Chapter 12 Taking in Strays #2
“We’d meet once a month, have the first one in a couple of weeks, which would allow me time to get the word out. We’ll choose the books as a collective, a proper democracy. Maybe I could bring in some nibbles.”
“Some nibbles? Is that what you call them?” Sandy put the last of the Hilderbrands in its place, then grabbed the next in the box.
“We could have themes. A few decorations. You won’t have to lift a finger.”
Sandy had a million ways she wanted to respond, but she was weak today and only found one. “Okay, why not.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I’m feeling very much like I’ll drown in regret in a few months when the whole thing blows up. Or maybe you can prove me wrong. I’d say the odds are in my favor.”
What a testament to Moira’s determination and naivete that Sandy’s absurd negativity didn’t even put a dent in the glee on Moira’s face.
“I asked her out two days ago,” George said.
“You did what? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bianca and George were walking under the porticoes of Via Rizzoli to the first day of a weeklong cooking course.
It was a Tuesday morning, stunning weather, a gentle breeze blowing through the city like a long whisper.
Flowers were in full bloom. Mannequins in stunning dresses stood behind the polished glass of the wonderful boutiques where Bianca had already spent entirely too much money.
People on electric scooters swerved by tourists pausing for a bite in between visits to the countless sites.
“I don’t know. It’s embarrassing,” George replied.
“I’m your daughter.”
“Exactly.”
Bianca looked over at him. Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, she’d started to understand her father more.
She kept reminding herself how much he loved her.
Him cleaning the cabinets was an extraordinary act of love, his way of giving.
Him purchasing her a pink toolbox complete with pink-handled tools, as if she were still his seven-year-old princess, was love.
Him biting his tongue last night during dinner when she could tell he had advice he desperately wanted to share.
Love. Seeing through this lens, she felt how hard he was trying, how important it was for him to redeem himself as a father, and now she also saw how much he’d been let down by Sandy.
She took his hand, the first time in forever. “I’m sorry, Dad. That probably didn’t feel too good.”
Though he shrugged it off, she could see his pain.
Today, she told herself, she’d give her all to their relationship. He might have screwed up when they were both younger, but he was trying now, and he needed her, and she had to be strong.
Up a long set of stairs, they came into a sun-filled commercial kitchen with footprints showing in the layer of flour on the floor.
Four older women of various sizes wearing hairnets welcomed them with cheery smiles and invited them to join the other students who’d already arrived, including a German couple and an American journalist.
They spent the first hour making tortellini, and if Bianca would remember any one thing from that morning, it would be how present she and her father were, standing next to each other, working as a team to mix and roll out the dough, laughing as they held up pasta that looked like it had been run over by a Fiat.
Once they finished, the ladies removed their hairnets and guided the class to the Mercato delle Erbe, an open-air market around the corner, to secure vegetables and meat for the rest of their lunch, which they’d enjoy back at the kitchen.
Bianca had strolled through the market a few times since she’d arrived, but seeing it with the help of a guide made all the difference.
They started at a formaggeria, where the class stood in a circle while the cheesemonger told them about his shop and cut them mouthwatering offerings from all over the Emilia-Romagna region.
It was amazing how many times Bianca caught George’s eye and they both smiled.
This was living, pure living, and exactly why she’d come to Italy.
She hoped he saw it, too, what had brought her back to this city.
At the vegetable stand, their guide collected broccoletti and spinaci and a few vegetables Bianca had never tasted before.
The purveyor cut slices of a blood orange that had more flavor than anything she could remember.
When she went in for a second bite, and as the juice dripped down her chin, she looked up to see a pair of alluring eyes staring at her.
The owner of those eyes was none other than Corrado, who’d sent her a text a few days ago to which she’d yet to respond.
“Uh-oh,” she said, locking eyes with him.
It would not be okay for George to see Corrado, so she said to her father, “Let me say hello to a friend; be right back.”
Before he could respond, Bianca broke away from the group and led Corrado to a display of olives. He carried two canvas bags spilling over with vibrant vegetables.
“And here we are,” he said, kissing each of her cheeks. His breath blew against her ear, causing her skin to tingle.
“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” she said. “I’ve been so busy.”
“Non c’è problema, Queen Bee. I recognize your father. How is he?”
“Fine, but please don’t say you want to go over there. It’s already a lot right now. I don’t want him getting any thoughts in his head.” Not only would George likely embarrass her, but he might also worry a rekindled relationship with her former lover would keep her from returning stateside.
Corrado said that her dad had aged well in ten years, then thankfully, moved on. “Is my Bianca learning to cook?”
“Something like that.” She both loved and hated how he often called her his Bianca. “How are you? How’s the restaurant?”
Corrado held up the bags. “I’m testing recipes now.”