7. Once Upon a Family Recipe
ONCE UPON A FAMILY RECIPE
G enevieve Courtenay was in trouble. There wasn’t any other way to describe what was happening to her. Not when it came to Chiara Conti-Lilienfeld.
Thirty minutes ago, she’d basically sleepwalked her way to Rue Saint-Honoré and interrupted Chiara’s work, only to be smothered in fluffy towels, given a change of clothes that consisted of a pair of Chiara’s own jeans and a white, flowing button-down.
It took all her strength of will to not bury her face in the soft, worn cotton that smelled like verbena, patchouli and something that could only be Chiara.
Vi mentally patted herself on the back for acting like a grownup and not a teenager with a crush.
A teen she was not. Hrr feelings, however, was a lot tougher to disprove.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Cheeks flaming, eyes alight.
Yeah, some things she couldn’t deny. Like the crush. Or the sleeves that were way too long.
“I can’t help loving manly cuts.” Chiara murmured, reading Vi’s mind.
It seemed this woman was always halfway in her head, and Vi fervently hoped she would be able to at least hide some of her thoughts from her.
Some of her emotions. She was starting to recognize there were a lot of them.
Hence her earlier realization that she was done for.
Vi rolled her eyes at herself. When you knew who owned a piece of clothing by simply sniffing it, you were indeed absolutely and completely in the deepest of troubles.
The kind that was not only bothersome but also painful.
Because, as Vi was used to reminding herself on a daily basis by now, this particular trouble, carefully rolling up the sleeves for her now—was it hot in here? —was somebody’s wife.
If Vi had any issue remembering Chiara’s marital status, her phone vibrated right on time, and one glance at the screen confirmed it was Frankie.
Chiara’s eyes did not waver from her task of arranging the shirt’s open collar, and she kept at it until she was finished, giving Vi’s cleft chin a tap with her fingertip before she finally picked it up, only to lay it back down carefully. Too carefully.
“How about dinner? You didn’t answer me earlier when I asked if you’d had any?” The voice, again, was too careful, too precise, lacking any true emotion, and Vi found herself shaking her head. A few bites of fish and carrots didn’t count.
“Settled then. Any preference as to what you’d like to eat? I know Zizou kind of takes our opinions out of the equation, since he decides what we should eat every day, but tonight, we’ll feast like queens with our own free will.” She laughed, the joy just as forced as her nonchalant tone.
“Are you all right?” Vi’s words seemed to surprise Chiara, and maybe she shouldn’t have said them, but by now Vi was pretty much resigned to uttering things around this woman that were impossible to explain or contain.
She briefly wondered if she’d offended again, and was ready with an apology for butting into what was obviously none of her business.
Yet Chiara didn’t look upset or annoyed.
As the mask of nonchalance slipped for a moment, that dreaded sad look was back, the worry line between her brows deepening, before smoothing out as she visibly collected herself.
She passed by the little bread loaf that Binoche made on the windowsill and gave the cat an absentminded pat, as if drawing strength from the tidy little animal.
“Why?” Vi wasn’t entirely certain that Chiara really wanted to know the reason behind her earlier questions.
“It’s, well…, late, and you’re still here.”
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang. Chiara’s face, half-hidden in shadows, looked angelic, like it was made for towers and damnation, gothic cathedrals and absolution.
“This is the time when I feel most like myself. Nobody calls, nobody needs anything, there are no expectations of me, hence no consequences for not meeting them.”
Vi felt her eyebrows rising, it was such a peculiar thing to say. But Chiara just waved her curiosity away.
“Never mind that. Honestly if you’re asking me about my time management, you might as well be asking me about dragon herding. I’m equally good at both. Or, well… equally as bad. The post-its only do so much, darling.”
As Vi’s eyebrows rose even higher so they damn near crawled off her forehead, Chiara simply took her hand.
“Actually, I think I’d manage dragons much better.
” She winked at Vi, who felt herself smiling back awkwardly, as Chiara went on.
“Listen, my mother’s recipes always make me feel better, regardless of how shitty my day is.
Or how many bad memories are associated with my childhood.
Any of those meals still reminds me of being cared for, no matter what.
And I didn’t have many no matter whats back then either.
How about I cook you dinner, darling, and you tell me what brought you here? ”
Vi actually looked around herself on instinct and immediately felt ashamed of her own gesture. She hunched her shoulders, but Chiara just tsked and then tugged her by the hand to the far corner of the studio. Vi sighed at the continued skin-to-skin contact that felt so good. Too good.
Married… married… married…
The chant in her head, however, was quickly replaced by surprise as a panel in the wall opened into a small but brightly lit kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a marble-topped island in the center.
It was cozy, with potted ivy plants arranged to hang off several of the built-ins and a well-used cast-iron skillet peeking at her from one of the assorted hooks.
“Sit, Cinderella, and talk. Start with, are you allergic to anything? Garlic? Oregano? Basil or parsley?”
“What are you making?” Vi made herself comfortable at the island on one of the barstools with soft, brown leather seats.
Chiara opened the large fridge, hidden behind a wood panel that made it seem like it was just another kitchen cabinet, and tsked.
“I’m not yet sure.”
Vi smiled. “Then why ask me about garlic or oregano or basil or parsley?”
Chiara turned to her, hands full of produce, and laughed.
“For someone who has lived as cosmopolitan a life as you have, and with your noble blood and royal relations, you’re a peasant when it comes to cuisine.
This is pretty much you telling me you were raised as an American without telling me you were raised as an American.
Philistines, the lot of them. Because they bastardize Italian cooking and still have no idea what it truly is.
And yes, I am very much a snob who is a fan of generalization. ”
Eyes sparkling, hands waving, Chiara was a sight to see. Dropping every pretense, she was clearly on a long-established rant about an issue that was important to her. Vi’s smile turned into a full-blown grin, and Chiara’s eyes narrowed.
“Laughing at me now? When I’m cooking you a feast?”
“Well, you were so aggrieved just then about Americans and their lack of gastronomic culture, it was kind of funny. But I do understand what you’re saying…
That Italian cuisine is pretty much made up of all those herbs and vegetables.
To which I am not allergic. Except to anything olive-related.
” Vi shuddered. “I used to call them ‘little poison balls’ as a kid, cause I’d get so sick every time I had them… ”
Chiara turned around and gave her one of those looks that would have been comical in how deeply insulted and offended she seemed to be, except she was clearly trying to be sensitive to Vi’s condition.
“Really? Oli—” Chiara stopped midway through the word as Vi shriveled into herself, anticipating it. But she didn’t say it. “Of all the things…”
“You asked. And yeah, unfortunately, I had to tell Zizou, and he damn near laughed his skinny, non-existent ass off.”
“It’s not funny. Health issues are never funny, so you can tell him he can piss off. In fact, tell him Madame C said so. That will teach him.”
“That would put the fear of God in him.” Vi smiled and almost swallowed her tongue as Chiara turned back to her, eyes alight with mischief.
“You think I’m God, darling? How wonderful.”
Vi had to laugh. Chiara was being absolutely adorable in light of this domesticity, and Vi felt comfortable, relaxed, her troubles slipping off her shoulders, and that made her just a touch brave.
“I think you’re trouble. And I think you enjoy teasing me.” Was it the rain that was making her courageous, or the twilight that made everything seem unreal?
“I confess. But only because you’re so puzzled by it. It’s endearing. I hear that you move mountains for Aoife, your vision is unrivaled—in fact, I may need to watch my back—and you have the best eye for perspective I’ve ever seen. Yet you get so adorably flustered, I can’t help it. Never change.”
Chiara’s eyes still danced with the little devils that seemed to have way too much fun, but it didn’t come across like it was at Vi’s expense.
Instead, it felt like a warm hug. Like the one Chiara had given her all those weeks ago.
The one that had brought their bodies flush together and gave Vi fever dreams.
“I’m just all sorts of sad for you about the allergy. But it’s not a problem. We will improvise.”
Magically, a long, slim bottle of grapeseed oil appeared on the kitchen counter.
Chiara rolled her eyes at Vi’s jaw going slack and turned back towards the open refrigerator, cursing under her breath when it beeped rather annoyingly, signaling that the door had been ajar for too long. The unnerving sound seemed to make up her mind for her.