“Coffee,” she says.
“Coffee,” I agree.
I turn toward the kitchen door. The gravel shifts under my boots. Before I reach the threshold, I look back.
She’s still there, hair dark against the new gold, sweater loose on her shoulders, watching the vineyard wake up from my balcony like she’s always belonged on it.
I go inside and put the water on.
Chapter Twenty One
Bianca
I push through the glass door and let it close softly behind me. The bell gives one high ring, and the room’s warmth takes the edge off the morning chill.
Luce di Bologna.
Chef Sorrentino changed the sign two winters ago—brushed brass letters on matte charcoal, clean and modern. The name fits: a narrow dining room running along the street under the arches.
Inside, the light is warm and even, emanating from green glass pendants. Tables are set with white cloths, napkins folded simply, cutlery straight. No clutter, no gimmicks.
A chalkboard near the front lists lunch: tortellini in brodo, tagliatelle al ragù, gramigna alla salsiccia, cotoletta alla bolognese, crescentine with affettati, and whatever fish Marco pulled from the market this morning.
The room smells like morning prep: onion just hitting oil, bones coming up to a respectful simmer, damp flour, coffee pulled for whoever was first through the door. It’s cool outside, clouds pressed low, and I know exactly what that means: in forty minutes, office workers and students and Nonni with wool caps will pull their collars up and hustle in, looking for steam, and salt, and a comfortable place to sit.
I stand for a second and listen.
From the back: a clatter, the slap of something elastic on wood, then a voice big enough to fill a church without a microphone.
“—no, no, no, così no! The sfoglia wants respect, capito? Respect like your mamma! You push, you don’t beat it. Eh! Madonna—”
I smile before I even start walking. I’d know that particular thunder anywhere. An ache spears my heart at the thought of this being the last time I hear it.
I weave between chairs and push through the swinging door with my hip.
Heat, light, motion. The kitchen is a bright artery of work. Steel tables already crowded.
On the far side, Paola coaxes a sheet of egg pasta wider with a mattarello as long as her arm. Marco stands over a low flame, coaxing onions translucent. Lorenzo, sleeves rolled, bangs a stack of pans into shape. A newer kid I don’t know is washing crates of parsley.
At the heart of it, Chef Sorrentino. Broad through the shoulders, black hair threaded with gray, pulled back at the nape because he hates a hat. Cheeks ruddy, eyes bright, hands in constant motion: counting, scolding, praising, tasting, salting, pinching, patting. He wears his jacket open over a black tee.
The apron is an old one, faded brown, strings wrapped twice around a stubborn belly earned with thirty years of olive oil and bread and staff meals at midnight. He looks like every postcard of an Italian chef and none of them, because he’s real.
I barely open my mouth to say hello before he sees me. He does a double take good enough for the stage, then slaps his palm flat on the table so hard the spoons jump.
“Ma guarda chi c’è! Bianca! Finalmente!” He’s already moving, arms open, apron flapping. “Vieni qua, vieni qua. Come here.”
He smells like flour and black pepper and coffee when he crushes me in. His arms go all the way around. It hurts, but in that good way that you need.
“Chef,” I say against his shoulder, and the word comes out small.
He eases back just enough to take my face in his hands and search it with theatrical seriousness. “Fammi vedere. You are too thin—no, not too thin, just… tired. Sempre questi occhi, eh?” He taps gently beneath one, then kisses my forehead. “Mi sei mancata. I have missed you.”
“Anch’io,” I say. “Me too.”
He turns his head and bellows at the room like he thinks they can’t see us standing in the middle of it. “Guardate! È tornata la Bianca! Da New Jersey—no, no, Atlantic City, the glamorous!” He waggles his eyebrows. “Everyone say ciao to my best raviolo maker.”
Paola drops her rolling pin, claps her floury hands together, and comes to hug me, leaving a perfect palm print on my coat. “Tesoro! Condoglianze,” she says into my ear. “Your Nonna—una signora vera.” A real lady.
