Chapter 32
It is only eleven thirty and already Tilly has spilt a bowl of flour and dropped an egg on the floor. She expected Constanza to snap at her, but she simply handed Tilly another bowl and another egg. ‘Non importa. It doesn’t matter. We have plenty more.’
When Tilly had returned from her run, Harper asked if she wanted to talk but she shook her head. ‘I just want to focus on cooking.’
She’s already received messages from her parents, Rachel and the members of the Paris Grief Gang.
She will message Joe’s parents later. She tries her best to pour her attention into repetitively kneading the pasta dough – the texture beneath her fingers, the sound as she twists and turns it.
But when she drops her second egg of the morning Constanza takes her to one side.
‘Come with me.’
‘I’m sorry –’ Tilly begins.
But Constanza waves a hand. ‘We’re going for some herbs,’ she shouts to the others. ‘Keep kneading the pasta gently. Don’t ruin it while we are gone.’
Constanza leads Tilly through the kitchen garden where the air is heady with the scent of sun-ripened tomatoes and plump, juicy strawberries.
A marmalade cat dozes in the herb garden, tucked under the shade of a rosemary bush.
But Constanza continues walking, leading them to a terrace at the very end of the garden where an iron bench sits in the dappled shade of a pergola trailing with vines.
The garden wall drops away, giving an open view over the Tuscan countryside.
There are terracotta pots dotted about, overspilling with red geraniums. Even with Tilly’s mood, the view still takes her breath away.
Constanza sits on the bench and pats the spare seat for Tilly to join her.
‘Matilda, what is wrong? And don’t try telling me there is nothing wrong. I have three daughters, you know. We will run out of eggs if we are not careful.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Tranquillo. Now, tell me. I do not like to see an unhappy chef in my kitchen. It spoils the food.’
Tilly considers coming up with a lie but doesn’t have the energy for it.
‘My husband died a year ago today.’
‘Ah …’
Constanza stretches an arm along the back of the bench, tilting her face towards the sky.
When she looks back at Tilly she holds out her hands.
They are tanned and lined, with the neat and clean nails of a cook.
For the first time, Tilly notices two gold rings on Constanza’s left hand.
Constanza rubs the larger of the two with her thumb.
‘That was my husband’s. Marco. He has been gone ten years. ’
There’s a moment’s silence, Constanza looking out at the view of cypress trees, sunflowers and gentle hills dotted with the occasional terracotta-roofed villa.
‘Anniversaries are always hard. The first one especially.’
‘Does it get easier?’ Tilly asks in a quiet voice, terrified of the answer.
The older woman takes her time to reply, the sunlight making her silver hair shine.
‘It is never easy. How can it be easy? I miss him. I will always miss him. Per sempre.’
‘So how do you keep going?’
‘Because I have to. My daughters – they need me to be strong. They lost their Papà. When Marco died, I thought I had to bury my sadness. Hide it away. Let it go.’
She grunts and waves her hand in a similar way to when she is correcting someone’s mistake in the kitchen.
‘But I was wrong. My grief is un regalo – a gift. He gave it to me. It is our memories. Our love. I don’t want to put it down. I carry it gently. Right here.’ She points at her chest. ‘And here.’ She points at the two rings stacked on her finger.
‘So, I’ll just always feel sad, then?’ A heaviness presses down on Tilly’s chest.
Constanza wipes her eyes and the smile on her face grows. She shakes her head.
‘No. You will cry, sì. Molto. But you will laugh too. I will always miss il mio Marco. But when I sit here, when I walk in the garden, when I make pasta, I feel happy. Sad, a little too, sometimes. But also happy. These ten years I have been very sad but I have also been very happy. I wish my Marco was here.’ She closes her eyes again, the sun kissing her face.
‘But I am happy I am here,’ she repeats as she opens them, her deep grey eyes shining.
The sun beats down and the air smells sweet and fragrant. Tilly’s heart feels heavy and light at the same time. She would take Joe over endless Tuscan views, but this moment is undeniably beautiful.
She lets out a long breath, tilting her face to feel the kiss of the sun.
‘I’m happy I’m here too.’
They toast Joe by candlelight on the terrace, at the end of a long supper they have made themselves.
The weather has been oppressive all afternoon, dark clouds on the horizon threatening a summer storm, but the air is still warm.
Tonight there is creamy Parmesan gnocchi, Bistecca alla Fiorentina, seared by Constanza’s daughters in an outdoor fire pit, freshly baked biscotti, and tears.
When Tilly opens up to the others about Joe, Tiff and Tim look mortified and insist on giving her hugs. ‘We’re so sorry. We’ve been so insensitive. If we’d have known …’
Deborah swears. ‘That’s absolutely fucking shit.’ And she tops up Tilly’s wine.
Both things help.
Ingrid and Emma exchange a look before Ingrid shares that she lost her first husband, Emma’s father, fifteen years ago.
Over dinner they all share stories of people they have loved and lost. Constanza talks about Marco; how he built the outdoor kitchen where they have been working.
Ingrid talks about her first husband, and Emma talks about her dad.
Tim cries when he tells them about his grandfather who raised him.
‘What was he like, Tilly?’ Tiff asks. ‘Your husband?’
So Tilly tells them about Joe. About his laugh that filled up any room.
The way he absolutely loved Christmas, and started watching Christmas films in September.
About the time he got drunk on mulled cider at Winter Wonderland, not realizing it wasn’t just apple juice, and decided to sing all the way home on the Tube, and the way the people who hadn’t already moved to other carriages in horror actually joined in.
The handmade birthday cards he made her every year using her craft supplies, even though he was even worse at crafting than she was.
His fear of horses but love of dogs. She tells them about the person he was before illness shrank him beyond recognition.
As she talks, it’s as though the Joe of those final days, and the Joe who argued with her about where to call home, recedes into the background, and in his place is the Joe she wants to remember: vital, funny, joyful, and hers.
‘Let’s raise a glass to him,’ says Ingrid. ‘Your Joe.’
Everyone around the table lifts their drink, the glasses glinting in the candlelight. Tilly can see the tears in her sister’s eyes as she joins in with the others.
‘To Joe.’
The sky lets out a low, heavy rumble and everyone looks up just as it begins to rain. The raindrops fall fast and heavy on the table and the sun-scorched earth.
‘The wine!’ yelps Constanza. ‘Get the open wine bottles inside!’
Everyone begins to scurry, scooping up plates and bottles and dashing towards the farmhouse.
‘Forget the cushions,’ shouts Constanza. ‘Save the wine!’
‘Come on, Tilly!’ Harper calls over the clatter of the rain falling on the roof of the outdoor kitchen and hitting the table and the dry ground. ‘Let’s get inside.’
She grabs Tilly’s arm but Tilly remains stock-still, breathing in the smell of the rain on the garden and feeling the droplets sting as they hit her bare skin. It’s almost dark on the terrace but she can just make out the clouds rolling across the horizon, a haze of rain falling on the fields.
She takes a deep breath of the warm air. In the summer rain, it feels as though something is being washed away.