Chapter 14
“Who was that …?” Alex says in a slightly awed tone. She’s gazing after Nicolo like she’s just seen the Second Coming of Christ. It’s the first time she hasn’t looked either bored or skeptical since I picked her up in New York.
“That’s Violetta’s grandson. We were…friends when we were younger,” I tell her. It’s a pitifully inadequate explanation for the boy who was once the center of my world.
“Are all Italian guys that hot?” she asks, a note of grudging admiration in her voice.
“Ew, Nicolo’s almost old enough to be your father,” I scold her.
“So?” She rolls her eyes and goes back to her brioche. “Everyone I know has an old dad. Dad is fifteen years older than Mom. It’s, like, not uncommon.”
“Maybe, but at your age it’s also illegal,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes and unzips the backpack sitting by her chair, pulling out her headphones and phone and retreating into her own world.
I hastily down my caffellatte, deciding to go get dressed before anything else unexpected happens.
I make a solemn vow not to ever again come downstairs unless I’m wearing appropriately cute clothes and have at least looked at myself in the mirror, front and back.
Then I firmly put Nicolo from my mind. I’ve wasted enough time this morning.
I can’t just sit around all morning drinking delicious coffee and mooning over an old flame who has matured into an extremely hot olive farmer.
I can’t forget why I’m here. I have work to do.
First things first…I have to find Nonna’s cookbook.
Nonna is still outside. I can hear her in the courtyard, bossing the men around in rapid-fire Italian.
I take my dishes to the sink and decide to do a quick search for the cookbook before I get dressed, just for a minute.
I peruse the built-in cubbies and open shelves.
Nothing. There’s a heavy old buffet under the window on one side of the kitchen.
I remember its drawers were always filled with a fascinating jumble of items. When I was a child, I loved to sift through them, poring over the huge iron keys, spools of twine, nubs of pencils, and bits and pieces of farm life inside.
I pull open a few drawers now, finding a stack of linen napkins in one, a mixture of junk in another.
Then I pull open the top drawer, where I remember Nonna kept some of her more treasured and often-used possessions.
And there, under the mother-of-pearl rosary Nonna’s mother had gifted her, I spy a familiar caramel-colored cover.
My heart leaps in recognition and relief. I’ve found the cookbook.
I ease it out of the drawer, smoothing my fingers over the calfskin cover worn soft and buttery with handling.
It is spotted with grease stains and heavy in my hand, though not particularly big, about the size of a hardcover novel.
I heave a sigh of relief. This is the book that is going to save everything.
But then I pause. Nonna told me last night she didn’t know where the cookbook was, but it’s here, in the drawer of her most treasured possessions.
She prays the rosary every morning and night using those special rosary beads from her mother.
So how could she not have known the cookbook was in this drawer?
It makes no sense. I frown, puzzled. Why would she not tell me where it was? Is she growing forgetful?
I file the question away to ponder later, and turn back to the book.
It’s been so long since I held it in my hands.
There are so many delicious recipes inside.
I can’t wait to see them all again. Where should I start?
I think of our special choosing game. Every morning Nonna would hand me the book after breakfast, and I would close my eyes and flip to a page without peeking.
When I opened my eyes, we would make whatever recipe I’d turned to.
It had been our little shared ritual. I always got to choose, but only at random, and with my eyes closed.
Every time I played, the result would surprise and delight me.
No matter the recipe, it always seemed to be exactly what we needed for the day.
On the day I flipped the book open to a recipe for anicini, we made dozens and dozens of the anise-flavored cookies.
They reminded me of a very thin, crunchy, flat waffle, and I loved using the anicini maker to imprint a beautiful pattern on each one.
We made over a hundred cookies, and just when we were done, a neighbor stopped by to invite us to an impromptu neighborhood party.
We boxed up the anicini and took them to the party, pleased to have something to contribute.
On the day Aurora came down with the flu one summer, I opened to a recipe for a simple chicken soup.
The recipes always seemed to show up at the perfect time, as though the book was somehow offering us just what we needed every time we opened it. To my young heart it felt magical.
I decide to play the game again now, just for old times’ sake.
I glance over at Alex, but she’s absorbed in her phone and has her headphones on.
I almost interrupt her to show her the book, but she doesn’t look like she would welcome the intrusion.
I close my eyes and flip the book open to somewhere in the middle.
Then I focus on the page, eager to see what recipe I’ve turned to.
But there is no recipe. The page is blank.
Puzzled, I turn to the next page and the next, but they are blank too.
“What in the world?” I frown in confusion.
This is Nonna’s recipe book. I can still see the charcoal smudges of my childish fingerprints on the spine from the time I touched the inside of the cold fireplace and then picked up the book without washing my hands.
But where are all the recipes? It has always been brimming with recipes.
I riffle through all the pages, but each one is the same, completely blank.
“Juliana, what are you doing?” I glance up with a start. Nonna is standing in the doorway from the courtyard, watching me with a questioning gaze. Her tone is a little sharp.
“Trying to find the recipes we used to make together,” I say, fanning the pages again to see if I somehow missed something. “But it’s all blank. What happened to them?”
Nonna looks surprised. “Show me.” She hurries over and I show her.
“See?”
She blinks in astonishment. “How could this be?” she murmurs to herself. “Try another page,” she commands. I do. That page is blank too.
“Try another,” she tells me. Obediently, I flip to another page. Same result.
“They’re all blank,” I tell her. “Where are the recipes?” There is an edge of panic in my voice.
Nonna leans forward and looks from the book to me and back again, ignoring my question. She makes a hmm ing noise in her throat. “Very peculiar,” she murmurs, frowning.
I’m thoroughly confused and more than a little perturbed. “What’s going on? What’s peculiar?”
“Nothing.” Nonna reaches for the book, and I hand it to her.
Except when I glance down at the book in her hand, the page that was completely blank a moment before is no longer empty.
Instead it now holds half of a recipe, with ingredients and instructions written in an ornate script.
I can see the torn edge running right down the middle of the recipe, cutting it in two and showing only half the ingredients and instructions.
The other half of the page is just blank white paper.
I stare at it in astonishment. Where did that come from?
I could have sworn the entire page was completely blank, just a moment before.
Am I seeing things? I squint at the page in confusion.
“You don’t want this old thing,” Nonna says firmly, starting to shut the book. “Let me find you something better.”
I put out a hand to stop her. “What’s this recipe?
” I point to the writing on the page. It is in Italian, and I can just read the recipe title, scrawled in large cursive above the incomplete ingredients list. Torta Fioritura Degli Aranci.
I translate it in my head. Orange Blossom Cake. That sounds yummy…and intriguing.
Nonna shuts the book with a firm snap. “That is nothing,” she says, avoiding my eyes.
“What’s Orange Blossom Cake?” I ask.
Nonna presses her lips together and replaces the cookbook in the drawer, shutting it with a little more force than seems necessary.
“An old recipe from the past that has brought enough trouble for a lifetime.” But she does not meet my eyes.
I have the distinct feeling there is a lot she isn’t saying.
“Nonna, where are all the recipes we used to make together?” I ask in consternation. “I thought they were all in that book.”
She hesitates.
“They are not there, mia cara,” she tells me gently. “They are gone.”
“Gone?” My hope sinks like a stone. “What do you mean, gone?” I need those recipes. So much is depending on them. There is a looming deadline, a waiting publisher, and a fairly large sum of money at stake. Not to mention any chance I have of saving my show. So basically everything.