7. Niccolo
— ? —
Niccolo
The butcher on Via dei Neri remembers me.
This shouldn’t surprise me - my family has been buying meat from his family for three generations - but what surprises me is that he remembers why I’m here.
The last time I stood at this counter was four years ago, when I was still courting Danielle and desperate to impress her with a home-cooked meal at the vacation house.
I’d asked him for the exact cut needed for brasato al Barolo, the dish her grandmother used to make, and he’d spent twenty minutes explaining how to select the right piece of beef.
“The young signora liked it, then?” he asks now, wrapping the chuck roast in brown paper with practiced hands.
“She did. She taught me to make it properly after that. I’ve been… practicing.”
“Ah.” His eyes crinkle. “A man who learns his wife’s recipes. Good. My Rosa, God rest her, she always said a marriage needs two cooks. One to make the food and one to appreciate it loudly.”
I pay and thank him and step back into the April sunshine, the package tucked under my arm. The market is crowded this time of day, tourists and locals mixing in the narrow streets, and I navigate through them feeling lighter than I have in months. The plan is coming together.
I’ve spent the past two weeks working out every detail, stealing time from foundation meetings and family obligations to make calls, check supplies, coordinate the pieces.
The vacation house has been aired out and cleaned.
I’ve practiced the brasato three times at a friend’s apartment in the city, each attempt closer to the version Danielle makes, though I know mine will never quite match hers.
I’ve bought the wine she loves, the candles she mentioned once wanting for the dining room, even a small bunch of the wild herbs that grow near her family’s home in Vallechiara, tracked down at a specialty shop that caters to southerners homesick for familiar flavors.
It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough to make up for months of absence and silence. But it’s a start. A declaration. A way of saying I see you, I remember who we are, I’m coming back. I just need to get through one more week.
***
That evening, I find my mother in the small parlor she uses for her personal correspondence. She’s writing something by hand - she insists that typed letters lack warmth - and she looks up with a smile when I knock on the open door.
“Niccolo. What a nice surprise. You’re usually buried in work at this hour.”
“I wanted to talk to you about next Saturday.”
“The Castellani luncheon? I’ve already sent our acceptance. The Contessa specifically asked-”
“I won’t be there.”
Her pen pauses. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m taking Danielle away for the weekend. To the vacation house.” I keep my voice casual, the way I’ve learned to deliver information she won’t like. “We need some time together. You’ve said yourself that she seems tired lately.”
“I’ve said she seems overwhelmed by social obligations that perhaps exceed her natural capabilities, which is rather different.” My mother sets down her pen, folding her hands. “Niccolo, the Castellani luncheon is important. Half of Florence will be there. Your absence will be noted.”
“Then let it be noted. I’m taking my wife away for the weekend.”
I expect an argument. What I get instead is a long, measuring look and then a slow nod, her expression shifting to something almost approving.
“You’re right, of course. A marriage needs tending. I sometimes forget how young you both are.” She picks up her pen again, makes a note on the paper before her. “What day were you planning to leave?”
“Saturday morning. Early. I want to be there in time to prepare dinner.”
“You’re cooking yourself? How romantic.” She’s smiling now, warm and supportive, and I feel the tension in my shoulders ease.
This is the mother I remember from before my father died, before the weight of the estate turned her rigid.
“Well, I certainly won’t stand in the way of marital harmony.
But what about Danielle? Surely you don’t want her to know about your surprise. ”
“That’s actually what I wanted to discuss. I’ll need to keep her occupied somehow, or she’ll wonder why I’m leaving without her.”
“Leave it to me.” My mother waves a hand.
“As it happens, there’s a spring garden party at the Fontana estate that afternoon.
Very casual, just the ladies. I was planning to attend anyway - I’ll take Danielle with me.
She can socialize a bit, you can prepare your surprise, and you can collect her on your way to dinner. Everyone’s happy.”
The relief that washes through me is almost physical. “That would be perfect. Thank you.”
“Of course, dear. Family comes first.” She makes another note. “I’ll tell Danielle myself. A ladies’ afternoon out - she’ll enjoy having something to do that doesn’t involve sitting through another foundation meeting.”
I cross to her chair and kiss her cheek, something I haven’t done in months. “I mean it. Thank you.”
“Go plan your romantic weekend.” She’s already turning back to her correspondence, but she’s smiling. “And Niccolo? This is exactly right. A woman needs to feel chosen, especially in a marriage that started as… unconventionally as yours did. Show her she matters more than the name.”
The words land strangely, but I’m too relieved to examine them. My mother is helping. My mother is on my side. Maybe things really can change.
“I’ll pick her up at five,” I say from the doorway. “Tell her to be ready.”
“Five o’clock. I’ll make sure she knows.”
I’m halfway down the hall before I hear her call after me, her voice light and casual: “Oh, and Niccolo? Which dish are you making? I want to tell the kitchen not to prepare anything for you that evening.”
I turn back. “Brasato al Barolo. Her grandmother’s recipe.”
“How lovely. The one with the juniper berries? Danielle made it for us once, early on. I remember thinking it was quite good, for provincial cooking.”
Something flickers at the edge of my awareness - the slight emphasis on provincial, the careful cataloging of information - but I push it away. I’m being paranoid. My mother is helping. Everything is fine.
“I’ll see you later,” I say, and go to finalize my plans.
Behind me, I hear her lift the receiver and begin to dial.