“Shit,” I mutter into my hands.
“I leave you to talk,” Chiara says, an annoyingly satisfied whisper of a smile on her face. “There is a salad, there is wine in the cellar. And then you go and see my tomatoes? Sì?”
Let her go, Leo mouths to me before I have a chance to protest, and I force a smile as she strides off.
I head back into the kitchen as Leo says good-bye. Then I resume my chopping, but Leo comes in and pushes me aside with his hip, moving in to dice my sofrito even further until the pieces are so small they are one knife swipe from a soup.
“I’m so embarrassed about all of that,” he says quietly.
“Forget it,” I say.
Leo looks at me like he wants to press me on my earlier admission, but he doesn’t. Instead he turns into a machine, his body moving unconsciously through the steps of making the stew.
He sautés the sofrito, adds bay leaves and whole bruised garlic cloves. That mix is put to the side, while more olive oil is added and then the wild boar, dusted with salt, pepper, and a little flour, is fried. When the meat is brown and crusting on the edges, he tips in the sofrito, adds a glass of red wine, juniper berries, and a long sprig of rosemary, and then puts the lid on and motions toward the oven.
“Me?” I ask, standing back, both hands at my chest.
“Yep,” he says, glancing at the oven again.
I open the oven door and see there is already an identical skillet in there. I grab a tea towel and lift it out, sliding it onto the stonework surface.
“One she made earlier?” I ask, turning back to the oven to put our freshly prepared stew in to cook.
“She was excited to help,” he says, shaking his head, looking down at the stew. Then he pauses and apologizes again. “She worries too much about me. I’m a grown man, for god’s sake.”
I laugh lightly, as Leo lifts the lid, and after the steam drifts away, it is replaced by the deep umami of a long-and-slow-cooked ragù. He forks the boar apart so it’s partially shredded, and I lean in to take a deep sniff.
“Looks amazing,” I say, diving a fork in, much to Leo’s amusement. “So good. Shall we cook some tagliatelle?”
“Yep, I’ll prep it and bring it out, okay?”
He puts the lid back on and then both his palms flat on the stone of the kitchen island.He stares down for a long while and then lifts his head up.
Here it comes.
“Areyou feeling torn?” he says evenly. “Or was that just to get my auntie off your back?”
I take a breath.
“I’m uncertain about selling,” I say, glancing nervously between Leo and the floor. “But I don’t know what that means yet. It might mean nothing.”
Leo studies my face.
“I see,” he says, his eyes narrowing on me, a look, not of excitement at my admission, but of empathy.
20
OUTSIDE I CALMmyself with a few deep breaths.
You’re just being honest, Olive. You’re allowed to be honest. Just reiterate your concerns.
I head out onto the back porch, looking out at a view that is less expansive than the villa’s, but from which I can just see the tops of tomato vines and a long white tunnel with a glass entrance, which must be the edge of the farm down the hill. I pull out my notebook and fold Chiara’s handwritten recipe into it.
Leo comes out with the big salad and slides it into the middle of the table. He’s also got a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino, which I open and pour into both our glasses.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he says.
“I don’t know if you’re the person I should voice my doubts to,” I reply as I drag my hands down my face.
