Chapter 27
“Nicolo, you must try some of Juliana’s Torta delle Rose,” Nonna urges, cornering Nicolo as he and Lorenzo stop into the kitchen for a drink of water late one morning a few days after our leisurely lunch on the patio. “It is still warm, fresh from the oven.”
Nicolo, who looks unreasonably attractive even clad in grimy work clothes, glances at Lorenzo behind him. Lorenzo shrugs from the doorway. “I never say no to cake,” he tells Nicolo. “The wall can wait.”
“And maybe a little espresso with the torta?” Nonna says, with a calculated gleam in her eye. “Juliana will serve it on the patio. We will join you.” She’s up to something, I can tell, but I’m not sure what.
Nonna makes espressos for all of us while I grab plates.
The sweet, golden brown pastry reminds me a little of cinnamon rolls, minus the cinnamon.
Made of individual portions of brioche dough rolled up around a rich filling of sugar and butter and nestled in a pan, the dessert resembles a basket of roses, hence the name.
The aroma is delectable and my mouth waters.
Alex comes downstairs from her room just in time to join us.
“Wow, that smells good,” she observes, stopping to capture a few candid photos with her phone.
She already got a quality photo of the finished dessert for the cookbook a little earlier right after I pulled the torta from the oven.
I take off my flour-dusted apron, glad I’ve stuck to my policy of trying to look cute at all times in case Nicolo pops up.
Today I’m wearing a tangerine-colored sundress with a halter neck that ties in a bow at the back.
I’ve scarcely seen Nicolo or Lorenzo since the risotto lunch.
They’ve been busy repairing a stone wall that runs between our two properties, and I’ve barely left the kitchen.
Since Nonna’s revelation about my dad, I’ve been remembering more and more things from the past. Throughout the day I’m jotting down memories and recipes as they come to me, keeping a note open on my phone to quickly capture whatever springs to mind.
It’s going well and my list of ideas and memories is getting longer each day.
Nonna and I have also made categories for my cookbook—dividing the fifty recipes between appetizers, main courses, merendas, drinks, and desserts.
Nonna is acting as my sous-chef and recipe adviser.
Alex has been hanging around to take photos and shoot video of our cooking and the finished dishes.
It’s working well. Now, however, instead of starting on another sweet bread recipe, apparently we are taking a break with the men on the patio.
I should be annoyed by the delay but I’m not.
Alex and I follow Nonna out the door, laden with tiny cups of espresso, plates and forks, and the pan of Torta delle Rose.
When we are seated on the patio, I serve everyone generous portions of the torta.
“Isn’t it delicious? Our Juliana is so good in the kitchen,” Nonna says as Nicolo samples his.
She casts a sly glance in my direction, and I narrow my eyes at her.
When we were teenagers, Nonna tried her best to keep Nicolo and me apart.
Now I’m starting to suspect that she is deliberately trying to bring us together.
I’m not sure what her agenda is, but I’m getting the feeling she has one.
“Delicious,” Nicolo assures Nonna, glancing in my direction.
“And how can I say no to such good company?” He winks at me, just the slightest dip of an eyelid.
He sees it too, whatever Nonna is trying to do.
I grin down at my espresso, enjoying the sensation of being on the inside of a joke with him.
I suspect he sees right through Nonna, but he humors her anyway.
“And your grandmother doesn’t mind you being here every day?” Nonna sniffs, looking pleased. I’m pretty sure that she sees feeding Nicolo as a win against Violetta. She likes to win, even if the winning is just feeding Nicolo sweets.
“She knows I am working to repair the fence between our two properties,” he admits with a grin. “I don’t mention how much good food it takes to mend the fence.”
“It’s a long fence,” Lorenzo interjects heartily, mouth full of pastry.
“To long fences,” Nicolo says soberly, raising his espresso cup in a toast. It looks absurdly small in his big hands.
“And old friends,” I add spontaneously.
He tips his head in my direction and shoots me a lingering look I don’t quite know how to decipher. “To old friends,” he agrees. I sip my espresso.
I hear the click of a camera and glance up to find Alex taking photos of us.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, concentrating on her phone. “Just taking some footage for the account.” She gets up and wanders around the patio, stopping every few feet to snap a photo. I think she’s filming some of this too.
Alex launched their TikTok account a few days ago under the name @OlivesandAmore.
It’s a great name, and what she’s posted so far is quality content.
She’s got a good eye and seems to know how to build a brand.
I watched her first post, the video she’d taken of Nonna introducing the farm.
She spliced a few takes together and added a cool indie soundtrack.
I’m impressed. Since then she’s posted a few times each day.
Every time I turn around she has her phone in hand and is filming or photographing something. It seems second nature to her.
“Tell Nicolo how many followers we have now on the TikTok,” Nonna says, sounding eager.
Alex checks her phone. “Um, a little over two thousand,” she says.
“You have two thousand followers already?” I ask, incredulous. “In like three days? That’s really fast.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess people just really like Italy.”
“Of course they do.” Nonna sniffs, slicing another generous portion of torta and giving it to Nicolo without asking. “What’s not to like?”
We’re interrupted by the sound of tires crunching on gravel. A sleek silver Mercedes appears at the mouth of the driveway. Nicolo makes a little choking sound and sets down his espresso cup hard. It clinks in the saucer.
“Porca vacca,” he mutters.
It translates to “pig cow” and is a mild swear of consternation. The car grinds to a halt in the courtyard and the driver’s side door snaps open. A tall, spare figure emerges. I recognize her instantly and my mouth goes dry.
“What’s that strega doing here?” Nonna splutters.
Silently, we all watch the woman advance. Nonna is wearing an expression like she’s just bitten into a lemon. She crosses herself and kisses her thumb, muttering something darkly.
Violetta Fiore, grandmother to Nicolo and Nonna Bruna’s sworn enemy, strides slowly toward us at a stately pace.
Her handsome face is sober, her dark eyes narrowed with displeasure.
She is wearing an all-black dress with a high collar, and her silver hair is pulled back in a high, tight bun.
She is a striking woman, and she carries herself with a gravity and elegance, but the lines of her face are set harshly, her mouth pressed in a grim line.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her smile. She’s certainly not smiling now.
“Who’s that?” Alex breathes.
“Violetta Fiore,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. “Nicolo’s grandmother and one of the most intimidating women alive.”
“Nicolo, what is the meaning of this?” Violetta demands sharply in Italian as she slowly makes her way up the stairs. “I thought you were repairing a wall?”
“We took a break to eat. It’s very hard work.” Lorenzo waves his fork at Violetta. He seems unbothered by her appearance.
Violetta reaches the patio table and shoots Lorenzo a dismissive look. She repeats her question to Nicolo. Nonna stands. Violetta must have six inches on her at least, maybe more, but Nonna refuses to give an inch.
“Your grandson is enjoying a good homemade treat for once,” she says stoutly to Violetta.
Oooh, Nonna Bruna is throwing shade. This is getting juicy.
Alex and I exchange a glance. Violetta gives Nonna a disdainful look, but then catches sight of me and does a double take.
Her nostrils flare in surprise. She stares at me for a long moment.
“You,” she says in English. “So you have come back.” Her tone is flat and frostbitten with an icy disdain.
Then she turns away. Her silence speaks volumes.
I haven’t seen her in years, but all of a sudden I am fifteen again, flushed and chastened and shivered next to Nicolo in the Fiores’ unused stable, wet and half-naked in the cool evening air, facing two feuding nonnas filled with righteous indignation.
“There is a problem with the irrigation system for the citron trees,” Violetta tells Nicolo briskly. “The workers have been looking for you. It’s urgent. We could lose the crop.”
He stands immediately. “Of course. I’ll come back with you.” Violetta turns and heads back to the car without another word. It’s like a little black thundercloud moving away from us as she goes. I sigh with relief.
“I’m sorry.” Nicolo meets my eyes, his mouth twisting with a rueful smile of regret. “The torta was delicious.” He glances at Lorenzo. “I’ll be back to help with the wall as soon as I can,” he says.
Lorenzo waves him away with a fork, chewing philosophically. “A man has to do what a man has to do.”
We watch as the Mercedes disappears down the long drive.
“Wow.” Alex whistles. “She’s terrifying.”
Nonna snorts. “That woman’s heart is as black and ugly as her dress,” she scoffs.
Alex and I exchange another glance. “Nonna, why do you hate Violetta so much?” I ask, emboldened to ask the question I’ve wondered about for years.
Nonna shakes her head. She puts her hands on her hips and frowns. “It was too long ago. I don’t remember.”
I don’t believe her for one minute. Nonna’s mind is as sharp as a newly honed paring knife. She just doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Can’t let a good pastry go to waste.” Lorenzo reaches over to Nicolo’s plate and spears his uneaten torta.
“Let’s get back to work,” I tell Nonna and Alex.
We are on a roll, and I can’t let anything slow me down.
With every day that passes, every memory I recall, every recipe we create, the tightness in my chest eases just a little.
Even without the help of the magical cookbook, I’m beginning to believe that there’s a good chance we will be able to pull this off.
“Eye on the prize, Juliana,” I tell myself, then turn to the kitchen to get back to cooking.