Chapter 68 Sophie
S OPHIE
As soon as Sophie has a minute to herself after the breakfast rush, she messages Bec with her worries about Rocco’s revelations last night.
Sober for how long?
Eight years
No relapses?
No relapses
Do you trust him?
Completely
I think it’ll be okay, babe.
Don’t overthink it. Just enjoy the hot sex with your Italian stud!
Sophie desperately wants to believe Bec’s right, and she very much wants to keep enjoying the hot sex with her Italian stud, so she decides that the best way to deal with Rocco’s confession about his struggles with alcohol is not to deal with it at all. Instead of thinking about how the first man she’s fallen for in ages comes with enough baggage to fill a Boeing 747, she chooses to immerse herself in life at the hotel, with its comforting daily routine and predictability that helps her ignore the red flags waving madly in her head.
There’s so much to love here, so much to distract her from the fact there’s an ex-wife of Rocco’s whose life he quite possibly ruined with his addiction and that she herself might well be next in line for the life ruining.
Rocco bursts into the empty restaurant with as much enthusiasm as a litter of golden retriever puppies at mealtime. ‘I was looking for you. I missed you!’
She laughs. ‘I’ve been gone for ninety seconds.’
‘The longest ninety seconds of my whole life! Mamma is sending me back to the Rialto for a few more things. She does not care that we have gone to the market today in the rain already. Do you want to come?’ He pushes his glasses up his nose and beams at her.
It’s easy to let herself believe a man this adorable could never hurt her.
Outside, they navigate the flooded laneways arm in arm, under Rocco’s big umbrella. There’s an extra spring in Rocco’s step, and she’s more than a little smug knowing she’s responsible for it. As they walk, she tells him about her conversation with Elena about Alessandro.
‘The Vatican?’ he all but shouts. ‘Does she think anyone can just go and stay at the Vatican like it is a hotel?’
‘Hey, I’m just the messenger.’
‘I suppose we can ask him and see what he says, eh?’ he replies before he teaches her some more Italian, which is what he does every morning on the way to the market.
‘Questo costa troppo,’ she repeats after him. This costs too much .
‘The words are not enough. Use your hands, like this.’
‘Questo costa troppo,’ she says again, with her thumb and fingertips pressed together.
He laughs. ‘You say it like you are complimenting them. We are fighting for a better price, Sophie. Questo è troppo costoso!’ he shouts.
She tries once again with more passion this time.
‘Very good!’ He’s finally satisfied.
Minutes later she gets to practise the phrase, hand gestures and all, on Pasquale, the fish vendor, who’s so impressed by her that he throws in half a kilo of extra anchovies for free.
Sophie knows all the Bianchis’ regular vendors at the Rialto by name now. None of their spirits are dampened by the flood and they greet her for the second time that morning as warmly as they do Rocco. She haggles over the price of eggs with Sebastiano, whose well-behaved hens sit in raised cages by his feet. Elisabetta, with her array of nuts, calls out when she sees Sophie coming and offers her a small handful of pistachios in exchange for Sophie taking a photo of her toothy smile. Elisabetta loves having her photo taken by la signorina bionda. Carmelina, who sells all kinds of cheese, vies for Sophie’s attention, pressing a small round of salty goat’s curd into her hand to taste.
When they’re back at the hotel, Sophie dries herself off and then immerses herself in Loretta’s kitchen. She helps Loretta wrap anchovies around bocconcini balls to be served with crusty bread for primi. For secondi, she peels artichokes for roasting and chops peppers for stuffing in chicken breasts.
Loretta is so organised and fast today that, for the first time since Sophie arrived in San Marco, they have time to make the dolci before lunch instead of after. They bake three tarts for the evening with lemons as big as rockmelons.
‘These lemons need to be tested for anabolic steroids,’ Sophie quips.
‘These are our cousin Emilia’s lemons from the Amalfi coast,’ Salvatore tells her proudly. ‘They came with a big box when they visited before Christmas.’
Each lemon produces enough juice to take a bath in.
When the tarts are in the oven, Sophie helps Loretta bake the daily marantega cake. She claps her hands when Loretta announces they’re also making bussolai, the crumbly doughnut-shaped cookie that’s become her favourite, for tomorrow’s breakfast.
Loretta is as patient and kind as ever with her, but she’s not talking much. She doesn’t speak to anyone, really, except to give instructions. The men seem oblivious to Loretta’s quietness and continue to banter with each other like normal.
‘Is everything okay, Loretta?’ Sophie asks.
Loretta gives her a quick smile. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘You just seem a little quiet, that’s all.’
Loretta indicates with her chin to Rocco, who’s gesticulating wildly at Chiara. ‘My son is loud enough for three people this morning. What is he so excited about?’
Sophie blushes.
Rocco comes up behind her when Loretta sends her to the pantry for baking powder. ‘If you do not come with me to your bed the minute lunch is finished and let me make love to you, I will die, I am telling you,’ he whispers into her ear, making her insides flutter.
‘We wouldn’t want you to die, now, would we?’ She turns to face him and lets her hand drop over the front of his pants.
He rewards her touch with a shudder. ‘Now, you make it so I cannot wait until after lunch.’ He closes the door to the pantry behind him.
‘We can’t,’ she whispers. ‘Your mum’s waiting for the baking powder.’
‘Let her wait,’ he murmurs. ‘This will not take long, believe me.’
The silent sex is thrillingly fast, with Sophie’s sweaty palms up against the door and his family only feet away.