Chapter 7
Lizzie
We come out of church and the air has cooled down a little since we were last outside. It’s pretty much the perfect temperature—not too hot, not too cold. He leads me toward his car, just a few steps away from the entrance, and opens the door for me.
He opens the door for me.
I’m not going to swoon. Of course I’m not going to swoon.
Now, if my brain and my romantic heart could have a conversation, that would be great. Apparently my brain got left back at church. What is wrong with me?
“Thank you,” is all I manage.
He closes the door and moves around to the other side. He’s wearing a beige linen two-piece outfit that ruffles slightly in the breeze. It almost feels like a scene out of a ‘70s movie. All we’re missing is a beach backdrop and a few palm trees. And maybe some aviators, too.
He gets in, shuts the door, and starts talking. His cologne drifts in, the scent of sandalwood and musk overwhelming my senses in a subtle but powerful way. I try not to think about it—even if I do love it.
“We’re just going to pick up John and Maria from their place while they drop off their car. They live half a mile down the road. It’s not really safe to leave their car here, and I figured it’d be easier if we all just ride together.”
“That makes sense.” There are parts of Recife where you wouldn’t worry too much about leaving a car out, and areas where you absolutely would.
Brazil is just the kind of country that feels like it lives in the ‘gray area’ of life.
Nothing is purely black and white. The people are some of the warmest you’ll ever meet—hospitality is next level.
You never leave someone’s house hungry, that’s for sure.
People take you in, feed you, and make you feel at home.
But then there’s the divide between the rich and poor. And with it, the reality that some areas just aren’t safe. You don’t wear flashy jewelry. You don’t carry anything that might beg to be stolen if you’re walking through certain neighborhoods.
I still remember the day that I was walking down the street with a churro in my hand—crispy, hot, coated in cinnamon sugar, stuffed with dulce de leche. I had just bought it—it was in my hand. As I lifted it toward my mouth, ready for the first bite, two-thirds of it vanished.
Ripped straight out of my hand.
My jaw dropped. The guy who stole it looked back at me with a cheeky grin, took a bite, and kept running.
Ah, Brazil.
We turn onto another street, and immediately the city feels alive again. The beach stretches out in the distance. This—this is the Brazil that I love.
We pass street vendors on the sidewalk selling coconuts to drink straight from the shell on rollaway carts.
White buildings on the right, the beach on the left.
Music floats in from the beach, people laughing.
I can see people playing volleyball. It may not be summer yet, but Recife always has that summer vibe—just with a little extra rain during the winter. And even that season is already fading.
At the traffic light, I can smell the bakery’s coxinhas—that gorgeous golden fried dough filled with chicken inside. My stomach gives an anticipatory little twist.
“I’m not sure how much you’ve heard about me from John and Maria,” he says, glancing over. His expression is gentle, but his voice is deep, confident.
“All I really know is that you’re a businessman,” I say. “And your accent gives away that you’re from S?o Paulo.” I shrug.
“Well, that’s certainly a change.” He laughs.
“Why’s that?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Not that I expect anything different from John and Maria. I’m just surprised the rumor mill hasn’t come knocking on your door.”
By the way that he says it, I expect nerves. Instead, he looks completely relaxed, hands steady on the wheel.
“What do you mean?” I turn toward him.
“Well,” he says evenly, pausing for a breath. “I’m divorced. I have two kids.”
He pauses and glances over at me. “I’ve been divorced for a while now. But… at least you’re hearing it from me, and not from anyone else.”
Wow. Not the conversation I expected two minutes into a car ride.
John and Maria live about five minutes away. Why would he tell me all of this so quickly?
Sure, I’m physically attracted to him. But my brain has finally caught up and reminded me that I’m leaving in two weeks. Why would I want to dive deep with someone right now?
Apparently, he doesn’t think the same way.
And yet… I respect his honesty. Brazilians are vocal, warm, open with their emotions—but this kind of honesty is different. It’s deep and raw. It hits like an avalanche. Unexpected and impossible to ignore.
I admire that, too.
I’m rarely lost for words, but I’m not sure where to go from here. I don’t know if I want to unpack this right now. So I take the safer route.
“Oh. I hadn’t heard that,” I say calmly.
“I thought it’d be better to start the night with you knowing a little bit more about me.”
He clearly wants to start the night on the right foot, and that’s admirable. Definitely a quality to tuck into the recesses of my mind… because I don’t know that now’s the right time to think about it.
We’re already pulling up to John and Maria’s place—a high rise apartment building. Their car is just turning into their underground parking lot.
“Good to know,” I say. It’s about all I can manage.
John comes out, and I offer him the front seat so I can ride in the back with Maria while Nate drives.
Nate reaches his hand over to the dash while he’s talking and turns on some music.
Amy Grant.
Exactly something I would’ve chosen myself.
Good taste in music, I think.
“So I’m taking you guys to this new restaurant that just opened near my place,” Nate says. “It’s built to look like an Italian castle—inside and out. My business supplies the meat there. I haven’t actually eaten there yet, though, so if the food’s bad… don’t blame me!”
We all laugh.
So, the meat industry. That tracks. Businessman and all.
When we pull into the parking lot and step out of the car, I notice the salt in the air. We’re only a few streets from the beach.
My mouth curves into a small grin.
The restaurant isn’t just inspired by a castle—it commits.
It’s made out of bricks, and the entrance is a tower with an actual drawbridge.
Clay roof tiles in the style of an Italian villa.
At the top, a crest: a lion, a knight, olive branches, and steel lettering spelling ‘Il Castello’.
Palm trees flank the building, as if Brazil and Italy have agreed to coexist.
I’m impressed this exists in the middle of Recife.
I don’t have long to wonder about the inside before we’re through the doors.
The owner must be waiting near the entrance, because suddenly I hear, “Nate!”
He’s a little shorter than Nate, with a warm smile, already pulling him into a hug.
“It’s so good to see you! I’ve been waiting for you to try the restaurant ever since we started working together.”
“It’s my first time,” Nate says, grinning. “I figured I’d bring some friends.”
The owner—whose badge reads ‘Leo’—turns to us. “Welcome, amigos! This man right here supplies the best meat in town.” He pats Nate’s chest. “Everyone talks about how delicious it is.” He beams at Nate.
Nate smiles—not arrogantly, just confidently. Like someone who knows his product is good and is pleased his customer agrees.
“Let me take you to a table and get you settled.”
As we walk through the restaurant, I finally get to take it all in. Couples laugh beneath arched ceilings. Stained glass windows glow near the tower. Big leafy plants fill the space. Cutlery clinks. Voices echo with joy, lighting up the dimly lit atmosphere.
In the center of the room is a long table styled like a five-star hotel’s buffet. It feels grand. Intentional.
I glance at Maria. “I thought this was an Italian restaurant?” I whisper, eyeing the spread.
“It’s more like an Italian experience. It’s actually a rodizio. It’s meant to combine the feeling of Italy with the food of Brazil. A fusion, basically.”
“That actually sounds perfect.”
The buffet is arranged in tiers around a stunning floral centerpiece, filled with tropical leaves and vibrant flowers. Fruit spills over an afternoon-tea-style stand. Everything looks indulgent. Thoughtful.
And then there’s the dessert table.
The dessert.
I feel like a cartoon on TV—my eyes have turned into hearts. Dessert has not only called me for a date, it has already ordered for me.
I hope my new friends love dessert as much as I do, because I am absolutely coming back for multiple tasting pots. The passion fruit mousse is calling my name. I can already taste that delicious blend of condensed milk and passion fruit on my lips.
I’m just the kind of person who checks the dessert menu first so I can plan for dinner accordingly.
I don’t know what the evening holds. There’s a cocktail of uncertainty and excitement swirling in my mind. I don’t know if we’ll circle back to what Nate shared earlier, or if we’ll laugh our way through the night, or if this will simply be one of those pleasant, fleeting encounters.
Whatever it is—
Let’s dive in.