Chapter 27
Allegra
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke to a cold spot instead of a warm body.
I wrapped a sheet around me and went in search of Matteo.
I found him standing at the stove, his shirtless back to me, dancing to Italian music.
I leaned my head against the doorway and smiled, enjoyed the show along with the smell of sizzling bacon in the pan.
Matteo’s gray sweatpants hung low on his narrow waist, and the muscles in his back flexed as he shifted his hips from side to side, pulling off some impressive dance steps.
The performance went on a few minutes before he lowered the flame on the burner, transferred crisp bacon from the pan to a plate, and turned around.
He took two steps toward the table before spotting me.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to wonder if I should leave a tip for the performer.”
He walked over and pressed a chaste kiss to my mouth. “Would the tip be for last night’s performance or this morning’s?”
I smiled. I didn’t have enough euros to show my appreciation for last night. “How long have you been awake?”
“Since four. I wanted to get the things I needed to do done before you woke.”
“Four a.m.? We didn’t go to sleep until at least midnight.”
“Breakfast will be a bit. Until then, I’ll make you a caffé, yes?”
“I will never say no to your cappuccino.”
Matteo pointed to the table with the spatula in his hand. There was an envelope at the spot where I’d been sitting last night. “I almost forgot. That is for you.”
“Did you write me a love letter?” I teased.
“Not yet. But I think you will like it just as much, if not more.”
I picked it up. “What is it?”
“It’s a letter from your grandmother. Her attorney sent it to me to give to you. It arrived the day before we went to Positano. I thought perhaps I would be able to give it to you during da trip. But it turned out I had to wait a bit longer.”
My nose wrinkled. “I’m not following.”
Matteo set the plate of bacon in the center of the table and dried his hands on a towel. “The letter came with a note. It said you were to be given this envelope once you began your love affair with Italy. She thought I might be a better judge of when that happened than your attorney.”
“My love affair with Italy, not my love affair with a man?”
He nodded.
“But…how could my grandmother have even known you and I would meet, much less spend so much time together that you’d be able to tell if I fell in love with Italy?”
“Her last letter told you to ask me for a lesson on da Vespa.”
“Oh, right.” I tapped my finger to my lip. “But still, how could she know we’d get to know each other so well?”
Matteo shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps the letter will give you that answer.” He motioned to the living room. “Sit. Enjoy your letter. I will bring your caffé when it is ready.”
“I think I’m going to get dressed first.”
“Disappointing, but I don’t mind undressing you.” He winked. “Help yourself in my closet if you’d like a shirt or something.”
I was anxious to read the new letter from my nonna, but it didn’t stop me from taking a minute to check out Matteo’s walk-in closet.
Not surprisingly, it was organized. I laughed at a tall stack of what looked like homemade sweaters and two stacks of knitted scarves.
In one of the drawers, I found a Lucchese Vineyard T-shirt, and I decided he wasn’t getting it back even before I put it on and felt how buttery soft it was.
It hung almost to my knees, so I figured that was good enough and headed back to the kitchen.
Matteo noticed the T-shirt I’d selected and flashed an approving smile. “Looks better on you.” He passed me a cappuccino and kissed my forehead, then held out the envelope. “Enjoy your letter.”
Sitting down in the quiet living room, I smiled at my nonna’s handwriting.
My Dearest Allegra,
So you’ve fallen in love with Italy, eh? Good. Let it spoil you. The food, the wine, the sunsets…the men with thick hair and thicker accents. Indulge in it all.
If you’re reading this letter, then you must already be hearing it—the little whisper that says, “Maybe this is how life is supposed to be.” Listen to that voice. Unless, of course, it’s telling you to cut your own bangs. Even our inner monologue gets drunk sometimes, yes?
Now, I never left my house. Three generations of Bianchis lived under the same roof.
So you’re probably asking yourself, how can I know about change?
And the answer is, change isn’t always moving somewhere new.
Sometimes it’s staying right where you are, but living differently than you ever thought you could.
When your grandfather passed, I thought I’d never be able to breathe in my own house again.
Everything reminded me of him—his chair by the fire, the sound of his old boots in the hall.
I wanted to close the shutters and live in the dark.
But instead, I forced myself to open the windows wider.
I made new friends (if you need help stealing anything, Francesca’s your girl), bought the sexy purple scooter that made me smile riding it, and forced myself to laugh, even when it felt wrong.
Change is hard, but it makes you grow. If you are happy, build a life here.
New York will always be there, smelling like hot garbage in July and waiting for you with bagels.
But life—life doesn’t wait. It feels like yesterday I had smooth skin, could sneeze without needing an underwear change, and I was two inches taller.
The time to stop and smell the roses is now, while you’re young.
What have you got to lose? If it doesn’t work out, you can always go back to working yourself to death in a city that doesn’t appreciate you.
But if it does…your life might be more magical than you ever expected.
And now, some more wisdom from a woman who’s looking at life in the rearview mirror and laughing at all the potholes she’s swerved around.
Never save the good wine for guests. Life is too short. Drink it yourself. And for that matter, use the good sheets! You’re the one who lives there.
Don’t go to Macelleria del Borgo, the butcher in Pienza. He’s too skinny. A butcher who has the best cuts will always overeat.
Don’t try to keep your New York speed in Tuscany. Sip your cappuccino, swirl your wine, slow down, and notice when the seasons are changing. Nature is a better calendar to follow than the electronic one on that laptop you bring everywhere. Which reminds me, leave the laptop home.
Finally, I get to the point of this letter.
Behind the cash register at the antique shop, there is a rug.
Underneath you’ll find a loose tile. Lift it to discover a small safe in the floor.
The combination is 06-20-04. Use what’s inside to get a new couch, granite countertop, and a mattress.
A home isn’t your own until you get rid of the furniture that has had someone else’s naked ass on it. ; )
All my love,
Nonna
The smile was still on my face when Matteo came into the room. I held the letter to my chest. “I hope she wrote a hundred of these.”
“If it makes you smile like that, I hope so, too.”
I sipped my coffee. “Am I taking you away from anything? Do you work in the vineyard on Sundays?”
He shook his head. “No. But I was hoping maybe you’d join me later today, if you’re free.”
“Oh?”
“Once a month, my family gets together on Sunday afternoon for dinner at my parents’.”
I froze. Meeting his parents? Family dinner?
My face must’ve shown more of what I was thinking than I realized because Matteo put his hands on my shoulders. “It’s just dinner, Allegra. Breathe.”
I tried to laugh it off. “Yeah, of course. I just…have a lot to do.”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed, and he put his hands on his hips. “What?”
“What do you mean what?”
“What exactly do you need to do today?”
I said the first thing I could think of. “Work in the shop.”
“You told me last night that you had spent the last four days organizing and cleaning the antique store.”
“I meant work behind the counter.”
“The shop, it isn’t open on Sundays. Nothing around here is.”
“I, uh, decided to open it. I’m hoping maybe being the only place open might draw some people.” I told a little white lie. “I asked my grandmother’s friend Francesca to put it in the church bulletin.”
Matteo looked at me like he knew I was full of shit, then simply nodded. “Breakfast is ready.”
Maybe it was my guilt, but conversation felt strained at the table, like we were making small talk to avoid anything that might bring us back to Matteo’s invitation.
When we were done, I figured I should get going.
So I changed back to my clothes and brought the T-shirt out to the kitchen and extended it to him. “Thank you for the loaner.”
He frowned. “I thought you wanted to keep it.”
“I was…just teasing.”
His eyes flickered to the shirt and back to me. “Keep it anyway.”
“Okay.”
I laid my palms on his chest. “Thank you for dinner last night.”
“Anytime.”
I pushed to my toes and brushed a soft kiss to his lips. “I’ll see you…soon.”
***
Not one single customer.
I wasn’t actually surprised since Matteo was right—no shops were open on Sunday around here. But the quiet of the day made escaping my thoughts pretty much impossible.
Why didn’t I just go with him to his family’s for dinner?
I’d already agreed to date him, and we’d slept together.
I picked up the broom and started sweeping the shop, trying to prove I had a valid reason.
But after ten minutes of pushing the broom around, my pile on the floor amounted to little more than a piece of lint.
Wiping down the already sparkling counters didn’t give my excuse any more legitimacy, and by the time I was done polishing all the gleaming silver, I couldn’t even pretend to myself anymore. My shoulders slumped.
I’m afraid.
Not afraid of meeting his family, or the food, or making small talk.
I was terrified of Matteo, of the way he made me feel.
Even now, my heart picked up speed as I thought of him.
Meeting his family was the natural progression in our relationship.
Heck, I’d already met his sister. But it screamed serious.
I took a deep breath and admitted something to myself that I’d known for a while: I was falling for Matteo. And I was pretty sure he was falling for me.
That last thought caused a fresh wave of guilt.
Matteo had done so much for me—the manual labor, the errands, teaching me to ride the Vespa, taking the trip to Positano.
And even more than those things, there were all the little ways he’d tried to make me feel safe, wanted, seen, and heard.
In return, he’d asked so little of me. And that’s what I’d given him—so little.
Damn it. I’m such an idiot.
I put down the roll of paper towels, no longer having the energy to keep up the farce of cleaning, and something caught my eye on the counter: the letter from Nonna. I remembered what she’d written about a safe.
Behind the counter, I lifted the area rug.
Sure enough, there was a loose tile, just like she’d described.
I grabbed a screwdriver from the closet to pry it out, and underneath I found the safe.
When I opened it, on top was a neat stack of euros, more than I would need to refurnish the whole house.
But it was what I found underneath that made me smile.
A small glass jar of silver glitter with a note that read: Sprinkle liberally when afraid.
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. Leave it to Nonna to turn something so simple into the reminder I needed now more than ever.
I tossed the cash back in the safe, spun the dial to lock it, and didn’t bother putting the tile back before running to the door. Maybe Matteo hadn’t left yet. It was only three thirty, and I wasn’t even sure how long of a drive it was to his parents’ house.
A lump formed in my throat as I ran across the lawn to his driveway and found his truck gone.
Not allowing myself another excuse today, I ran back into the shop, grabbed my phone, and dialed Matteo’s number.
He didn’t answer. Not the second time I tried either.
Determination still pulsed through my veins, so on impulse, I decided to call someone else instead.