18. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
If you felt unwelcome during those difficult weeks, please know that was never our intention.
I read the line again, waiting for it to become less absurd.
It doesn’t. The woman who signed it was quite happy to let me hear her doubts about my character at the church feast. Apparently, her concern for my feelings developed sometime after Lorenzo corrected her in public.
“This one’s my favorite so far.” I hold up the page so Rosalia can see it from where she’s sorting the forwarded mail on the cottage kitchen counter.
She brought it over after her morning shift, with enough time to stay for lunch.
“Any offense was entirely accidental. Imagine how embarrassed she’ll be to learn she managed it so thoroughly. ”
“She could have started with ‘I’m sorry.’“ Rosalia has stopped sorting. None of these envelopes will become more welcome in alphabetical order.
“Then she’d have to name something she actually did.” I tuck the page away. “Much safer to apologize for my hearing.”
I move the stack of expensive envelopes away from my notebook. I’d rather work on the tea recipes I brought from Lyon than read another apology that carefully avoids naming the offense.
That worked out beautifully.
“Would you like to open the rest, signora?” Rosalia pushes a few more envelopes toward me, her eyebrows raised in a question she already knows the answer to.
“No.” I slide the whole pile to the far end of the counter, out of my line of sight. “They can sit there until I decide what to do with them, which might be never.”
“Good.” She abandons the mail and comes around to my side of the counter, peering at the notebook page I’ve been staring at for the past twenty minutes. “What are you working on?”
“The bergamot blend.” I tap my pen against the margin where I’ve scribbled three different ratio adjustments, none of which feel right. “I’ve been trying to fix the finish for years. It’s always too sharp, like the citrus overwhelms everything else at the end.”
“You gave me a sample tin at the Baglio.” Rosalia finds the name on the page. “I finished every bit. Perhaps it needs less changing than you think, signora.”
“A terrible possibility.” I make room for her beside the notebook. “That would mean I’ve spent all this time arguing with myself.”
“Well, I wouldn’t argue with you about tea, signora.” She studies my crossed-out measurements, and I enjoy the fact that she’s teasing me. Nobody has asked how I slept or whether I remember the lake. For a few minutes, I get to be particular about something ordinary.
“I’m thinking of renaming it.” I pull one of the herb jars from the row I’ve lined up along the counter, the one with the dried bergamot peel I bought for testing. “Something that doesn’t sound so pretentious. ‘Lyon Summer’ makes me want to roll my eyes at myself.”
“What about just ‘Bergamot’?” Rosalia reaches for the jar, and I hand it over without thinking. She unscrews the lid and holds it under her nose, breathing in. “Simple. Direct. Tells you what you’re getting.”
“Boring.” I take the jar back and inhale the familiar scent, the bright citrus edge softened by months of curing. “I want something that captures the feeling without being so literal about it.”
“The feeling of what?” She turns the jar until its plain ingredient label faces me, making her case without another word.
I think about it, really think about it, the way I haven’t let myself in months. What does this blend mean to me? Why have I been adjusting it since I was barely out of university, never quite satisfied, always reaching for something I can’t name?
“Trying again.” I consider the words as I write them in the margin. “Every time I take this recipe out, I think I’ve finally worked out what it needs. Then I change my mind. It’s becoming a personal disagreement between me and some dried peel.”
Rosalia is quiet for a moment. When I look up, her expression has gone soft in a way that makes me want to change the subject.
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand before she can say whatever she’s thinking. “I’m not being profound. I’m just trying to fix a tea blend that’s been annoying me for six years.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything profound.” She picks up another jar, this one filled with dried chamomile from last summer’s harvest. “I was going to say that ‘Trying Again’ is a terrible name for a tea. No one wants to buy something that reminds them of failure.”
I laugh hard enough to lose my place on the page. Of course she’d find the practical objection while I’m busy trying to make dried peel sound meaningful.
“You’re right.” I take the chamomile from her and unscrew the lid, breathing in the sweet, grassy scent. “Terrible marketing. I’ll keep working on it.”
We sort the jars in comfortable silence. Rosalia passes me the chamomile, and I find myself relaxing. If the blend isn’t right, I can change it. I have missed having a problem like that.
By the time I reach for the notebook again, my shoulders ache and I have lost interest in standing. Six days out of the hospital, I still have to stop sooner than I want. At my follow-up, I was told to give myself time; apparently I can’t substitute being annoyed for doing that.
“Pass me the stool?” I point to the one by the window. “I’m not finished, but my legs seem to be.”
“Here.” Rosalia brings it over and shifts the jars within reach. She doesn’t try to pack everything away, which saves us an argument neither of us would enjoy.
I sit and finish recording the measurements. I have done enough explaining this week, including giving the police my own account of the lake.
They have the note Livia forged in Lorenzo’s name, and now they have what she said to me before he arrived. For once, nobody asked me to consider how long they’d known her before deciding whether to listen.
With the recipe safely written down, I can admit that I want to ask about someone who hasn’t left my thoughts all afternoon.
“How is he?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Rosalia pauses with a jar in her hand. She doesn’t ask who I mean. “Working. I’ve seen his study light on late a few nights. And he’s been in the vineyard earlier than usual in the mornings.”
“That sounds like Lorenzo.” I pick at a thread on my sleeve, not meeting her eyes. “Burying himself in work when he doesn’t know what else to do.”
“Maybe.” She sets the jar down and turns to face me. “He asked about you yesterday. Wanted to know if you were eating, if you were sleeping, if you needed anything sent from the estate.”
“Did you tell him to ask me?” My new phone is beside the notebook, with my old contacts restored. It took less effort to make myself reachable again than to decide what I wanted to hear.
“I said he should speak to you, signora.” Rosalia starts collecting the discarded envelopes. “I didn’t think it was my place to answer for you.”
“He texted this morning.” I reach for my phone on the counter, then decide against checking it again. I’ve already read his message three times. “He said he has something to give me. A letter. Something he wanted to deliver in person.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Rosalia puts the unwanted mail together, but pauses before moving it further. “Where do these go?”
“In the drawer.” I open the empty one beneath the counter. No wastebasket, no replies. I can decide later without spending the afternoon deciding when later ought to be.
She slides the stack inside and retrieves her coat.
The jars remain spread around my notebook, the latest version of the blend waiting for my attention. I have missed company that doesn’t require a performance from me. Rosalia can sit through a bad mood without treating it as a problem she has been sent to solve.
“Rosalia.” I catch her arm before she reaches the door. “Thank you. For coming today. For the company. Even your terrible naming suggestions.”
“I’d love to try it when it’s ready, signora.” Rosalia smiles as she picks up her bag. “Whatever you decide to call it.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m alone with my notebook and my jars and a little more pleasure in the work than I had before she arrived.
***
When Lorenzo’s car arrives at five, I’m still at the kitchen counter, reviewing the bergamot ratios. I leave the correction unfinished and set my pen aside. So much for pretending this would be an ordinary visit.
I let Lorenzo through the gate when he messages, then open the cottage door myself. He’s standing on the step with an envelope in his hand. I leave the door open for him and return to the kitchen counter.
Rosalia was right about the late nights; he looks tired. His sweater is dark and simple, nothing like the formal clothes he wears for estate business. He looks like a man who got dressed to visit his wife, not a Don preparing for an audience.
“You’re working.” He stays in the doorway long enough for me to wave him in. “Should I have come later?”
“You came when we agreed.” I close the notebook. I wanted him to remember the time. Now he’s here, I want the ease we had on the boat, when talking to him didn’t require either of us to think so hard.
I haven’t forgotten how easy it was to talk to him on the boat. I want that ease now, and I don’t know how to reach for it.
“You said you have something for me.” I nod toward the envelope in his hand. “A letter.”
“Yes.” He crosses the remaining distance and sets the envelope on the counter beside my notebook. It is thicker than the note that sent me to the lake. “I wanted to bring it myself. After the forged note, I didn’t want you receiving anything with my name on it that came through someone else.”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “I kept losing my nerve when I tried to say these things. I thought I might do better on paper.”
I pick up the envelope, feeling the weight of it. Heavier than I expected. Whatever he’s written, it’s more than a page or two.
“Are you asking me to read this now?” I leave the flap sealed. I want to hear his answer before giving mine.