‘Nothing. Nothing. Helping someone else . . . putting yourself second. That’s a true act of courage.’ A push from behind jolted them forward. ‘Alessio, before you, only one person has ever stopped to help a competitor complete a challenge.’
Alessio nodded. ‘Felice mentioned that.’
‘It was my father.’ She pressed a loving hand to her father’s silk scarf tied around Alessio’s neck.
‘Really?’
‘Sì. He helped Elio’s father after he burned himself in the final round. It was twenty-odd years ago. He would be so proud of you today. We are.’ Francesca gave Alessio one final squeeze before allowing Maria in to congratulate him, then it was Elena’s turn.
Francesca watched with trepidation as Elena and Alessio embraced as well as was possible with her plaster casts. What would her mother say about what had happened?
As the pair parted, Elena managed a smile. ‘You have proven yourself not only to be a brilliant and intelligent chef, Alessio, but now also a gentleman worthy of that scarf. Bravo.’
Excuse me? She . . . she just said that? She acknowledged Alessio?
‘Grazie, Elena.’
Elena gave Alessio two careful cheek kisses, then pulled Maria back a few paces to allow members of the crowd to pounce upon him and share their hearty Auguri! and Congratulazioni!
Francesca stood still, trying to absorb everything she was thinking and feeling. Nothing could extinguish her optimism right now. Not the sight of Elio being carried over the top of the swelling masses waiting outside Da Martino. Not even the way he managed to pick her out of the crowd, their eyes locking in a silent stand-off. And most certainly not the covert dismissive shake of his head, a private little warning for them.
You’re getting nothing from me, Elio Martino.
With her hands clasped at her chest, she turned to watch as Alessio was swamped by the people of Impastino. His bright infectious smile stretched across that devilishly handsome face. And then she wondered what it might be like if he stayed. Not just a little longer. Not a few more months.
But, stayed.
trentaquattro
Francesca knocked gently on their apartment door.
‘It’s open,’ she heard him say, so she entered, closing it quietly behind her.
‘I thought you’d be asleep.’
Alessio exhaled. ‘Still buzzing after today. Nonna gone to bed? Your mum?’
‘Both settled.’ She padded over to the bed where he sat with a bundle of paper and a few open cookbooks. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Studying for the final round.’
‘That’s three weeks away. Can you please just rest for a moment?’
‘I had been reading up until ten minutes ago.’ He gestured to his latest street library box find, next to him on the bedspread. ‘But I finished it.’
Francesca’s gaze ran over the recipes and notebooks before settling on the annotated photocopy of his nonna’s proxy marriage certificate. With a kind smile, she gestured to it. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Forgot I left it there.’ Alessio reached for it and folded it in half. He slipped the certificate behind the novel’s cover and set it down on his nightstand. Francesca noted that there was something wistful in his expression. ‘The irony is that I came here to learn about Nonna, yet I feel like I’ve learned a lot about myself, too.’
Francesca sat on the edge of the mattress and stretched out both arms to catch his legs. ‘Life’s strange like that.’
‘I’ve rediscovered an enjoyment of cooking that I thought had no chance of resuscitation. Look, I’m even studying again!’ Francesca smiled in support. ‘And . . .’ He faltered for a moment before his eyes met hers. ‘And I met you.’
‘And I met you.’ She shimmied across to her side of the bed and nuzzled against him, Alessio’s arm wrapping around her instinctively. ‘I’m proud of you. And not just for what you’ve achieved at the festa. But for being back in the kitchen again. I saw the effort it took.’ She felt his skin grow hot under the cotton of his tee.
‘And I’m proud of you for pushing past your family’s obstacles. You continue to fight for what you’re passionate about, no matter the cost. And you’re a brilliant teacher.’
‘Graz—’ The word trickled from her lips, unfinished.
