Chapter 21
I consider skipping Belpagna, but my need for sustenance before a slammed Saturday is paramount.
Although as I walk the short distance, Palio paraphernalia surrounding me and that same stray cat following along like a shadow ensuring I get to Emilia, I know there’s more than just sustenance on my mind.
I open the door, and whatever my face is doing makes Emilia cock her head to the side and examine me with a whisper of a sly smile. She’s got on a neon-pink scarf, and I’m not sure today was the day I needed her to be radiating peppiness.
She makes my tea and sets a tart I haven’t seen before in front of me. “It’s a chunky sweet tomato jam on a shortbread. I’m trying it; it’s not quite there yet.”
I take a bite and then practically inhale the whole thing. I’m starving from my unplanned extracurricular evening exercise, but that’s not the reason I’m already asking her for another one. “When you say ‘not quite there yet,’ do you mean absolute perfection in every way?”
She scoffs, but I can see the smile she’s trying hard to hide. Emilia makes it clear she doesn’t believe most people’s compliments, but she also knows I don’t bullshit. So it squeezes my heart a bit to know that I may be one of the few people whose accolades might tunnel past her skepticism.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” she says.
My brow furrows. “What subject?”
She circles a finger around my face. “Whatever is happening with you.”
“We weren’t even talking about me,” I say.
“Yeah, but something’s up, and you’re trying to distract me by talking about the tart.”
My mouth is full of tart as I begin denying, so I’m not sure how well that’s going to hold up. “You made the tart! It’s not my fault it’s distracting me!”
“Oh, so there is something you want to talk about,” she singsongs.
“Not particularly,” I mumble through swallowing.
She stares at me, unmoving even as she makes her own espresso. The café is quiet. Saturdays are eventually busy, but they tend to pick up later. On weekends we have the mornings mostly to ourselves, which usually I enjoy. Not today, though.
She comes back to the counter, clunking her tiny cup on the saucer after downing it in one sip. “So what happened with Beppe?”
Oh god. It’s like yesterday was the span of an entire year. I’ve almost completely forgotten what happened with Beppe at this point.
“Nothing,” I finally say.
She swats me with a napkin. “Why are you being weird? I know you went for your drink?”
I sigh. Nothing is going to get by Emilia—I’m sure on some level, much like Anita, she’s noticed whatever there is to notice.
But I also wonder if it’s disloyal to Nico to just barge out of my apartment right after he’s left and start blabbing to his friend.
Yes, she’s my friend, too, but she’s embedded in this place like Nico is.
And while she won’t tell anything to anyone else (unlike most people in this town), it feels like breaking a seal of some kind to say it out loud.
“Stop doing whatever calculations you’re doing,” Emilia says, breaking my spiral.
“I’m not sure it’s my place to tell,” I eke out, truthfully. I take a big sip from my cup to avoid saying anything else.
“That you slept with Nico?” she says, and I choke on my tea. She hoists herself up over the counter and slaps me on the back, hard, until I stop sputtering.
“What the actual hell, Emilia?” I gasp.
“The slapping or Nico?”
“Both?!” I hiss, trying to stay quiet now that a few people have turned around to see what our commotion is about.
“Well, the slapping I could’ve done with less vigor. Sorry,” she says without any actual sorry in her tone. “But the Nico thing was just a guess I wanted to confirm.”
I put my head in my hands, absolutely not ready for this conversation being foisted on me. “Emilia . . .”
“You didn’t see Antonio out with Nico last night?” she says, and I raise my head to look at her expression.
“Yeah, but that was before . . .” I stop myself.
“Before the sex?” she asks smugly.
I exhale a long breath. “What could your husband have possibly said to you to make you think that’s what happened?”
She laughs like I’m the most ridiculous person in the world. “Oh, he came home very amused by Nico.”
“Why?” I ask dryly, not ready to admit my curiosity.
“Because he said it was like watching a cartoon character who gets so worked up they eventually have steam coming out of their ears,” she says, chuckling.
I press my lips together and try to breathe. She’s not making this easy for me.
“Obviously the two of you have the hots for each other,” she says casually, as though there’s nothing more obvious on earth, and I throw my hands up in exasperation.
Is there no one in this town who doesn’t think I’m completely transparent?
Great. “But it seemed manageable for two people so clearly in denial. Or sad about their exes. Or determined to stay a little bit tough and miserable.” She looks up and squints, as though she’s considering which of those is more accurate.
“Get to the point,” I finally say, tired of her amusement at my misery.
“Right, sure,” she continues, as if this is a totally normal conversation.
“So Antonio said Nico left in a huff last night. He followed him out of the bar, but Nico didn’t get on his scooter like he usually does.
He just went for a walk. That’s not like him.
And he didn’t come here this morning. And now you show up, later than usual, looking both relaxed and perturbed .
. .” She shrugs. “Seemed worth testing the theory by asking.”
I put my head back in my hands. I’m not sure how to even begin to respond.
“Did you know that for a hundred kilos of grapes, you can get like seventy liters of wine?” she says suddenly, seeming to completely veer away from the topic.
I lift my head to meet her eyes, unsure of where she’s going.
“It’s immense. But for olives, if you get fifteen liters, you’re lucky. It’s just a different calculus.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” I ask.
“Most men are grapes,” she says. “You can squeeze a lot out of them without much effort; they’re pretty easy.
Now, maturing them . . .” She whistles. “That takes some skill. But getting started is simple.” She rests her elbows on the table and stares at me.
“Nico is different. He’s like his olives—it takes quite a lot to get something out of him, and not everyone can handle it.
But when you do, it’s instantly worth it because the result is pretty magnificent. ”
I soften at her stupid metaphor. Unlike Anita, she’s not warning me away (oh fuck, am I going to have to tell Anita now?). Or rather, maybe it’s a warning of its own kind, but I can tell it’s said with a lot of understanding and love.
“I’m not . . .” I start, unsure of what I should even say. “I’m not ‘handling’ Nico. This isn’t going to be a thing.”
Her wide eyes get even wider. “Seems like it’s already a thing,” she says, swiping the biscuit she always lays on the side of my teacup and then shoving it in her mouth, ignoring my protests.
“I’m leaving.”
“Yes, obviously no one thinks you’re going to stay and be Gia’s sous chef for the rest of time.”
“So what’s your point?” I pout.
She shrugs and walks back to make herself another espresso.
I watch her as she moves. Everything is so fluid for Emilia.
It’s not that she’s elegant—on the contrary, she’s tall and gawky like me, which I think is one of the things that immediately drew me to her.
But it’s more that she could do all of this with her eyes closed.
She belongs in this space. She knows what needs to get done, what needs to be ordered, who’s looking to order something else instead of leaving.
The fluidity of this place is in her bones.
I felt that in my restaurant. Maybe not as relaxed as Emilia is, but that sense of being the conductor who could feel the performance of the symphony without even looking. I do miss it.
“It’s not a thing,” I repeat. “I mean, while I’m here, great. It’s going to be whatever it’s going to be. But it’s not like . . . becoming something.”
“I get that,” she says, nodding. “But Nico can’t just let it go when the summer is over.”
My stomach tightens. “We’ve already talked about it. It’s fine.”
“Oh okay,” she says with a laugh. “You talked about it. It’s fine.”
“Stop repeating me,” I chastise, and I can see her lips almost forming the s of “stop” before she thinks better of it.
“Even if that were true”—she rolls her eyes to make sure I’m clear on where she stands—“this town doesn’t let anyone forget anything.”
I roll my eyes right back at her. “I’m not like his ex-wife who grew up here. People don’t need to know about a summer fling.”
She smirks. “Oh yeah? You’re fooling the old bats who sit out on their plastic chairs in the streets, watching for gossip? You think no one noticed his scooter puttering off home this morning?”
“Come on,” I say.
She sticks another two tomato tarts on my plate and then levels me with a stare. “You come on. I’m not going to pretend like I don’t worry about Nico getting hurt again. But that’s not even the thing I’m most focused on right now.”
I take a bite of the tart, my desire for pastries overtaking my desire to be petty and ignore them due to Emilia’s scolding. “What are you focused on then?” I say with my mouth full.
“On you,” she says quietly, and I feel my heart squeeze for a second time today. “Don’t you go letting that man come in and hurt you either.”
I try to brush off the way my stomach flips.
“No one is getting hurt, Emilia.” I swallow another bite of tart just to push everything down.
“I got dumped by a long-term boyfriend and moved on within a span of days. I’m a big girl.
I can have a fling with a friend and then leave it at friends when I’m done. ”
I can see on her face that she’s about to argue, but I’m saved by the bell on the door, which completely changes her expression to one of delight. I turn around and see a tiny woman with a very large baby strapped to her chest.
“Marna!” Emilia cries and pops out from behind the counter to hug her. Very few people get this level of enthusiasm from Emilia, so I’m instantly curious and not at all jealous.
The two start speaking in rapid Italian, punctuated only by the soft kisses Emilia keeps pressing to the baby’s cheeks. I’ve only seen Emilia be indifferent to babies, and she’s laughed at the idea of ever having kids herself, so now I’m doubly intrigued.
But after a few minutes, Emilia turns to me, beaming. “This is Marna!”
I look between the two women, frozen by not knowing someone I clearly should have heard of.
“Uhhh,” I say, stalling. But Marna laughs.
“Gia only ever refers to me as ‘la ragazza,’” she says in heavily accented English, “so you probably have no idea who I am.”
I snap my fingers. “You’re Gia’s sous chef!” I realize, knowing Gia only ever refers to her as “the girl.” “Out on maternity leave.” I wave my hand toward the baby, and Marna beams.
“Si, I’ve been with my parents in Umbria, so that’s why we haven’t met yet,” she says. “How is our Gia? I’m relieved she has someone to trust while I’m away.” There’s so much warmth in Marna’s voice that it’s impossible not to like her instantly.
I try to imagine this pot of sugar next to the sour lemon that is Gia, and I enjoy the image of Gia being forced to be nicer than she wants to be. Maybe my brashness has been a well-timed little break for Gia.
Emilia asks Marna a question in Italian but then looks toward me and switches to English. “What are you doing in town today?”
“I had some errands, so I made the drive and figured I’d come by and say hello.”
I stand up. “I don’t want to slow you guys down.” It’s clear Marna’s English isn’t as honed as Emilia’s. “I should let you guys catch up.”
And selfishly, this gets me out of my grilling. I can see the skepticism of that thought pass over Emilia’s face, but she’s distracted enough by Marna that I think she’ll let it go.
“Can I get some extra pastries to take with me?” I ask, thinking of what I said to Nico earlier.
I can see that thought is also on the tip of her tongue, but she lets it go as well.
I appreciate that she’s not going to be the one to start the gossip train, even if she suspects it’s not a secret that will be kept easily.
She bustles around, making a bag of pastries before she hands it over.
I go to grab my wallet, but she shakes her head.
“I know who they’re going to,” she says slyly and then gives me a kiss on both cheeks.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes again and instead turn to Marna. “So nice to meet you. Will I see you later, saying hi to Gia?”
She snorts a laugh. “Absolutely not. I don’t need Gia giving me a lecture on how quickly I can come back.”
I nod. “Fair enough!”
And I walk out the door, trying to ignore the persistent thought that’s knocking against my brain: I wonder if this is what the town will be like once again when I leave after the summer ends.