Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
GIOVANNI
CAFIERO FAMILY CHAT
Aria: Holy shit. Can you get me one of those hats?!
Enzo: Why do you need the hat? All you have to do is show someone your book collection.
Aria: Very funny.
Nico: Isn’t anyone else going to comment on the fact that Giovanni is gone for Bianca?
Enzo: Again. Why this need to point out the obvious?
Me: God, I hate it when Enzo is right.
I get a hat for my sister, then two more for my brothers, since I’m feeling good, and I figure we Cafieros might as well be the Smut Slut crew.
Bianca and I spend the rest of the afternoon wrapped up in the bliss of being outside on a beautiful day, with the air smelling like leaves, campfires, and cider.
The taste of that last apple is still in my mouth—tart and sweet—and hers too, because after she took her bite, we kissed, as if to seal the blessing or curse.
As the sun descends in the sky, we head over to the Evergreens & Apples table to claim our s’mores ingredients, only for Nonna Rose to motion warily to the tote bag they’d been in. “You’re not talking about the crackers that were in there, are you?”
“Yes,” Bianca says, her voice tight.
Nonna Rose tsks. “We sold them.”
“You sold Giovanni’s special graham crackers?” Bianca asks incredulously, her hand on her hip. “Who bought them?”
She looks more horrified than I feel, because honestly, who cares?
The worst that’ll happen is that I’ll have to make someone else dinner, possibly even Rhett.
But if I have to make dinner for Mr. Mayor, I’ll make him pay for the honor.
Just because someone can cook a good meal doesn’t mean they can’t also make an epically bad one on purpose.
“I don’t remember,” Nonna Rose says, peering into the bag as if she hopes to find them. “Some young boy. He came around looking for graham crackers, and he wanted the marshmallows in there too. He offered us a good deal for both. Francesca and I did the negotiating.”
She exchanges a look with Nonna Francesca, and I feel a twinge of misgiving in my chest.
One or both of them forgot all about the contest.
I tell myself they just got caught up in the excitement of making a good deal. But while that may be so, it didn’t ring totally true to me.
Bianca turns toward me, her eyes full of worry. “Rhett must be behind it. He wants our recipe. He knows it’s the only way he can win.”
I wrap an arm around her. “It’s okay, Bianca. We’ll sit this one out. And if he wins using graham crackers and marshmallows he bought from us, then there’s no reason we can’t let everyone know who made them. They’re not going to think Mr. Mayor broke out his measuring cup.”
“I have some fig cookies in my bag,” Nonna Francesca offers, peering inside. She’s not wearing her reading glasses, so there’s a good chance she could be talking about anything from crumbled crackers to loose medication. “You can use those.”
“Or we could enter using the crumbled-up cookies from my nonna’s bag,” I say with a grin. “Your call, cara mia.”
Bianca leans into me, making my heart swell. “Let’s just go enjoy the competition with everyone else.”
And I’ll be damned if that’s not the best thing I’ve heard in weeks, or maybe even years. Maybe it’s the best thing I’ve heard in my whole damn life.
Bianca and I do the s’mores tasting with Emily and Theo, who just returned from dropping the nonnas off at the farmhouse to watch a teleromanzo. And we can tell within seconds that Mr. Mayor wasn’t the enterprising soul who paid some chump kid to buy our ingredients out from under us.
Because it’s very obvious that the first of the samples set up on the folding tables next to the bonfire must have been submitted by him—even though I doubt the fancy script handwriting on the card sitting next to the platter is his.
The Gallagher s’mores are open-faced, and there’s a brown sugar cage around the toasted vanilla marshmallow.
It sits on top of a round disc of dark chocolate, over an “oatmeal flat,” which is a fancy way of saying it’s an oatmeal cookie.
They’re good, but they don’t taste anything like s’mores.
Each tray of s’mores samples has a voting box sitting beside it, and each taster has been given a flat token with the great Sir Gala-Head on it to drop into their favorite.
None of us put our token into the mayor’s box.
A few samples down, I dart a glance at Bianca, because even though neither of us wrote the sloppy card sitting next to sample #7, which identifies the graham crackers as “Apple Cookies,” I can identify our handiwork.
I take one of the samples and turn toward her. “I think this one’s ours, Mrs. October.”
She smiles and opens her mouth, and I take great pleasure in feeding it to her. I watch her savor it, her eyes nearly fluttering shut with pleasure in a way that makes me suddenly uncomfortable to be in a crowded place.
“We taste good, Mr. October,” Bianca responds after she swallows down our treat.
Theo swears under his breath. “Oh, come on.”
I take one of the samples for myself. They taste like that last apple in the orchard, and the sweetness of kissing the taste off Bianca’s lips.
I give her a crooked smile and slip my token into the box, because even if I’m wrong about Mr. Mayor’s sample, and the fool did steal from us, I’m not going to vote against our creation.
Theo and Emily also vote for us, and I notice several other people enjoying sample #7.
After the tasting, we buy hot ciders and gather close to the fire, talking idly while we wait for the winner to be announced.
The winner of the scarecrow contest was already announced, and I was neither surprised nor disappointed to find out we had not won. It’s just as well, since Theo was able to take our scarecrow home to the farm, where Mr. Mayor can spend his days being crapped on by birds and laughed at by children.
We’ve all moved on to our second cups of cider when Mr. Mayor approaches the bonfire and claps his hands and calls out to the crowd. Everyone ignores him until he does it a third time, shouting out, “We have a winner!”
He doesn’t look especially happy about it, so it comes as no surprise when he announces that sample #7 is the winner. We’re all surprised, however, when a little boy with light brown hair steps up and produces the ticket stub proving he’s the winner.
I glance at Bianca, who’s standing beside me, not quite sure if I should be irritated or amused.
“So the chump kid was getting them for himself,” I mutter.
“Congratulations, young man,” Mr. Mayor says, holding his hand out for a reluctant shake. He’s probably wishing he’d thought of the plan.
The kid ignores his outstretched hand, kicking at the leaves beneath his feet. “I don’t want anyone to make me dinner,” he says. “I was hoping we could work out a deal. By my calculations, the financial equivalent of a meal prepared by the Shirtless Chef would be at least two hundred dollars.”
Silence follows his statement, broken only by the crackling of the bonfire. Then everyone starts talking at once, mostly in murmurs.
Rhett, true to his nature, replies in a condescending, shitty tone. “That wasn’t the offer.”
I take a closer look at the kid, who can’t be more than eleven or possibly twelve yet doesn’t seem to be here with a parent. He’s wearing worn sneakers that look too small, and his shirt has been through the washer so many times the lettering is peeling off.
I step forward without thinking. “All right. I’ll honor the deal.”
The kid lights up and rushes over to me, his hand already out for a shake. “Thank you, Mr. Chef. I really appreciate it. I have Venmo and Cash App.”
I can’t help but laugh. I admire the kid’s hustle. “Venmo will do just fine.”
I transfer the money to him then and there, and the kid’s gone before I can ask him any questions or compliment his strategy for securing the win.
When I turn back, Bianca’s waiting behind me with Emily.
“Do you know that kid?” I ask.
Emily bites her lip. “Yeah, sort of. That’s Whit.”
“Sort of?” Bianca repeats.
“He lives on my block, and he’s stolen from the bookstore a few times.”
“You mean you’ve let him,” Bianca says fondly.
Emily shrugs without any self-consciousness. “I’ve occasionally left out books he might find interesting. But I always put the money back in the till, so Mr. Campbell’s got nothing to complain about.”
“Are his parents good people?” I ask, remembering the wear on the kid’s clothes.
“They’re not bad,” she says. “But he’s a foster kid. He’s not theirs, and they don’t treat him like he is.”
The sadness in her voice reminds me of what Bianca told me. How Emily herself was a foster kid.
“Didn’t you say Kitty’s fund was for kids too?” I ask Bianca. “We should carry on her legacy by covering the whole spectrum of ages here in Apple Ridge.”
Bianca smiles at me in a way she hasn’t before—in a way I’d really like to deserve.
“You’re all right, Mr. October.”
Back at the farmhouse, Bianca and I stay up late having a final drink—apple cider with a splash of whiskey so old it’s probably no longer alcoholic. I make a mental note to buy some more.
Our feet brush against each other beneath the table, and I spend so much time staring at her, I could probably write an essay worshipping every feature.
I want to ask her to share my bed tonight, though I know it would mean something if I do.
We grew closer today. Maybe I’ll be a sentimental soul and say the apple was what did it—crunching into it together like some kind of sacrament or shared sin.
All I know is that the feelings I have for Bianca are not just lust, and those feelings will only deepen the more time we spend together.
I’m surprised by how little the thought bothers me.
After Bianca gives a jaw-cracking yawn, she puts both of our cups in the dishwasher and turns it on. Leaning back against the counter, facing me, she studies me for a moment before saying, “I suppose I’d better go to bed.”
“Are you afraid you’ll turn into a pumpkin?” I ask, my blood pumping faster through my veins.
“You caught me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Come on. We both need to get some sleep. Alone.”
So she’s made her decision. Maybe she’s been mulling it over the entire time we’ve been down here, trying to figure out whether I’m worth the risk.
I probably seem like a bad bet to her. I’m a man who can’t plan his future or even read a single book about it. I don’t blame her for not wanting to stake a claim on me, but I’m sorry for it. Despite everything, I want to claim her for my own.
“Will you dream of me, Bianca?” I tease.
“Probably,” she says with a smile that’s half regretful.
I follow her up the stairs, and she pauses where our rooms join. She hesitates and then pulls me into a hug, her body tucking into mine in a way that feels so natural it makes my throat thicken with emotion.
“It was a good day, Giovanni. Thank you.”
“Goodnight,” I say, then kiss the top of her head.
She looks back at me once more before disappearing into her room.
I don’t sleep, obviously. I lie on my back and think of Bianca and wish things were different. Then I stop being a pazzo and pick up Emily’s book again. I read for a couple of hours, my mind filling with spiraling ideas. And then I hear it…
The distinctive buzzing through the wall.
I drop the book.