Epilogue
AUDREY
SIX MONTHS LATER
I slash an imaginary tick mark in the air. “That’s number ten on the gelato counter.”
“Is coffee still your favorite flavor?” Noah licks his pistachio one. He’s gotten so tan in the six days we’ve been in Italy. The sun barely kisses his skin and it darkens. It’s so unfair.
“I haven’t tried any other ones, and I don’t plan on it.”
“Of course you don’t. You like what you like.”
“Exactly. No need to fix what’s not broken.”
We settle into the tiny bistro chairs outside of the gelato shop.
Every single part of Tuscany has been nothing short of amazing.
When we first walked out the back door of our private villa and saw the hills rolling over the horizon, I couldn’t help but think how ugly it makes Texas look in comparison.
Who was I to say no to Noah when he suggested a spontaneous vacation? We had a couple weeks left in his off-season, and I had a light client load, so off we went. I’m sure the girls are very happy with Nicole for a week.
“I can’t believe it’s our last night already. I feel like I blinked and it’s time to go home.” I watch as people pass by us. A steady mix of tourists and locals.
“I can’t say I’m not ready for American air conditioning again. I’ll sleep so much better.”
I sigh. “One more dinner. Saved the best for last with pasta making.”
“For sure.” Noah’s hair is wind swept from a day of walking the cobblestone streets. “Colin recommended this chef to me, so I’m sure he’s good.”
I lick the last of my gelato off the tiny spoon and stack my cup in his. “Ready?”
This time he takes a deep breath. “I guess.” I laugh at his reluctance to walking back up the steep hill that our villa rests on.
I punch his arm. “Come on, football player. You should be in better shape than that.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Whoa, whoa. Excuse me for being on break.”
I stand, straightening my pale pink summer dress, and collect the trash.
When I come back, Noah takes my hand in his and we start the trek.
We take it slowly. Stopping to look at the flowers blooming on a trellis outside of the local bakery.
The warm breeze flows through my hair and cools my neck in the heat.
“Do you think we have time for a dip in the pool before dinner?”
Noah gives me a knowing look, his eyes sultry. “Not with what we’ve been doing in the pool.”
I playfully smack him again. “Noah, stop,” I protest, but my stomach does a little flip as I remember Noah’s lips trailing down my bathing suit on the way to my bikini bottoms damp with more than just pool water. We both wordlessly pick up the pace.
When we finally make it back to our villa with it’s dark gold stone walls with a barrel clay tile roof set into the side of a hill, I see a car parked out front. “I guess the chef is already here.” The caretaker of the house said he would let the chef in so he could get set up.
“What’s his name again?” Noah asks.
“I’m not sure how to pronounce it, but it looks like Pippo.”
We open the wooden side door and step into the main room.
The kitchen and dining area are huge and open.
The windows are always open since the house was designed to catch the cross breeze.
An Italian man in his late forties or early fifties stands at the sink, washing produce.
When he sees us come in, a smile splits his face.
“Ah, my friends have arrived for the evening. Are you ready to make pasta?”
I smile back, charmed by his enthusiasm and his heavy Italian accent. I immediately get fun uncle vibes from him. “We are.” I look at the kitchen table, already laid out with the necessities, a rolling pin, a pasta machine attached to the edge of the wood.
“Okay, okay. Come wash up, and we’ll get started.”
I stand next to Pippo as he builds a perfect flour nest for the eggs I’m about to crack.
“Now, use your hand to mix the eggs into the flour and then knead the dough. I’ll keep track of the time, just keep going.”
He wasn’t joking when he said he’d keep track of the time. It’s been at least five minutes of kneading already, and Pippo is helping himself to another glass of wine. “My arms are tired.” I whine to Noah.
“Let me have a go.” He steps in and takes over. I watch as Noah’s forearms flex as he moves the dough rhythmically under his hands. He sees me staring. “You’re drooling.”
My eyes snap up. “I am not.”
“It’s okay, I like it.” He winks.
“We have to make it through this pasta class,” I whisper.
“Make it through? I’m having a great time.”
Pippo comes back, wine glass in hand, and announces, “Time is done for the pasta. Now, we roll it out.”
He splits the dough in two so Noah and I both have a piece to work with.
“The dough is like a lady. She must be massaged to relax her and lengthen her so that we can fill her.”
I freeze and look at Noah, my eyes wide. Did I hear that right?
Noah must have heard the same thing as me because he’s barely containing his chuckle. He attempts to cover it with a cough, and I think it would have been more obvious, but Pippo is sipping his wine again.
Once we have two pretty flat pasta flaps in front of us, Pippo comes to show us how to properly cut them. “When you fill it, don’t put too much or it will come out of the sides while it cooks. Make sure to seal the edges tightly so the water doesn’t get in.”
Noah attempts to seal his first ravioli, but somehow, it’s crooked. “Is this right?”
Pippo leans in, his eyes a little glassy. “Perfecto.” Pippo’s glass is magically empty again. “Now, Pippo must get a glass of water because he is a little drunk.”
Now it’s my turn to look intently at my ravioli, trying to hide my smile.
Pippo goes to the other side of the kitchen to dig up a glass of water, and I say to Noah, “Do you think he’s going to be too drunk to serve dessert?”
“I hope not. I’ve been looking forward to the tiramisu.”
“Good thing fresh pasta isn’t very hard to cook.”
“Too bad it’s not fried, cause then the ravioli would be toasted—like him.” This time I can’t hide my laugh. Hopefully Pippo thinks it’s just jokes between a couple. He seems focused on getting that glass of water down.
Pippo comes back, glass of water in hand. He takes my tray of pasta—pesto and ricotta ravioli—back to the stove with him and gestures for us to come over.
“Here we have very, very salty water. Salty like the ocean.” He takes a few of the pasta and drops them in. “While these cook, I will tell you a story.” I lean against the counter, settling in for whatever ride I’m about to be taken on. “Are you two married?”
Oh, great start.
I smile politely. “No, we’re not.”
Noah pipes up. “Maybe one day.”
“Women are,” Pippo begins, and I internally scream, “looking for the prince arriving with a white horse to grab them and kiss them, and they go away and get married. This is what they dream.” I glance at Noah and he’s working very hard to look intrigued and not entertained.
Pippo takes a big breath that I can tell comes from years of women drama, then he continues, “The problem is after a while, they fall in love with the pirate.” He puts a hand over one eye like a patch for emphasis.
This time I do chuckle and so does Noah.
We’re loose from a day of standing in the sun and the evening’s wine.
Not as loose as Pippo, though. “And making some children, and then the pirate remembers that he’s a pirate. And he runs away.
“The lady starts to think ‘ah, but Phillipo, he was loving me so much, let me try to call him’. But Pippo now,” he pauses to slap one hand on his arm and wave his fingers in a wide arch. “No way. I’m sorry. Too late. So, now you understood.”
Noah and I are both stunned silent for a second. He gathers his wits first. “Wow. That’s… a story.”
I nod in agreement. “For sure.”
He scoops the pasta out of the water with a flick of his wrist. We watch as he skillfully mixes them with olive oil and tops them with grated parmesan. Say what you want about his womanizing or his drinking, but Pippo knows his way around a pasta dish.
Noah and I head to the formal dining room to enjoy the fruits of our labor while Pippo cleans up and preps the dessert.
As soon as we sit down, I say, “What a character.”
“I can’t think of a better person to send us off from our Italian vacation.”
I take a bite and flavors of fresh basil and quality olive oil burst in my mouth. “Oh my God.”
“The man knows what he’s doing,” Noah agrees.
“Can you imagine this life? Every day of the week going to someone’s private villa, cooking food you grew up eating while getting drunk with tourists? This is his literal job.”
“I thought I had the dream job, but between us, I don’t think I do.” I take another bite; it’s so good I nearly stuff an entire ravioli in my mouth at once. “It would be nice to not get hit for money.”
“That’s true, but then would we have ever met?”
Noah’s eyes sparkle in the candlelight between us, and I can’t help but think about that first night, our dinner at The Lush.
I think I knew when Pia told me he never brought dates there that this was going to be something amazing.
I just hadn’t been ready to admit it yet.
“I believe that if someone is meant for you, they will always find you. It might have been later on, but we were destined to find each other in this life.”
I reach across the stone dining table for his hand, and we hold each other while we eat.
The breeze ruffles the trees outside and I breathe in the freshness of the Tuscan countryside.
After everything, I feel blessed to be here with Noah, to have this time with him away from my family and his team, and before the next season starts and football becomes the third person in this relationship.
It’s all worth it. Just for moments like this.