Chapter 37
Nicolo kisses his way down the slope of my throat, and I go boneless. He lifts his head and chuckles into the shell of my ear. “You like that, yes?” He nips my earlobe. I make a little whimper.
Suddenly there is a blindingly bright light that floods the room.
“Merda! What is the meaning of this?” a strident voice cries out in Italian.
I jump back with a shriek, squinting in the harsh glare. Someone’s turned the overhead light on. Nicolo stumbles back too, raising a hand to shield his eyes.
“Nonna V.?” he says in surprise.
“Violetta?” I squeak, meeting the scalpel gaze of Nicolo’s grandmother, who is standing in the open doorway in her long black dress with a thunderous look of righteous indignation on her face and her hand on the light switch.
A skinny white dog darts around her skirts and runs into the room barking.
As soon as it sees Nicolo, the dog rushes over to him, wagging its tail and groveling.
“Nicolo! Explain yourself.” Violetta speaks in rapid-fire Italian, coming into the room and gesturing angrily to the open safe.
“What do you two think you are doing?” She looks furious.
Immediately, I feel fifteen again. All traces of my tipsy euphoria and desire drain away, leaving me feeling rudely sober.
“We are…um…” Nicolo darts a glance at me.
“We’re looking for the missing half of the recipe for Orange Blossom Cake,” I say firmly, surprising myself with my courage. At those words, a peculiar look crosses Violetta’s face, just a flicker of alarm but enough for me to know she knows something.
“What is this foolishness?” she demands. “You break into my office, into my safe? I should call the polizia and have you both arrested for trying to steal my personal property.”
At this Nicolo seems to regain his composure.
“Come on, Nonna V.,” he says with an edge of amusement to his voice.
“Try it. All the local police know me. They know I’m your grandson.
In fact, the chief of police owes me a favor and a beer.
They won’t arrest me. Or Jules for that matter.
” He scratches the dog behind the ears, murmuring endearments to it in Italian.
The dog’s tongue lolls out of its mouth and its tail thumps hard against the floor.
Violetta gazes between us, scowling with annoyance.
“It’s always trouble with you two,” she says grimly, her long lips pressed together into a thin line.
She’s an elegant woman, tall and slender with ramrod posture.
But there’s a hardness to her expression that I’ve always found intimidating.
She perpetually looks as though she were tasting something bitter.
“You are too old for this nonsense,” she scolds us. “Sneaking around. Acting like children. Nicolo, go inside. I will talk with you later. And you.” She points one long finger at me. “Go home and stay away from my grandson.”
“No.” I surprise myself with my refusal.
She stares at me for a long moment. “What did you say?” She looks genuinely shocked. I’m not sure anyone ever says no to Violetta Fiore.
I cross my arms, darting a quick look at Nicolo. He is watching me with a raised eyebrow and a look of respect. Even the dog is staring at me, tail wagging uncertainly. “I won’t go. Not without the recipe. I know you have it. It belongs to my family. Give it back.”
She rears back as though I’ve struck her. “Do you even know what you are asking for?” she hisses.
For a moment I waver. She’s right. I don’t really know what I’m asking for, not entirely.
I know it’s half of a torn recipe, but I don’t understand the history of the recipe between Violetta and Nonna Bruna.
“I know enough to know that it has value to my Nonna Bruna and that you took it,” I say, lifting my chin.
“It’s valuable enough that she says losing it ruined her life.
” I’m surprising myself with my own tenacity. I can’t back down now.
An astonishing change comes over Violetta at my words. She stares at me, dumbstruck for a moment. Then her expression shifts and softens to something that looks almost like regret. Quietly, she asks, “Bruna told you this?”
I hesitate, then nod. “She did.”
Violetta looks up at the ceiling and mutters something.
I think she’s either praying or swearing; I can’t tell which.
“Sit down, both of you,” she says, sighing heavily and pointing to the two rigid chairs facing the desk.
She rounds the desk and sits down in her own chair, lifting an old black landline telephone from its cradle.
The dog slinks over to her and sprawls beneath the desk, keeping a friendly but watchful eye on me.
She dials a number and waits, then barks out a few phrases in rapid Italian, so fast I can’t quite catch them.
Then she replaces the phone in its receiver, folds her hands, and sits back motionless in the chair.
She gazes up at the ceiling with a long-suffering pinched look usually reserved for saints in their moment of martyrdom.
“What’s she doing?” I ask Nicolo from the side of my mouth. “Who did she call?”
“Bruna,” Nicolo says softly. “She said she’d caught thieves on her property and it was a family matter. She told her to come quickly.”
“Nonna is coming here?”
Nicolo nods, looking uncomfortable. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Well good, maybe we’ll finally get some answers.” I settle back in the stiff chair, feeling curious and a little apprehensive. Silently, we wait.