“Try this,” I say. “I love the way the little flecks of orange zest set off the creamy pistachio in the squid ball. This is incredible.”
“Five out of five?” he asks.
“No. That was one time and only because I felt terrible.”
“I swear to god,” he says, laughing. “What’s a person got to do to get full marks out of Olive Stone?”
“I like to keep my grading a mystery,” I reply haughtily. “Otherwise, people stop trying to impress me.”
Leo laughs. There is more laughter now, less tense quiet. If we can keep this up, by the time we get to Tuscany, maybe I won’t be quite so nervous to spend time in his world, with his family. My feelings are softening toward him. And occasionally, I’m feeling other things. Thrilling things about Leo that I shouldn’t be. I clear my throat.
“Does any part of you get excited about this?” Leo asks, eyeing me carefully. “All the weirdness aside, on a professional level. Are you excited about working on a cookbook?”
“Yes,” I say thoughtfully. “It’s obviously a loaded job.” I glance at Leo, who nods, his lip curled up slightly as though he’s waiting for me to say it. “But yeah. Part of me is excited. Of course. And nervous. Nervous excited.”
Leo nods again. “Finding that perfect recipe.”
“Finding and penning a warm, heartfelt story,” I add. “Really making people excited about the food and the area. Oh god, theirony.” I can’t help but laugh at my own admission. I, a food critic, who has spent her whole life intentionally looking for fault in other people’s food, now wanting to create something for once.
Leo nods again, looking smug, and then leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. He raises his eyebrows, fixing his smile on me. “Want out of the critiquing business, Olive?”
Olive. The way he says my name unsettles me. I like the way it comes out of his mouth, with his London accent, thevpronounced almost as anf. I feel the air in my lungs thin and a tightness in my chest.
“Come on, let’s keep going,” I say, pointing toward a sign that says CANNOLI.
We continue our journey, stopping only to break for afternoon digestive recovery and escape from the sun. We make progress. Gently share thoughts. Carefully consider each other’s ideas.
By midafternoon Leo suggests we try a little place in the south of Catania by the sea. I’m happy to follow his lead, and we walk in something close to companionable silence until we arrive at an unassuming little place that sits between the port and the beach.
“Want some cake?” he says, grinning.
“Sure,” I say, smiling wryly. “I’m sure there’s a corner of my stomach that has room for some Italian cake.”
“Sicilian,” he says in a deadpan tone. “And I think you’ll like this cake, Olive.”
When said cake arrives, it’s rather plain to look at, with its terra-cotta crumb and simple dusting of icing sugar on top. “Torta all’arancia,” says Leo. “Orange cake.”
“It looks deliziosa,” I say, holding my fork aloft.
“Your dad loved that cake,” says Leo. It is the first direct mention of him in ages, and my eyes flicker up at Leo. I nod once, unable to find a way to reply. Even in this simplest of comments,your dad loved that cake, I read a thousand tiny, painful things. The warm nostalgia with which the words are delivered, the sense of loss that I didn’t know about a cake he loved. I picture him, sitting here with Leo, raving about the cake, his hands waving around with excitement and gusto.
“Grazie,” I say finally.
“Prego,” Leo replies, smiling as he also picks up a fork.
Ninety seconds and four forkfuls later, I look up at Leo. “My god. I am actually dying... the orange flavor. It’s so good.”
“I knew you’d like the cake,” he says simply.
“I do,” I say, grinning as he holds my gaze. Our eyes connect again over the little square table. I don’t look away. I hold his intense, dark gaze as his hand reaches forward to take my fork and try a mouthful. I watch the fork as he slides the cake off the end, and I find myself wanting to moan on his behalf. At the cake. At his lips. At him. All I can hear is David Bowie’s “Modern Love” on the café radio, the sound of frothing milk, and my heart pounding in my ears.
And then, I realize, there is something more to this cake.
“This was my mum’s favorite cake,” I say suddenly. “She loved it. We went up the coast for her favorite version of it.”
“Your dad’s too. That’s kind of sweet,” he says.
“I hated it back then,” I say, staring down at what’s left on my plate. “God. I’m amazed. How can an opinion change so much?”
