“He did?”
“Yeah,” Leo says, laughing. “You were so cute. You had these long plaits. I think you were like ten or something. He used to say that you would come back.” Leo stares at me, catching the look of grief that threatens to overwhelm me.
“Why didn’t he tellme?” I say, my voice cracking slightly, but I wrestle my emotions and steady myself.
“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging.
“He called, I mean, we spoke and whatever. I did see him sometimes. I know he asked me to the restaurant, and I never went, but it felt like a betrayal to my mother to step foot in there. Why didn’t he do more to, like, I don’t know, spend time with me? Connect with me as an adult away from the fucking restaurant?”
“Maybe he didn’t call enough. But you were always there,” he says. “Right next to the clock.”
“Christ, that’s so infuriating,” I say.
“I felt like he was waiting for you,” he says, squeezing his lips together. “I’ll probably wake up tomorrow and regret saying it. But you should know how much he loved you, in case...”
“In case I want to walk away because I think he didn’t care.”
“Yes,” he says. “He did care. So much so that I thought it wasyouwho brokehisheart.”
He leans forward, reaching out his hand as he places it over mine, and I sit for a moment, letting him comfort me while I process. I push the wine away, unable to stomach any more.
“Thanks,” I say, finally.
I remove my hand from under his, but he leaves his there for a moment, fingers outstretched. The smallest physical hint that he doesn’t want me to go.
24
WHAT IS THISone?” I ask, holding up an enormous pear-shaped tomato.
“For saucing,” the stall owner says. “Pera d’Abruzzo.”
Leo took a quick trip to the market to gather ingredients for his proposal dinner tonight, and I’ve been ordered back to pick up the forgotten tomatoes. Of all the things to forget.
But this afternoon I was happy to disappear and let the ideas in his proposal percolate before I speak to him. So on the bicycle I climbed, and to the little food market in the square I have come. But “Can you pick up some tomatoes?” has turned into quite a chore.
“The classic Tuscan tomato,” the stall owner says, handing me two other specimens.
“I’m going to need to call the chef,” I reply, holding up my phone. “Grazie, grazie. Un momento. Mio amico.”
The stall owner nods as I hit Leo’s number.
“Leo,” I say sharply into the phone, “there are about four million types of bloody tomatoes and I really need more information. This isn’t your classic cherry or vine or beefsteak tomato scenario.”
“Datterini and some cuore di bue,” he says, laughing. “I can talk to the stall owner.”
“I can handle it,” I say defiantly, hanging up. Leo is going to properly cook for me tonight, and it’s probably the final piece of this puzzle. I know he can cook, but can he set my soul on fire?
I return with a basket filled with tomatoes to Leo cooking. I watch him as I haul the basket up onto the dining table.
“Is it safe to come in and make a coffee?” I call out.
“Not really,” he says, laughing. “Icanput one on for you, though.”
He slides his knife onto the countertop, stirring something on the stove. I see the pasta roller is out and clipped to the benchtop. I pull out the seat and watch him work for a bit.
“I got every kind of tomato possible,” I call out, as he fills the stove-top espresso machine and places it carefully on the gas stove. “Cupido, Piccadilly, pomodoro, the list goes on.”
“Bene, bene,” he says, looking up at me and laughing. It’s hard to concentrate on tomatoes when I look at him. It’s hard to concentrate on anything, especially when he’s dressed like that. All in black but for a frilly floral apron that he’s clearly found tucked away in some drawer. I need to go and write.
