“It’s only fair,” I say, as we come to a crossroad.
“Left,” Leo says, and we turn and continue down the valley as it starts to flatten. “Well, when some fucking suit came in with his laptop to have minestrone, and sat there for like three hours, your dad would give them a coffee and cake on the house.”
He turns to me, and in a perfect mimicry of my dad’s voice and hand gesticulations, says, “He’s lonely, Leo, fix the man a tiramisu.”
“Jesus,” I say, a little squeeze on my heart, wondering if Dad was projecting his own loneliness.
“So,” Leo says. “These were some examples of things your dad wouldn’t do, and things heshouldn’thave done. A combination of his traditional approach to dining and his overly generous nature.”
“Overly generous isgenerous,” I say. Though once more, Leo’s explanation of the problems at Nicky’s have given me pause. If there were basic things Dad wasn’t getting right, the problem really wasn’t so much Nicky’s the restaurant but Nicky theowner.
A bird flies in our path, followed by a second, and a moment later a thunderous flock emerges, as if startled, from a huge linden tree, taking flight all at once into the sky, in a black cloud that rises, peaks, and then dives, shooting off onto the horizon.
“Swallow,” Leo says, in awe.
“Only with the right guy,” I reply, biting my lip.
Leo looks at me, his mouth open in shock, then bursts into laughter.“Olive!”
“I couldn’t resist,” I reply playfully. “Come on, let’s ride.”
I mount the bike again and shoot off down the narrow, windy lane.
“You don’t know where you’re going!” he calls out, climbing onto his bike and chasing me down the tree-lined road into the distance. “Wait!”
We arrive at Chiara’s, sweaty, red-cheeked, and, dare I say it, slightly exhilarated from the ride, despite our tumbles.
“Was it so bad?” he says, kicking his bike stand down and parking next to me.
“It’s like youknowthat nature and exercise are good for you, and yet, every single bone in your body saysnah,” I say, dismounting. “But then you do it, and you wonder why you waited, because you feel so fucking happy and charged with the good happy hormones.”
I glance at him.
“Ready to cook?” he asks, a smirk on his face.
“No, Leo, that’s your job,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “I’m ready to taste.”
“BUONGIORNO, ZIA,” LEOcalls out.
“Sì, sì. Come, come,” Chiara says from somewhere out the back, her voice echoing through the stone house.
The house is not dissimilar to the villa in construction, though much smaller and without the spanking-new infinity pool. But the classic Tuscan garden that surrounds it is magical. I can see little naked stone statues holding forth bowls with running water standing guard next to winding, stony paths that disappear under vine-covered arches to a sloping terraced garden below. The smell is fragrant with lavender, herbs, and a heady back note of tomato, coming, I think, from the farm that must be down beyond my view.
Stepping into Chiara’s kitchen is like stepping back in time. The walls with seemingly random exposed stone are finished in that classic rag-rolled dusty peach. We duck under a redbrick doorway and down a step into the cool stone room, which has only one small window, littered with potted herbs, overlooking greenery and a small patch of blue sky.
I glance down to the daintily painted floor tiling and across at the huge, square ceramic sink, and a very old Aga-type stove with three heavy doors and a hood for grilling. Above, a huge circular iron fitting with hooks for pots and pans, bunched drying herbs, and a variety of alien kitchen gadgets hang over us.
“Wow. This kitchen isamazing,” I say.
“It’s old,” replies Chiara sharply. Then she nods to a row of brand-new SMEG small appliances on a stand-alone cabinet against the back wall,and her voice turns sweet. “But Leo helps me keep it modern.” Chiara puts the little scissors she’s been using to cut the top off a bunch of thyme into the pocket of her apron. She smiles at us both, holding her hands out in a welcome gesture that Leo takes as an invitation for a hug.
“She makes meals for the Airbnb here, and she didn’t even have an electric kettle,” says Leo, as he pulls back from her and she ruffles his hair.
Ah gods, why does he have to be so thoughtful?
“Come,” she says to me, holding her hand out toward a flowery ceramic bowl filled with celery, carrot, and onion.
“Everyone cooks in Chiara’s kitchen,” Leo says as she thrusts a board of unbutchered boar into his hands.
