Chapter 24 #2
So I get up, almost in a daze, and wrap my arms around him. He pulls me close and tucks me into him, lowering his chin to the top of my head, and cradles me.
We don’t talk for a long moment. We just stand like that, wrapped together, two people who have fought long and hard with our own ghosts, needing a time-out together.
Giovanni is the first to break away. “I’ll clean that up and make you something else.”
“No,” I insist, grabbing his hand before he can even try. “You’ve made us dinner nearly every night since you arrived. Let me make you something. I may not have much of a repertoire, but I can make eggs. Let me make you some eggs.”
“I like eggs,” he says with a smile. His eyes are full of admiration, and I want to bask in it, and dear God, I’m really in trouble, aren’t I?
I wasn’t supposed to care about his charm, or his pretty face, or his impressive muscles. And I haven’t, not really. It’s all of him together—this man who feels divided into two but isn’t, not in the way he thinks.
I press against his chest, my hand expanding because all of it wants to touch him. “Go sit down, tough guy. Let yourself relax. You’ve had a big day of putting out fires, and—”
“And fucking you?” he asks, his voice husky. “I’ve been thinking about it. I’m going to think about it every time I see this counter.” He pauses. “Anytime I see any counter.”
“Good.”
He smiles at me, but I see the wounded man behind it.
“Let me take care of you,” I beg, holding him close by his shirt.
He lifts a hand to my face, cupping it. “You take care of everyone.”
“So let me have a go at you. I’ll feel unfulfilled if you don’t allow it.”
“I want to kiss you,” he says, his voice gravelly, his hand still cradling my jaw as if my face is a precious thing to be worshipped.
“So do it.”
He lowers his forehead to mine, his eyes staring into my own, and a feeling I’ve never experienced courses through me—a connection so deep it feels like it has no end.
“Giovanni,” I whisper. His name is still on my lips when he finally lowers his mouth to mine, swallowing the rest of the word.
Maybe it will help him remember that he’s someone of importance, of substance, all on his own. I hope so.
His mouth glides over mine softly but with confidence, and I sigh into him, letting my own worries be consumed by him. His hand is still on my chin, and his other hand sweeps around to my back, pressing me closer.
He holds me to him, kissing me gently, until I step back.
“I mean to make you dinner.”
He smiles at me, a wistful smile. “I know you will. No one gets between you and what you want.”
“It could be like that for you too,” I tell him, my hand finding his chest again as if it’s some kind of homing beacon.
“Maybe you should stop being so stubborn and read that book Emily gave you. Theresa might go on and on about being a psychic, but the only real psychic is Emily with her book recommendations.”
“All right,” he says with a slow, almost lazy smile. “You know, I like the way you call me out. You’ve always been like that. Ever since I was a dumbass kid. I’ll never forget the verbal lashing you gave me after Miles broke his arm.”
“You deserved it,” I say, with a ghost of a smile. “My grandfather told you not to try hiking up that ridge. But Miles didn’t need any help being a dumbass.”
“He’s grown up a lot,” Giovanni says softly.
“We’ll see.” I press my fingers into him, loving the firm, solid feel of him. “I’m going to cook for you now. And maybe we can talk about what comes next for you after you read that book.”
“Okay, boss.”
I lift a finger. “You may be making fun of me, but I like it, so you’d better be careful.”
He answers with a slow, appreciative smile. “Can I watch you cook, boss?” he asks, his voice full of liquid heat.
I grin at him. “You’ll want to step in. I’m a bad cook.”
“No, I just want to watch you. Honest to God.”
He says it so sweetly, so genuinely, that I feel something frozen inside of me melting. “All right.”
I throw away the burnt chicken piccata, feeling a pang of loss—it really did smell good—and leave the pan to soak in the sink.
Giovanni tries to help with the dishes, but when I remind him he’s only here to play the observer, he hangs back. His gaze is pinned to me as I crack the eggs into the bowl and whisk in some of the cream he puts in his coffee, then add some herbs and salt and pepper.
“I like watching you work,” he says as I add butter to the frying pan. “You’re so beautiful.”
I laugh as I pour the eggs in, but I feel beautiful. I really do, even though I’m only in my orchard shirt, and my hair is thrown back into a messy bun.
“Are you going to tell me where I’m going wrong?” I ask.
“I’m just appreciating the view,” he says.
“You could sit and appreciate the view,” I point out, thinking he’s got to be tired after all that fuss this afternoon. I know he was up at the crack of dawn to make those graham crackers.
“I like the view from up here.”
“Tell me a story, Giovanni. Tell me a story while I cook.”
He launches into a story about how his nonno won the building for Hidden Italy from a rich landowner in a game of cards. Toward the end of his life, his nonno had confessed to the landowner that he’d cheated, but by then they were good friends and the other man claimed he’d always known.
I’m laughing as I plate the eggs with a couple of pieces of toast.
Without asking, he pulls out the silverware and napkins, because of course he’s gotten to know this kitchen better than I do.
As we sit down at the table to eat, I say, “Your grandfather was a special man. I remember him pretty well. He was kind.”
He smiles and lifts a hand to his shirt, his fingers skating over the small bump beneath the fabric.
“What’s on that pendant, anyway?” I ask.
“It’s a cornicello,” he says, pulling it out to show me. “My nonno gave it to me. It’s for luck.”
I nod and wait for him to continue. I’m certain he’s about to.
Most of my patients have been on a short path toward death, and I’ve found that people faced with the facts about mortality are more inclined to share.
Maybe it’s the souls of our hunter-gatherer ancestors living within us, who kept the past alive by sharing it aloud.
So I can usually tell when someone is about to tell me something important.
It’s there in Giovanni’s eyes, deep and thoughtful, and in the quirk of his brow.
It’s even visible in the way he’s fidgeting with his silverware.
“He gave it to me,” he says, holding it in a loose fist. “I wasn’t doing so good in school after my mother took off.
My brother Enzo was a model student, of course, so it didn’t help to be next in line.
My father barely cared, but my nonna was furious with me.
She told my nonno to take me to task, but he brought me to the docks to go fishing instead.
“‘I know you’re disappointed in me,’ I told him. ‘But I’m not smart like Enzo.’
“‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not smart like Enzo. You’re smart like me. You’re good with people, Gio. You know how to speak to the soul. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re stupid because you can’t finish their foolish tests.’
“Then he clapped me on the back and gave me the necklace off his own neck, as a reminder that we were two cuts from the same cloth.”
Tears well in my eyes, the way they always do when someone shares a meaningful story about a person who’s left us. “Thank you for telling me. He was a very wise man.”
Except when he asked his grandson to make him an unkeepable promise, but I won’t say that. I would never speak ill of the man he loved so much—a man I also respected. I know better than anyone that people can do desperate things in their last moments.
Instead, I pause and add, “Maybe the secret to your problem is that you should listen to your own advice. You already know what to do.”
“You sound awfully sentimental, Bianca.” He’s teasing, but there’s a wistful look on his face, as if something more than a memory has been awakened in him too.
I poke my fork at him. “Just wait until you taste these eggs. They’re probably bad enough to cure anyone of sentiment.”
“I’ll bet they’re delicious.”
He says it with the confidence of a man who hasn’t tasted his food yet.
He must see that thought written on my face, because he takes a big, overconfident forkful. After tasting them, he hums in pleasure, as if the simple eggs I made him are a culinary treat.
“Don’t overdo it,” I say, nudging his foot under the table. But there’s a pleased edge to my voice. “I can make eggs just fine. My sister taught me. Isabella’s the only real cook in the family, out of us grandkids. Obviously, Nonna Rose is the best of all of us.”
“Anyone can learn to cook anything they like,” he says. “I firmly believe that.”