Sofia watches our interaction with amusement, and I know she can tell that there is something going on between us.
“Roger and I will get coffee and dessert and grappa and probably cigars ready for you,” she says, giving me a cheekyknowinglook as she sails down the stairs.
“What was that look about?” says Leo as soon as she’s out of earshot.
“I think she thinks that we... you know... are... something.”
“Well. She’s right,” he says, with a laugh. “We definitely are something.”
Leo looks at me with his piercing dark eyes and he shakes his head.
“We sure are,” I say, grinning.
“I’m going to quickly freshen up,” he says and then kisses my forehead. “See you downstairs in five, Olive.”
I do too. I pull out a long skirt and a little tank top, both of which I haven’t worn since I picked them up in Tuscany. I have a quick shower,taking my time to reapply my makeup. I even wash my hair, slicking it back, wet, into a low bun.
By the time I get downstairs I see that Leo is already sitting out on the terrace with Sofia, grappa in hand, while Roger stands, one hand resting on the mantel above an old outdoor fireplace, talking loudly about the quality of the local markets. On a wood coffee table, a communal tiramisu in a ceramic bowl has been poked at, a few spoons standing out of it. I have a violent feeling of déjà vu as I take in this image. Dad often did this when he was too tipsy at a dinner party and had had enough with formalities.
“My friend Salvatore, he sends me a video every morning,” Roger says, pulling out a phone and holding up a video of a fish market. “Plaice, calamari, gambas the size of your fist.”
“The size of a fist?” I say, moving toward them. Leo turns to me and smiles, tipping his head slightly, as his eyes run down my body, taking in my outfit, and I feel a thousand little sparklers fly off me in his gaze’s wake. I relish the feeling without letting the pleasure of it show on my face.
Sofia hands me a grappa immediately.
“Please help yourself to the dessert. Roger insists on eating it this way,” she says, nodding at the bowl.
“Dad did too, sometimes,” I reply, and Roger laughs.
“I like it,” I say, leaning forward and taking a fresh spoon. I scoop up a mouthful, and it is as messy and delicious as it looks, the eggy mascarpone landing across my chin.
“Nice one, Olive,” I say, reaching for a napkin. “Classy.”
I can feel Leo’s eyes on me, and I take my time to clear my mouth, dragging the napkin across my lips. I am distracted by thoughts of him. His hard body. His rough kisses.
“It’s a beautiful view out there,” I say, dropping the napkin and turning to Sofia.
“So, Olive, how are you in life? Your dad said you’re a food critic now,” Roger says, sitting back in his seat. “Yes. Nicky said you were out there tearing shreds off the inauthentic. What did he say, Sofia?”
“I can’t remember, Roger,” Sofia says, waving away the conversation. She turns to me, explaining, “The two of them would go on and on. You end up switching off your brain.”
“I remember what he said,” Roger continues, “He said, ‘At least I gave her good taste.’” He grins, proud of himself.
“Oh god,” I say, feeling simultaneously proud that my dad thought that and embarrassed. “I’m not sure I will go back to it, truthfully.”
“Why so, Olive?” Roger asks.
“I think I’ve had enough of finding fault in everything all the time,” I say, giving a sidelong glance in Leo’s direction.
“Critics have their place,” says Roger. “They’re a necessary part of the machine. There are a hundred and eighty restaurants in this small town. How are you going to know where to eat without reading a review or two?”
“Yeah, sure. But I reviewed for clicks,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. “Every review was a rebellion.”
“Your father said that too,” Roger says, laughing so hard, it’s difficult not to join in. “He used to say, she’s not reviewing the White Swan, she’s reviewing her childhood.”
I cringe inwardly.
“I can’t do this toxic grappa. I’m going to get some more champagne, what do you think?” Sofia says, her eyes darting between Leo and me.
