Chapter 9
“Gia’s still putting mine in a separate fridge drawer with a sign telling people my pasta is free of charge.” It’s hard to convey how serious I am when Emilia’s already howling with laughter. “I’ve been here over a month, and it’s like nothing I do matters.”
“A month isn’t very long to someone in their eighties,” Emilia points out as she wipes away a tear from her eye.
“It’s good, though. My pasta is really good.” I’m not able to let this go. I’ve always had a superb learning curve. And I have taste buds. I know my pasta’s good.
“Definitely not as good as hers, though,” Emilia retorts.
I huff, a stubborn horse whose reins are being pulled on. “I’m not saying I’m as good as Gia. But it’s certainly good enough to not give away for free!”
Emilia seems endlessly amused by my frustration. “She’s probably doing it to keep pissing you off,” she points out.
I hate that she’s probably right.
Emilia fills a little bowl with scraps and walks it outside to a waiting stray cat. When she comes back in, I know how to change the subject. “Gia says if you feed those cats, you’ll never get rid of them.”
“I don’t want to get rid of them,” Emilia counters.
“So you’re just going to have a lost cat dependent on you for the rest of their life?”
“Sure,” she says, shrugging. “And maybe they don’t consider themselves lost. Maybe they like being free; have you considered that? We can be friends to strays too.”
I have no apparent response, so instead I pick at my nails. I’m still annoyed that she laughed at my pasta humiliation.
She goes over to help some customers who’ve walked in, and I look at my phone.
I have a series of texts my dad sent me last night.
I don’t think he totally understood my decision to do this for the summer, but now that I’m here, he’s embracing it.
He always moves forward—his base mode is “What’s next?
” So lately it’s: What’s next with learning about pasta?
What’s next for the restaurant renovations?
And the perennial, What’s next in whatever teams we follow?
I also have a more recent text from Anita, who uses any excuse to troll me while kindly checking in to make sure I’m okay—her insomniac late nights in New York are now my Italian mornings, so this has often been when we catch up.
Anita: Admit that pasta is the best
Kit: It’s not a competition.
Anita: How can you be learning Nonna’s pasta and not be freely admitting that it’s the greatest food out there?
Kit: Because I’m not exceptionally biased? Because while pasta is great I haven’t been completely Italianized after a single month?
Anita: Two months then?
Kit: I wouldn’t count on it.
Anita: How about counting on your menu having pasta when you come back?
Kit: That I might admit to.
Anita: Huzzah!
Anita: Anyway I’m not only texting to harass you about pasta today.
Kit: Oh yeah? Something else higher on the harass list?
Anita: Nope! I’ve also decided to come visit!
Well, that has me sitting up. I’m a little surprised by how emotional the thought makes me.
Kit: Really?
Anita: yup
Kit: Need to see Gia?
Anita: I need to see both of you, ya dingdong. I love you too. I have to make sure everyone’s treating you properly.
Kit: Does that mean you can convince Gia to stop giving away my pasta for free as though it’s literally worthless?
Anita: Probably no chance of that.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up to see Nico walking in. By now, after a month, I’ve softened into our friendship. That frisson still remains, yet mostly when I see him it makes my heart happy instead of just pounding.
But that growing familiarity also means he immediately clocks my expression. He points at me and circles his finger around.
“What’s with the giant smile?” he asks.
“My friend Anita’s coming to visit!” I say without thinking.
“Ah,” he replies, and I’m reminded from the look on his face that of course he knows Anita. I immediately regret saying anything.
“I forgot . . . well, yeah, Gia’s Anita . . .” I stumble, realizing too late that of course Anita’s related to his wife. But he waves me off.
“That’s so nice for you,” he replies, completely ignoring my bumbling and putting on his most genial expression.
I sort of . . . hate it? He’s always so expressively open, and this is one of the first times I’ve ever seen him appear fake. But I guess I can’t blame him for not wanting another reminder of something that’s clearly sad for him.
We’re saved from any more awkwardness by Emilia emerging from behind the customers and gesturing to Nico.
“Espresso?” she says, and he nods. He sits next to me at the counter as Emilia quickly grabs a small cup for him.
“I actually have a favor to ask you,” he says to her. “Gia’s doing the fundraising dinner for the Cassero Palio team, and she wanted to know if you’d do the desserts.”
Emilia waves it off like it’s nothing. “Of course.”
“What’s a Palio?” I can’t help but ask.
“Ah,” Emilia says, slapping the table with elation. “It’s just about the stupidest thing anyone could imagine, but it’s all anyone talks about come August.”
“Okay . . .” I say, knowing she’s dragging this out for my benefit.
“So, in Siena, they’ve had this annual horse race since the sixteen hundreds called Il Palio, and it’s a competition between the neighborhoods. And every neighborhood has their own clubhouse and history dating back hundreds of years.”
“That doesn’t sound stupid—” I start, but Emilia cuts me off.
“Manciano decided in 2010 to start their own Palio. But because of animal rights or something, we race barrels instead of horses. And now everyone is obsessed with it as though these have been blood feuds for eons rather than a modern nothing race that’s been run a handful of times.
It’s a bunch of men racing barrels around the streets for an hour in order to literally win a cloth. ”
“There’s a women’s team too,” Nico amusedly points out.
“With a ridiculous pink trophy,” Emilia scoffs, even though her bandana today is pink with flecks of gold sparkles.
“But now at least with the honor of the same barrel size,” Nico points out. He’s goading her, and I exhale a breath at seeing the lightness back in his eyes.
“It’s completely ridiculous, and I want no part in it,” she says with a flourish. “Except I obviously have been forced to join the Cassero team and would do anything to help them win.”
“Naturally,” I reply. I turn to Nico. “So why does Gia care about Cassero if she lives out of town?”
“Gia loves a competition,” he says, and then he gives me a knowing look. “I can’t think of anyone else like that who might get into the Palio this year . . .”
I lightheartedly smack him on the chest, and his booming laugh echoes off the small space.
“I don’t actually live here,” I reply.
“Oh, I bet you anything they ask you to participate for the women’s team. The only rule is you have to live here or be related to someone who lives here, and every team stretches those rules as far as they can go to get their strongest team.”
“I appreciate you acknowledging that I would absolutely be a strong teammate,” I reply, acquiescing to his competitive taunting.
“Is Gia already set on convincing you to participate again this year?” Emilia asks Nico.
“Wait,” I say gleefully, fully turning to Nico now. “You roll a barrel in this thing?”
“Well, me and seven teammates,” he mumbles.
“But you don’t live in town, and you don’t have a business in town!”
“I like that you’re already in the Palio competitiveness spirit,” Emilia says with a laugh.
“But he’s on your team, so maybe don’t fight this battle.
Barrel rolling is all about strength and height, so at least four teams out of the six always try and convince Nico that he technically belongs to their district. ”
His beautiful blush is back, and I can’t help but wonder how far down it goes below his shirt.
He’s so easily embarrassed whenever anyone gives him a compliment, which I’m never going to be able to not find endearing.
Well, endearing and exceptionally hot. That thought is probably making me blush too.
“No one can say no to Gia,” he says. And both Emilia and I nod, not arguing an irrefutable point.
“Hence why I said yes about the pastries for the fundraiser,” Emilia points out.
“Good, I’ll tell Gia,” he says as he stands back up, then drains his espresso in one go. He turns to me, and the angle catches my breath. I’m sitting on a stool, and he’s towering over me. I’m not really able to stop Emilia’s comment about “strength and height” from running on repeat in my head.
“I’ll see you tonight at the grove?” he says to me.
Right. The first night of permitted boar hunting is this evening, so we’re sleeping outside. “Yup,” I say, unwavering. I don’t want him to even consider changing his mind.
“Okay.” And with a tap on the counter, he’s gone.