Chapter 8 #2
Although now he thought about it, when Hugh had shuffled into the kitchen earlier, telling him how Amy had commented how much she wanted to help in a professional kitchen, it had thrown him.
Why would she choose to spend time with him if she found him so colourless?
Regardless of his thoughts, when she’d asked if he needed any help that evening, it seemed the only path was to accept her offer with a smile and as much good grace as he could muster.
Unable to shake the feeling that it was going to be a tricky evening, the one thing he didn’t have to worry about was watching every move she made with the food.
As he eased the focaccia dough into the baking tray, pressing the customary dimples into it before rubbing the surface with olive oil, he asked her to cut out the tough stalky bits from a bowl of plum tomatoes he’d already soaked in hot water and peeled, then to roughly chop them up.
A glance to check her progress reassured him she clearly understood the assignment and didn’t require further explanation or support.
As he sprinkled the dough with sea salt and stuck in the last few sprigs of rosemary, Amy turned and asked for her next task. He shoved the tray into the oven and wiped his oily hands, then set her going with the rest of the ingredients for the tomato sauce.
She gently softened crushed garlic and fresh herbs in a glug of olive oil in a large, flat-bottomed pan, and he set about slicing and preparing the aubergine.
Apart from Amy asking if he ever put red wine in a tomato sauce, or some butter – decent questions as both ingredients added an extra element to a pasta sauce – they worked in silence.
Tad became aware of the creeping awkwardness of the quiet.
There was a tension in the air. It felt as though they’d had an argument, and it had left them making the best of having to be in the same room together.
It was such a change from the first evening, when they’d chatted and laughed and Tad had imagined how it might feel to get close to her while they made that peach tart.
The need to make conversation had him clearing his throat.
‘So, I hear you visited Limone del Garda today,’ he said.
‘We did. Just when you think the scenery around here can’t get any more spectacular, it manages to do exactly that. Lake Garda is an awesome place, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘Wait until you take the cable car up to Monte Baldo. I haven’t made it up there yet – been too busy here – but they say that the view is fantastic, and even better if you hike along to Monte Altissimo.’
‘Hiking? Not sure that’s going to feature highly on Billie’s list. She says she wants to do the cable car ride, but I don’t think her enthusiasm for adventuring will reach much further than the coffee house at the top.
When we were working on the Billie Does the Alps book she never went skiing once. ’
Tad glanced across. ‘Really?’
‘Apparently, she spent far too many of her formative years being forced down icy ski slopes by her father to want to do it again from choice. And it wasn’t as though Malcolm or I know one end of a ski pole from the other, so in the end we went up in the cable cars, and staged a whole load of photos that made it look as though she was about to head down a difficult slope—’
‘Probably a black run,’ he said, relaxing into familiar territory. The winter seasons he’d spent working in the mountains of the French Alps, cooking for guests in catered chalets, hadn’t been spent entirely in the kitchen.
‘You know about skiing?’
‘I worked in the French Alps for a while, spent a couple of winters cheffing in private catered chalets.’
‘Ah, OK. We were in one of those, too. Billie blagged it from one of her friends, apparently. We stayed for a fortnight in a postcard-perfect chalet on the edge of a village called Base de Nuages.’
‘Base de Nuages?’ Tad was taken aback by the coincidence. ‘That’s where I worked – it was a couple of seasons ago, though. When were you there?’
‘That’s so weird – we were probably there at the same time. Maybe we bumped into one another in a snowy street and have no memory of it. And now we’re here, making aubergine-lasagne-whatsit together.’
Tad caught himself before he said the words that had popped into his head.
I would have remembered bumping into you.
Not only inappropriate, but the thought was also ridiculous, because back then his head was scrambled and his life was in tatters, his grief as raw and painful as an open wound.
There was no way he’d have noticed anyone, not in that way.
Even though there was no doubt Amy was stunning and, despite her clear lack of interest in him, he’d done little else but notice her since she’d arrived at Casa del Cibo.
He supposed he should take the thought as a positive: a sign that he was finally moving forward.
Not that it mattered, either way, if Amy’s emotions were already entangled elsewhere. Tad smiled. ‘It’s aubergine parmigiana, but I suppose lasagne-whatsit is close enough.’
Amy grinned at him, then turned back to the pan. ‘I think the garlic is softened. Shall I add the tomatoes?’
Tad took a moment to answer, his attention taken by the soft curve of the back of her neck. His desire to kiss it hadn’t diminished – to start at the top of her spine and go all the way down with his lips. He only realised he hadn’t answered her question when she turned and frowned at him.
‘Yes. Some vinegar and a bit of sugar, too, please.’
This was ridiculous. She was already involved with someone – and even though he had no idea who the man was, Tad felt a surge of jealousy.
Hard though it might be, it was clear Amy didn’t see him in that way, and he had other things to concentrate on – his career, for example, and Clare’s imminent arrival.
In an attempt to gain control of his thoughts, Tad allowed himself to slip back in time.
Back to that winter in Base de Nuages. Alongside losing himself in his work, the opportunity to kamikaze his way down slopes with next to zero concern about his safety had been one of the many coping mechanisms he’d used to deal with a life without Honor.
His lack of concern if he ended up being brought down the mountain in a box had slowly waned, finally disappearing entirely when he met Clare.
At the time, he remembered thinking it impossible to believe anyone could be suffering more than he had, until he discovered Clare had not only lost her husband in a horrific car smash, but also her two-year-old daughter.
The rawness of her pain had prompted Tad to open up about his own grief, and for the first time since Honor’s death he had no longer felt alone.
Since that time, Tad and Clare had been in regular contact.
They met up frequently, and even though Tad continued his nomadic ways while Clare stayed put in the UK, the bond they had forged was as strong as any he’d known.
They’d promised to be one another’s support system for as long as they needed one another.
Which was why he couldn’t wait to see her and find out her latest news.
Clare had been coy about the reason she’d chosen to visit Casa del Cibo, and Tad had a feeling whatever it was, it was going to be big.
He watched Amy as she stirred the tomato sauce, found it hard to look anywhere else.
It was strange to think they might have been in the same place before, might have met two years previously if the sliding doors of life had worked in a different pattern.
Maybe back then Amy had been looking for someone to fall in love with, whereas for him at that time, a thought like that couldn’t have been further from his mind.
And now it seemed the tables were turning, for Tad, at least.
With the individual dishes of parmigiane assembled and bubbling in the oven, and the resting focaccia filling the entire space with a rosemary-infused fresh baked smell, Amy threaded onto skewers the last of the harissa-coated king prawns and mini chorizo sausages they’d already grilled.
To accompany them for the starter, Tad mixed a garlic mayonnaise dip and checked his watch.
‘How are we doing for time?’ Amy said, laying the final skewer on the serving platter.
‘All good,’ he said. ‘I think we should try one, don’t you?’
Tad picked up a skewer, oil tricking onto his fingers as he held it out to her. Their fingers brushed together as she took it from him, and he found himself transfixed as she pulled off one of the prawns.
‘Try both together,’ he suggested, and she freed a piece of sausage, popping both in her mouth.
Her expression as she chewed did something to the very base of Tad’s stomach – well, that’s where the sensation started, before it travelled farther south. He’d never realised watching someone eat could be so damn sexy. What the hell was he doing to himself?
‘That’s so tasty,’ she said, then licked at her oily fingers, which did nothing to help cool Tad’s jets, and handed back the skewer. ‘Your turn.’
With the skewer emptied, he binned the oily wooden stick as Amy pressed an index finger to her lips.
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ Then a frown pinched at the soft skin of her forehead. ‘I’ve really enjoyed myself – thank you.’
‘Always happy for any of our attendees to help out – any opportunity to learn is worth taking,’ he said. It sounded off-hand, as though he wouldn’t have cared who had spent the last couple of hours with him, as though he was simply reciting a passage from the cookery school’s glossy brochure.
What he should have said was that while he would always do his best to accommodate any of the guests’ wishes to experience the workings of a professional kitchen, her skills were obvious and had made prepping for the meal a breeze.