Chapter 4 #2
“Shit, where did you learn how to do this?” I ask, staring at the remains on my plate like they hold the secrets to the universe.
She laughs. “I went to culinary school in Roma. And everybody has a nonna, but mine was a better cook than others.”
“I don’t have a nonna,” I point out.
She shakes her head. “You have Gia now. Anyone who’s schooling you that hard has intentions of being your adoptive nonna.”
I think she’s reading too much into it, but I’m not going to say that to the one person here who I could possibly see myself hanging out with and/or stealing pastries from.
A customer comes in, and Emilia wanders away to help them, but soon she’s back, leaning over the counter again and ready to chat. I’m surprised to be so relieved. But I guess I’m used to chef chats in my restaurant, and without a big staff it’s been unknowingly missing from my life.
“So did you get a bike or something for while you’re here?” she asks.
I take a sip of my tea. I want to answer diplomatically. “I’m not exactly a bike kind of gal. I don’t really see myself pedaling along the countryside.”
But Emilia laughs again. “No, I meant like a scooter or Vespa of some kind. Unless you plan to buy a car. How’re you getting around?”
I pick at my short nails, a little embarrassed to not have thought anything through. “I’m not really.”
“Not what?”
“Not . . . getting around. I’ve been in the restaurant and I’ve been in my apartment and I haven’t left the town.”
“That’s pathetic,” she says before wandering away again to get gelato for a customer. When she comes back, she levels me with a look. “You can’t live here without some mode of transportation. It’s mental suicide. You have to be able to get out and explore when you have time off.”
“I don’t want time off,” I grumble. I get another stare, and I’m guessing that’s a pretty effective tactic with her husband and whoever else she deals with on a daily basis. Her dark eyes are naturally a little downturned, so she has an air of dubiousness that radiates off her naturally.
“You can’t live in this ridiculous tiny place and not take it in a bit.”
“You think a scooter is the answer?” I ask, considering the thought. It would be pretty badass. Emilia nods her head and keeps staring me down. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin, though,” I say honestly, probably encompassing more than just my lack of transportation.
“Flavia!” I hear Emilia bark across the room to a small older woman, followed by a string of Italian I obviously can’t follow.
Flavia has an animated response to whatever Emilia is saying, and after a bit of back-and-forth, they both turn to me.
“Okay, you can rent Flavia’s husband’s scooter for the summer if you want,” she says, the casual solution as much a foregone conclusion as it is a surprise to me.
“Won’t her husband miss it?” I ask.
“Oh no, he either died or is pretending to have died, so he won’t need it anymore.”
I . . . don’t really have a response to that, but I guess it’s probably better not to ask.
I see Flavia pop up and walk out, and I have no idea whether I’ve offended her or if she’s happy about whatever is happening.
“She’s going to grab it,” Emilia explains.
“Now?” I say, suddenly not quite sure I’m ready to lose my main excuse for being a hermit.
“Sure. She says you can cook her dinner a few times and call it even.”
“I can’t just take someone’s scooter.”
“Why not? You’re related to Gia.”
“I’m not related to Gia.”
“Yeah, but in the context of everyone here, you are. It’s fine, he’s not using it, and it needs some new juju. And I think so do you.”
An argument is on the tip of my tongue, but Emilia is shooting me that same look from earlier that clearly is her go-to when she wants to get her way.
And I do need to figure out how to get around eventually.
I can’t argue with the convenience of someone’s estranged husband’s abandoned scooter.
I certainly understand the sentiment of wanting to rid yourself of someone else’s memories.
So I suppose I can just go along with it.
“Okay,” I say, trying to muster the appropriate enthusiasm for someone who’s instantaneously solved one of my most externally apparent issues.
“That’s quite a convenient solution for me, so thanks.
What else can we manifest? Can you help me go frolic in an olive grove?
Because those trees have been calling my name. ”
The bell above the door rings again, and I see glee written all over Emilia’s face. “I think you really are making things happen today!” she says.
I turn and stop short when I realize who she’s looking at. Nico has sauntered in, and I hate that his presence makes the air crackle to attention instantly. He’s looking, once again, like a snack left out on the counter to tempt me. Great.
“Vorrei un caffè, per favore,” he says to Emilia, who immediately bounces over to start his espresso. Nico turns to me, and a smile takes over his whole face. “Hello again.”
His expression is so earnest. His energy radiates calm, and yet all he does is make me edgy.
I should say hello back, but I think his presence has stunned me into silence.
I should’ve figured I’d run into him again, but I’ve been trying to not let my mind wander in the direction it keeps wanting to go.
He’s wearing beat-up jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up in a way that clearly was haphazard but now has the effect of accentuating everything.
I have to look past him so I don’t stare.
Whatever this man sets off in my body, I need to ignore it.
I’m saved by Emilia, who sets the small espresso cup in front of Nico with panache when she returns. “Kit was just saying to me how she wanted to see some olive groves, and you walked right in. Do you have time to take her?”
“Sure, of course,” he says back, with a nonchalance that’s hard to fathom. “It’s summer, so you know there’s barely anything happening.”
“Uh, hello?” I interject. “I don’t even have a way to get anywhere yet.”
But at that moment Flavia walks back in and tosses me a set of keys. She says something in quick Italian and then wanders back out.
“Your ride is parked outside,” Emilia translates.
I look out the window and see a matte-marigold scooter haphazardly parked on the street, its character etched into all the nicks I can see even from a distance.
“I . . .” This is a lot for one day after effectively being in solitude for a week, outside of Gia. I turn to Nico. “You really don’t have to show me anything. I was simply making small talk with Emilia.”
“You’re not interested in olive oil?” he asks, leaning toward me and fixing me with that same focused, still gaze that’s been running in my mind on a loop ever since we met.
His proximity and his attention make me feel like a fish being lured in.
He’s magnetic, and yet the worst part is, since that earnest expression is back, he clearly doesn’t even know it.
Hot men who don’t know they’re hot are true kryptonite.
But I imagine, if he’s married to one of Gia’s granddaughters in a town where everyone knows everyone, no one flirts with him either. So maybe he doesn’t even realize how much the way he watches me feels like interest.
“Oh no, I am,” I say, still attempting to ignore whatever his eyes are doing to my insides. “But I just don’t want to bother you. I don’t even really know what you do?” It’s a weak excuse but not inaccurate.
“He makes the only olive oil worth a damn here,” Emilia cuts in.
A small blush rises on Nico’s cheeks, and it makes him even more endearing.
Most men would’ve said it themselves if it was remotely close to the truth.
And even with my limited knowledge of Emilia, one thing is clear: She certainly wouldn’t proclaim it if it wasn’t accurate.
I wish I could pretend like I don’t want to know more, but I do.
And thankfully Emilia keeps talking. “He’s so rigid during production you’d think he was managing a nuclear bomb.
It’s like the steadiness of a chef handling an ingredient, but with a mechanical engineering degree.
And last season he engineered his own filtration system to reduce particulates even more than any other commercially available one. ”
Okay, now I’m intrigued on a professional level, which means I’m better able to shake off my inexplicable physical nonsense and actually focus on excitement of the food variety.
“I didn’t even know most producers use a filter,” I say.
“I thought they racked the oil and let the particulates sink down?”
I’m not immune to the excitement that takes over his face when he registers that I might actually be able to nerd out on this with him. Damn, this man wears every emotion so visibly.
“Most rack, yes, but a lot are also filtering. We actually do both, even though most people who filter just do that from the start and move on. We rack for a week before using the filter, and I believe it’s created a smoother product.
I’m mostly grateful that Emilia agrees with me, because I’m not sure I’d trust anything if she didn’t. ”
He gives her a warm smile, and she pats his hand, like a proud friend. The blunt demeanor she wears naturally seems to slide a bit when she’s talking to him, like he tugs at everyone’s tough edges.
“So yours is the one Gia must use?” I ask, putting two and two together. I know she uses something local, since it comes in unmarked jugs, but she said so little about Nico the other day when he stopped by that I’ve had no idea.
“Obviously Gia wouldn’t use anything else,” Emilia cuts in again. He blushes a little more, and I wish I didn’t notice the way it creeps past the stubble of his face and ever so slightly onto the curve of his neck.
“So you want to come see the groves?” He’s deftly changing the subject, but I understand why.
“Sure,” I respond, my curiosity to learn about olive oil production overtaking my innate twitchiness around this particular man.
Maybe it’s against my better judgment, but if he’s Gia’s grandson-in-law, then I’m going to have to get over this little giddy attraction real quick anyway. Better to start now.
“Can you actually drive, though?” he asks, nodding out the window to the scooter waiting for me.
“Only one way to find out, right?”