why not open your own firm?”
“Oh God. I’m not sure I’m ready to go out alone.” It was a big responsibility having your own law firm, not to mention a tremendous cost. I worked with high-net-worth clients who expected a fancy office, a full staff, and more than one attorney.
“You wouldn’t be alone.” Cassie smiled. “You’d have me.”
And…in a few months I’d have my inheritance and could fund something big like that. “I don’t know. I need to think about it.”
We spoke for another ten minutes before hanging up.
A week ago, I probably would’ve been thrilled to know a client wanted to leave the firm with me.
I would’ve immediately hyper-focused on what firms I should reach out to.
But at the moment, the thought of it all left me feeling unsettled, and I wanted to ignore it.
So that’s exactly what I did. I let my pie cool and went down to the only place I knew where time seemed to stand still—Nonna’s antique shop.
I’d planned to clean the shop, but instead I wound up playing old records on a Victrola I found.
I’d only ever seen one on TV, so it took me a minute to figure out how to get it to work.
But once I cranked the handle on the side of the box, I couldn’t stop myself.
I sat on the floor for three hours, playing 78 after 78.
One winding carried me through each song, and the notes seemed to float out through the big brass horn.
There was something achingly beautiful about the music, and I wasn’t sure if it was because it felt like I was listening to the soul of a forgotten era or because the sound came out slightly muffled, making it feel imperfect and human.
Each side of an album had one song, and it took me a while to play all two dozen I’d found in the wooden milk crate beneath the Victrola.
But once I finished, I finally forced myself to get up and do something productive.
I washed the floors, cleaned the windows, and dusted every glass display case.
The last one held the cash register, and as I moved toward it, I spotted a box I’d completely forgotten about.
A woman had brought it by a few days ago and insisted I pay for the piece inside—a part of the tea set my grandmother had been collecting that she’d mentioned in her letter.
Inside, wrapped in crinkled newspaper, was a single delicate teacup, its base hand-painted with a beautiful Tuscan scene—rolling green hills, soft strokes of lavender wildflowers blowing in the wind, and shades of orange and gold capturing a beautiful sunset.
Beneath it was a photo of the exact same scene.
The artist must’ve painted it after visiting in person.
The bottom of the teacup was signed, but I could only make out the first initial, and it was numbered eight of twelve.
When I turned the photo over, I found a date written at the top, along with something written in cursive underneath:
Confession #8: I kept waiting for the perfect moment to tell you I’d fallen in love, but every moment with you was already perfect.
Wow. I was caught off guard by how deeply the words stirred something inside me, and I was glad when the bell on the front door jangled, and an older woman walked in.
She looked around as she spoke. “Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
She rattled off a sentence in Italian so fast, I wasn’t sure I would’ve caught what she said even if I was fluent. I waved my hand and offered the sentence I knew best.
“Scusa, parlo solo un po’ di Italiano. Inglese?” Sorry, I only speak a little Italian. English?
The woman frowned. “Sophia?”
Shoot. I was pretty sure she was asking where my grandmother was. “Sophia.” I pointed to myself. “Mia nonna. She…died.”
The woman’s gray bushy eyebrows pulled together, but then her eyes widened. “Dead?”
I nodded.
“You nonna?”
I nodded again, and she swamped me in a hug. “Oh. Uh, thank you,” I said. “Grazie.”
After, she marched around the store picking up random things—salt and pepper shakers, one silver candlestick, a typewriter…
It didn’t even seem like she considered each item before adding it to the collection in her arms. When she had a dozen or so items, she dropped them all at the register and offered a curt nod.
“You…want me to ring you up for all of this?”
She stared at me for a while before rubbing her fingers together in the universal sign for money and nodding. “I pay.”
“Okay…”
I was ringing in the last item when she picked up the teacup I’d just opened. She held it out to me. “I pay, too.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. That’s not for sale.”
She shrugged and set it back down, then took out her wallet, paid in cash, and didn’t wait for change before walking out.
After her car pulled away, I took the teacup to the back of the store.
My grandmother’s note had said the tea set she’d been collecting was stored in the closet, so I figured I might find more of these pretty cups in there.
But when I pulled out the large box from the bottom shelf, the first cup I unwrapped looked nothing like the one I’d bought the other day, though it seemed to have been painted by the same artist. It was another Tuscan landscape, but this one showed a stone church nestled in the hills.
The details were even more intricate: stained-glass windows, terra-cotta roof tiles, and a bell tower topped with a cross.
Another photograph was tucked beneath it.
If it were possible, this painting was even more spot-on than the first. I flipped the photo over and found another beautiful note written on the back.
Confession #1: I pretended not to notice you staring that day at church, but the truth is, I was hoping you’d never stop.
I hadn’t even seen the rest of the set, but I already understood why my grandmother had been collecting them. The teacups and sentiments were both so beautiful, it almost made me believe in love again. Almost. But let’s not go crazy.
The next teacup I unwrapped had the Eiffel Tower in the background. Two people sat in a piazza with cobblestone streets, drinking wine under a striped umbrella. The back of the photograph was dated August 4th, six years ago, and underneath read:
Confession #4: Doing nothing with you in Paris feels like I’m doing everything I was meant to accomplish.
One by one, I pulled out each of the teacups and read the confessions on the back of the matching photographs.
A colorful sunset washing the sky with purples and pinks, set over a field of tall yellow sunflowers.
Confession #7: The warmth of the Tuscan sun doesn’t compare to the warmth I feel when I’m near you.
The next had a painting of the sea and a star-filled night above the blue-domed rooftops of the island of Santorini, Greece.
Confession #9: Underneath the night sky, my love for you outshines all the stars.
I read a few more, and as I lifted the last of the teacups from the box, my heart felt full of hope. At least until I got to the very bottom and found a photo that didn’t have a matching teacup. On the back it read:
Confession #12: Forgive me. I never meant to hurt the one I loved most.