“Jeez, that’s some heat,” I say, removing my hat and fanning myself with it.
“Yup,” he replies.
“This way, right?” I point down the little paved street, past a row of restaurants with their tables spilling out onto the sidewalk, to where the street snakes around a vine-engulfed church.
“Yup,” he says again.
Scooters weave in and out of the one-way street, horns honk intermittently, and in the distance, the dampened sound of music comes from inside a bar as it readies itself for the lunch rush. Tables are being set with paper place mats and little baskets of oil and vinegar; the smell of baking concrete mixes with the earthy scent of the greenery that weaves around streetlamps and crawls up the plastered stone. A couple kisses against a stone pillar, pulls apart, searching each other’s faces before falling back together again, and I’m fascinated to see Leo watching them with a certain longing. I know that feeling. I find myself wondering if Leo has ever been in love.
We spill out onto a piazza and my mouth waters as we pass a café filled with tourists, shading under the canvas canopy, spooning huge mouthfuls of sweet granita into their mouths. I dream of a creamy ice coffee with a floating vanilla gelato scoop.Sugar. Caffeine. Cold. Anything cold.
“It will be cooler up the volcano,” he says.All we’ve done is comment on the weather, I think as our walk continues down toward the sea in a relentlessly frosty silence.
“That’s kinda how altitude works,” I say back, before spotting the swinging sign saying ROCCO’S. It never occurred to me until just now that Nicky’s is named the same way. After the chef.
“There it is!” I say, rushing forward with a gasp, momentarily forgetting to be cool as I peer into the window and spot a lone cleaner mopping the floors underneath tables with mismatched wooden chairs stacked on top. I can see the little hanging fishing baskets on the ceiling and dim light coming from the open kitchen at the back.
“It hasn’t changed at all,” I say in wonder.
The spell breaks as we hear the honking of a tinny car horn coming up behind us. The sound is dreamily familiar, a friendly staccato playing out a rhythm.Da-da-da-da-da... da da!I swing around to see Rocco leaning out the side of a vintage ice-cream van, waving madly. My heart starts to thump as I nervously raise a hand back. Oh goodness. I remember the van. And I remember Rocco. He’sexactlythe same. Thick black hair graying at the sides; kind, round eyes framed by big, bushy brows. His slight belly is covered by a too-tight short-sleeved shirt, his slender legs in a pair of loose chinos, and he’s wearing box-fresh white Nikes on his feet. He is pure warmth. Next to him appears a handsome young man in a blue singlet and aviators who is strikingly familiar, but I can’t place him.
“Olive!” Rocco’s voice calls from the ice-cream truck, a hand waving frantically out the window.
I instinctively turn to Leo to share my nervous delight and find he’s studying me already. He looks mildly sentimental, but as our eyes meet, the emotion fades as though he’s remembered he’s in a mood with me.
After Rocco yanks the hand brake up and jumps out, I instinctively fall into his big open arms, and for a split second I worry that I’m going to cry.
“Olive. Olive. Olive. Where the hell have you been?” he says, pulling back to take a good look at me and muss my hair like I’m ten years old. “We thought we’d never see you again!”
“Hi, Rocco,” I say, feeling myself blushing wildly. I remove my sunglasses and he beams with delight, patting me on the back as I allow myself to be held. I marvel at how normal and real it feels.
“Bene, bene! You remember the restaurant?” he says, beaming full of pride as he holds his hand to the sign. “You eat here whenever you want. Sì?”
“Sì,” I reply.
“And you remember my grandson and now my terrible sous chef, Luca?” he says, pulling back, pointing to the Adonis next to him. Luca grins at me, a couple of deep dimples appearing in his tanned cheeks.
“Oh god, it’syou, Luca,” I say, shaking my head as I hold my hand out at waist height. “Last time I saw you, you were like this high.”
Luca grins harder. “It’s the Sicilian sun,” he says bashfully, as he lifts his fist toward Leo for a fist bump, which Leo returns enthusiastically. They know each other well, clearly.
Rocco holds out both his hands, palms up, his face falling slightly. I brace myself for the moment I know has to come.
“Olive. We are all very sorry for your loss,” Rocco says, before turning to Leo. “And to you, Leo, too.”
“Thank you, Rocco,” I reply, eyeing Leo, who absorbs Rocco’s sympathy with a manly nod, his lips squeezed together.
“We all loved him. He was a good man,” Rocco continues.
Before I can steel myself for what feels like a long, emotional eulogy, he clicks his fingers and points to Leo, breaking into a huge grin. “But aterriblecook.”
He slaps Leo on his shoulder, and Leo, for the first time this morning, laughs. Leo self-consciously moves in for a half man-hug, throwing one arm around Rocco’s shoulders and shoving his head into Rocco’s neck briefly, like a small, shy boy. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look vulnerable and it warms my stone-cold heart for a split second.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Rocco says, looking at me as he pulls back from Leo. “He was an excellent cook.Itrained him! Oh, bella. Always such a serious kid. And still with all the black makeup.” He points to my eyes, grinning.
Luca shoots me a sympathetic eye roll as we clamber into the van, Leo and me in the back. Rocco struggles to get the engine of his old silver ice-cream truck running. I wonder how the hell this thing is going to get us halfway up Mount Etna.Clutch, gas, ignition. Brrrrrrrrr. Cut. This routine is repeated a couple of times until finally, its loud diesel engine roars into gear and the van jerks forward, slamming me into Leo, who is perched on one of the two fixed white stools in front of me.
“Shit,” I shout, pulling backward, removing my elbow from his thigh. “Shit. Sorry.”
