But Constanza waves a hand. ‘We’re going for some herbs,’ she shouts to the others. ‘Keep kneading the pastagently. Don’t ruin it while we are gone.’
Constanza leads Tilly through the kitchen garden where the air is heady with the scent of sun-ripened tomatoes and plump, juicy strawberries. A marmalade cat dozes in the herb garden, tucked under the shade of a rosemary bush. But Constanza continues walking, leading them to a terrace at the very end of the garden where an iron bench sits in the dappled shade of apergola trailing with vines. The garden wall drops away, giving an open view over the Tuscan countryside. There are terracotta pots dotted about, overspilling with red geraniums. Even with Tilly’s mood, the view still takes her breath away.
Constanza sits on the bench and pats the spare seat for Tilly to join her.
‘Matilda, what is wrong? And don’t try telling me there is nothing wrong. I have three daughters, you know. We will run out of eggs if we are not careful.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Tranquillo. Now, tell me. I do not like to see an unhappy chef in my kitchen. It spoils the food.’
Tilly considers coming up with a lie but doesn’t have the energy for it.
‘My husband died a year ago today.’
‘Ah …’
Constanza stretches an arm along the back of the bench, tilting her face towards the sky. When she looks back at Tilly she holds out her hands. They are tanned and lined, with the neat and clean nails of a cook. For the first time, Tilly notices two gold rings on Constanza’s left hand. Constanza rubs the larger of the two with her thumb. ‘That was my husband’s. Marco. He has been gone ten years.’
There’s a moment’s silence, Constanza looking out at the view of cypress trees, sunflowers and gentle hills dotted with the occasional terracotta-roofed villa.
‘Anniversaries are always hard. The first one especially.’
‘Does it get easier?’ Tilly asks in a quiet voice, terrified of the answer.
The older woman takes her time to reply, the sunlight making her silver hair shine.
‘It is never easy. How can it be easy? I miss him. I will always miss him.Per sempre.’
‘So how do you keep going?’
‘Because I have to. My daughters – they need me to be strong. They lost theirPapà. When Marco died, I thought I had to bury my sadness. Hide it away. Let it go.’
She grunts and waves her hand in a similar way to when she is correcting someone’s mistake in the kitchen.
‘But I was wrong. My grief isun regalo– a gift. He gave it to me. It is our memories. Our love. I don’t want to put it down. I carry it gently. Right here.’ She points at her chest. ‘And here.’ She points at the two rings stacked on her finger.
‘So, I’ll just always feel sad, then?’ A heaviness presses down on Tilly’s chest.
Constanza wipes her eyes and the smile on her face grows. She shakes her head.
‘No. You will cry,sì.Molto.But you will laugh too. I will always missil mio Marco. But when I sit here, when I walk in the garden, when I make pasta, I feel happy. Sad, a little too, sometimes. But also happy. These ten years I have been very sad but I have also been very happy. I wish my Marco was here.’ She closes her eyes again, the sun kissing her face. ‘But I am happy I am here,’ she repeats as she opens them, her deep grey eyes shining.
The sun beats down and the air smells sweet and fragrant. Tilly’s heart feels heavy and light at the same time. She would take Joe over endless Tuscan views, but this moment is undeniably beautiful.
She lets out a long breath, tilting her face to feel the kiss of the sun.
‘I’m happy I’m here too.’
They toast Joe by candlelight on the terrace, at the end of a long supper they have made themselves. The weather has been oppressive all afternoon, dark clouds on the horizonthreatening a summer storm, but the air is still warm. Tonight there is creamy Parmesan gnocchi, Bistecca alla Fiorentina, seared by Constanza’s daughters in an outdoor fire pit, freshly baked biscotti, and tears.
When Tilly opens up to the others about Joe, Tiff and Tim look mortified and insist on giving her hugs. ‘We’re so sorry. We’ve been so insensitive. If we’d have known …’
Deborah swears. ‘That’s absolutely fucking shit.’ And she tops up Tilly’s wine.
Both things help.
Ingrid and Emma exchange a look before Ingrid shares that she lost her first husband, Emma’s father, fifteen years ago. Over dinner they all share stories of people they have loved and lost. Constanza talks about Marco; how he built the outdoor kitchen where they have been working. Ingrid talks about her first husband, and Emma talks about her dad. Tim cries when he tells them about his grandfather who raised him.
