Chapter 30
“I think I got some good shots,” Alex steps back from an artfully arranged plate of freshly baked brioche and cornetto. She flips through the photographs she’s just taken on her phone, scrutinizing them critically, and then nods. “These are good enough to use.”
She’s been with Nonna and me since I got back from delivering lemonade and has been filming and photographing us filling the brioche with apricot jam and shaping the cornetto into the familiar croissant shape.
Cornettos are the Italian cousin of the French croissant.
Not as buttery and flaky as a croissant due to the use of eggs in the dough, they are an iconic Italian pastry and utterly delicious.
While brioche are usually eaten only for breakfast in Northern Italy, cornetto are considered appropriate for anytime.
Sometimes they are filled with custard or chocolate. The jam-filled ones are my favorite.
“What’s for lunch?” Alex asks, her stomach making a loud gurgling noise. It’s early afternoon and I realize we’ve been busy and worked through lunch.
“What about that pizza recipe the cookbook showed you?” I pull the cookbook from the drawer and hand it to Alex.
There is no use in me opening it. I know what I’ll see.
I’ve opened the book a dozen times over the past days, hoping that I might finally see a recipe now that I am recalling memories and recipes from my past. Apparently not.
It’s still showing me just a blank page. Alex opens the cookbook.
“It’s still the vegetarian pizza recipe,” she announces.
Nonna peers over her shoulder at the recipe.
“That’s an easy one to make,” she says. “We have all the ingredients.” She taps the list of ingredients on the page.
When her finger touches the page the words change.
For a brief instant I see an unfamiliar list of ingredients where the pizza toppings just were.
Olive oil. Sugar. Orange blossom extract.
Nonna pulls her hand back sharply and the words instantly disappear, replaced by the vegetarian pizza recipe once more.
I glance at her. She is carefully not looking at me.
I don’t say anything about what I saw. She is so obviously hiding something about that recipe. I’m burning with curiosity.
“Let’s make this pizza for lunch.” I scan the pizza recipe, careful not to touch the book.
Together we tackle the recipe. Nonna expertly rolls out the pizza dough, and Alex chops the vegetables.
She’s clumsy and admits that she doesn’t know anything about cooking.
“I don’t think I’ve ever chopped vegetables before,” she says shyly.
I show her how to hold the knife, and Nonna lets her sprinkle the toppings on the pizza.
Alex pauses now and then to shoot video footage and take photos for TikTok.
She films Nonna and me teasing each other, and Nonna’s strong, gnarled hands rolling out the pizza dough, capturing the feeling of warmth and productivity in the kitchen.
I’ve never seen Alex look so happy. I put music on my phone, some Lady Gaga, whom Alex bashfully admits she likes.
Nonna is scandalized by the music until I tell her Lady Gaga is Italian, which seems to mollify her.
When it comes out of the oven, we carry the pizza outside to the patio.
It smells heavenly, the yeasty fresh crust brushed with olive oil and garlic and covered in basil, mushrooms, artichokes, and fresh mozzarella.
We sit at the shady end of the table, glasses of cold lemonade sweating in front of us.
The afternoon sun is fierce. The men are still working on the wall.
Nonna had Alex deliver sandwiches to them while the pizza was baking.
Now it’s the height of the afternoon heat, and all around us the air is filled with the sound of bees drunkenly buzzing in the fragrant lavender planted around the perimeter of the low patio wall.
There is no breeze and everything is still and drowsy.
“This smells amazing,” Alex comments, leaning forward to grab a slice. “I’ve never had homemade pizza before.”
For a few moments, the only sound is the humming of the bees and our contented chewing. After a little while, I boldly broach the question that’s been on my mind since the first time I saw Nonna touch the recipe book.
“Nonna, what is Orange Blossom Cake?”
She doesn’t answer for a long moment. She darts a look at me, then sighs and sets down her pizza. “A recipe that leads only to misery.”
“What do you mean?” She’s been evasive before, but this time I press the issue.
“I mean the recipe doesn’t work,” she says shortly.
“What’s it supposed to do?” Alex takes another slice of pizza and chews, watching Nonna curiously.
For a moment Nonna balks, then she looks from me to Alex and sighs heavily.
“Every recipe in this book has the potential to help someone in need. The recipes work in many different ways, depending on the individual’s circumstances,” she explains, “but the recipe for Orange Blossom Cake is special. The person who takes the first bite of the cake will see a vision of the sweetest moment of happiness that awaits them in life.”
“Whoa, what?” Alex says, wide-eyed. We exchange a skeptical look.
“They see a vision of the happiest moment of their lives?” I clarify. It seems so fantastical.
Nonna nods. “The cookbook has offered this recipe to dozens of people over the years, and each time the vision they see comes true. It is a powerful thing, to catch a glimpse of your future, of the happiness that awaits you.”
For once Alex isn’t on her phone. She’s listening intently, a slice of pizza forgotten in her hand, looking rapt but a little doubtful.
I feel the same way, but the idea of a cake that shows you the happiest moment of your future is tantalizing.
What could it reveal? Who you will love and possibly marry?
If you’ll have children? Or something else entirely.
A major accomplishment in your career? A moment of pure bliss on a dream vacation?
The possibilities are endless. If you could see the happiest moment of your life, wouldn’t you want to?
“Did you ever make the recipe?” I ask, intrigued. “What did you see?”
Nonna sits back. “I saw nothing,” she says, her mouth twisting as though she’s bitten into something bitter. “I did not make the cake. You cannot make the cake with half a recipe.”
“What happened to the other half?” I sense that we’re getting close to the heart of the mystery.
“The other half is in the possession of Violetta Fiore,” Nonna says grimly.
My jaw drops open. “Nicolo’s grandmother? She has the other half of the recipe? Why?”
Nonna scowls. “She was once my best friend,” she says, her lips thinning with contempt, “but then she betrayed our promise to each other and our friendship.”
“What did she do?” I hold my breath. This feels like two secrets in one—the mystery of the torn cake recipe and the reason for Violetta and Nonna’s decades-long feud. I am eager to know the answer to both.
“She destroyed my life and my chance at happiness. I have never forgiven her.” Nonna slaps her hands on the table and says the words with such quiet ferocity that it sends a shiver up my spine.
Alex and I exchange a dumbfounded look. What did Violetta do that betrayed Nonna and destroyed her life?
But when I ask her about it, Nonna refuses to say more.
“It’s time to get back to work, girls,” she says, getting to her feet with a little groan.
She’s so short that standing up she’s only a little taller than I am sitting down.
“We have more baking to do. This afternoon we are tackling desserts, are we not?” Frowning, she stumps off wordlessly down the stairs toward the house.
Across the table, Alex gazes at me, wide-eyed. “Do you think it’s true?” she asks. “Could a cake actually show you the happiest moment of your life?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what’s possible anymore,” I tell her honestly, “but I guess it doesn’t matter if there’s only half a recipe. We’ll never know if it’s true or not.”
I think of Nicolo then, wondering if he knows anything about the recipe for Orange Blossom Cake. Is it possible Violetta still has the other half?
When I glance over, Alex is already on her phone again, tapping away. “I just want to finish this post,” she murmurs. I clear away the pizza mess from the table, stacking the plates and gathering the glasses, warm now and sticky with lemonade. Alex finally pushes her chair back. “There. Done.”
“What did you post?” I ask, my hands full of our dishes.
“Us.” She holds out her phone to show me.
It’s a thirty-second montage of us making the pizza, laughing and working in fast forward, then a slow shot of our hands all reaching for the freshly baked slices.
She’s set it to a poignant soundtrack. The montage captures the sense of family and togetherness, but there’s a sense of the fleetingness of time too.
She really has a knack for this. She’s got good instincts artistically and she’s also good at capturing the emotion of a moment.
I note that the @OlivesandAmore account already has almost five thousand followers. That’s very fast growth.
“You’re really talented at this,” I tell her honestly, handing her the phone back.
Alex blushes and shrugs off the compliment. “People just like Italy, I guess. It probably wouldn’t matter who was holding the camera.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true. Anyone can take a picture or shoot a video, but you’re showing viewers Italy in a way that’s really engaging. You’re making it beautiful but also meaningful. It feels like real life.”
Alex looks embarrassed. “Thanks.” She tucks the phone in her pocket and hesitates for a moment. “And thanks for making the pizza,” she says finally. “No one’s ever made a recipe just for me.”
“Oh yeah?” I sense she wants to say more. Lisa isn’t really much of a cook, or much of an eater for that matter.
“It was…nice,” she says. “To do it together.” She lingers for a moment.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her. “We can make pizza together anytime.”
I recall what Nonna said about pizza, that it helps bring people together. The pizza did exactly that tonight. Somehow it has bridged a little more of the gap between us.
Alex gives me a quick, ironic little smile. “Anytime until the end of summer, though, right?” she says. She sounds a little wistful.
“Right, until the end of summer,” I tell her. “So let’s make the most of it.”
Alex shoots me a cryptic look, then grabs her backpack and a stack of sticky glasses and goes down the steps and into the house. I watch her go, feeling somehow like I failed to answer a question I didn’t know she was asking. I think I’ve disappointed her, but I’m not quite sure how.
Turning my attention away from the puzzle of teenagers, I clear the rest of the table and wash the dishes.
Hands in a sink of warm, soapy water, I think about what Nonna told us, about the supposed magic of the Orange Blossom Cake recipe.
What if it really were true? If I took a bite of that cake, what would I see?
I close my eyes and try to picture the happiest day of my life. Maybe my wedding day—walking down the aisle in a tea-length white dress with a bouquet of poppies to meet a hazy (but definitely handsome) man? Or getting Keith to reconsider and finally give us a limited-run series on Netflix?
Unbidden, my mind flashes to an image—me tucked up in bed in a whitewashed room on a rainy Saturday morning, cuddling under a fluffy duvet with someone, warm and safe in our little pocket of comfort.
The man beside me in bed is shirtless, with golden olive skin and warm, dark eyes.
He reaches for me with a languid half smile of amusement and I see that it’s Nicolo.
I jump back, eyes flying open, splashing soapy water onto the floor and almost dropping a wet plate. I’m blushing furiously.
“Get yourself together, Juliana,” I scold myself. “Stop it.”
I fan myself, opening the window above the sink. Is it hot in here? Great, just great. I’m going to have to look at him over the lunch table tomorrow and try not to think about him nibbling my earlobe like a plump, ripe apricot.
I dry my hands and pull out my phone, checking my texts in an attempt to distract myself and simmer down. There’s a text from Aurora with a picture of Doris standing placidly in the middle of their kitchen, chewing on what looks like a hand-spun linen dish towel.
How’s the Italian hottie? Has he seen your cute lace bra yet?
I drop my phone back in my pocket and focus on the dishes, vigorously scrubbing the melted cheese from the plates.
I came to Italy with very clear goals. I need to refocus on those.
I can’t afford any more distractions, even if those distractions have adorable dimples and dark curls and smell like sun-ripened olives and good coffee.
I cannot afford to forget why I came back to Italy in the first place.
Firmly putting all the thoughts of Nicolo and the Orange Blossom Cake out of my mind, I get back to work.