Chapter 26
“Delizioso!” Lorenzo declares enthusiastically, scooping up another spoonful of my freshly prepared Risotto con la tinca.
Everyone is enjoying a late lunch on the flagstone patio under the olive trees, seated at one end of the long wooden table.
Today I’ve made two risotto recipes, and I dish up a plate of the second one, Risotto all’Amarone, for Nicolo.
Much to my surprise, he has joined us for the meal.
Alex is snapping photos of the dishes, and trying to capture the ambiance of the patio with candid shots of us at the table, all the while sneaking little glances at Nicolo.
Nicolo pours wine for all of us, then holds the bottle aloft and raises an eyebrow, tipping his head toward Alex.
“A little wine for everyone?” he asks.
I hesitate, then nod. I started drinking a little wine at family meals when I was younger than Alex. “Sure, when in Italy…”
Alex shoots me a grateful glance, which I appreciate. I’ve never gotten to feel like the cool older sister before. I like the sensation.
Nicolo pours a very modest portion of wine into a glass and hands it to Alex, who blushes beet red. She appears to have momentarily lost the ability to speak. She scurries to her chair and buries her nose in her glass.
Nicolo pours a generous glug of white wine into my glass and Nonna’s too.
I sit across from him and take a sip, letting the delicious, cold, crisp liquid slide down my throat.
It is perfect with the risotto. Everything in this moment is perfect, actually.
After my conversation with Nonna about my dad’s death, I’m feeling more relaxed than I’ve felt in forever.
No, not relaxed. Relieved. I’m feeling relieved of the secret burden of guilt I’ve carried for so many years.
It’s a gloriously light feeling, and I’m savoring everything about this moment.
The lemony sunlight filtering through the olive branches, the call of birds and hum of insects, the unhurried pace of an Italian meal. I gaze around in satisfaction.
After the kitchen, the patio has always been my favorite part of the farm.
A century ago some enterprising ancestor carved a picturesque entertaining area out of the hillside next to the house and laid a somewhat level flagstone floor.
The patio sits slightly above and to the right of the farmhouse, nestled among the olive trees and overlooking the lake below.
It is accessed by a short flight of stairs from the gravel courtyard.
Surrounded by a low stone wall, the patio has a long weathered wooden table under ancient, gnarled olive trees strung with café lights.
Sitting at the table, you feel as though you are at the edge of the world—so high above everything in the most tranquil, serene spot.
Meals here are never hurried. Time moves more slowly.
Beside me Alex is poking at the plate of risotto. For a picky eater she’s been fairly adventurous, but red wine–soaked risotto seems to be testing her limits.
Nonna samples both types of risotto, pursing her lips, assessing. “Ottimi!” she declares finally. “These are both very good.”
That is high praise coming from her. I beam, satisfied.
Five recipes down, forty-five to go. I’m feeling hopeful.
Even while I was making the risotto, a few more snatches of memory came back to me, along with a handful of dishes that were special to me from childhood.
Nonna stirred the risotto while I hastily scribbled a list—a few sentences describing the memory and the name of the corresponding dish. It’s a good start.
I take a bite of my risotto and am startled by the flavor. Nonna is right, it is delicious! The prized, intensely flavored Amarone della Valpolicella wine combined with the local Monte Veronese cheese makes a richly satisfying risotto. It’s simple and perfectly balanced.
“Dad would have loved everything about this lunch,” I say wistfully. “He loved risotto and he loved eating on this patio.”
Nonna nods. “Tony always loved it out here, even as a small boy, even when it was cold or raining. He liked to always keep one eye on the water. He loved the lake.” She takes another spoonful of risotto, her expression a little distant and sad, as though she’s seeing memories all around her.
“Tony and I used to play briscolone out here in the evenings after the work was done,” Lorenzo mused, holding his plate out for more Risotto con la tinca. I oblige, giving him another heaping spoonful serving.
“Sometimes you were out here playing before the work was done,” Nonna comments dryly. Nicolo chokes on a sip of wine, casting an amused look at me.
Lorenzo gives Nonna a slow smile. “I miss those days,” he says. “Those were good days.”
“They were,” she says simply. “And now we have good days once more.”
He nods, not taking his eyes from her. There’s some sort of message passing between them that I’m not privy to. I take a sip of wine, watching them, trying to decode their cryptic communication.
“Not now.” She shakes her head, her words so quiet I almost don’t catch them. “This is not the time.”
I translate the Italian in my head. What can she mean?
Time for what? Nonna looks away after a second, but Lorenzo’s eyes are still fixed on her.
A brief expression crosses his face, so fleeting I almost think I’ve imagined it.
It surprises me, the tender, raw emotion in his gaze.
It looks an awful lot like longing. Startled, I glance at Nonna, then around the table.
No one else seems to have noticed anything.
I turn my focus back to my plate, but still I wonder.
Could Lorenzo have feelings for Nonna? The thought is intriguing yet perhaps not all that surprising.
They’ve been living here for so long, just the two of them.
If it is indeed true, how long has he felt like this?
Why has he never done anything about it?
And what is the secret they are harboring between them?
I am determined to figure it out before I leave Italy.