Alessio woke at eleven. Where am I? What day is it?
It was only after he had showered and changed into a fresh set of clothes – a plain grey crew-cut tee, tan shorts and brown leather scuffs – that he was able to shake some of his disorientation.
It’s just the jet lag.
Alessio made himself an espresso and stood at the window, sipping it. He realised he stood at a crossroad. His suitcase, which now sat on the end of the bed, beckoned action. If he unpacked, it meant he was committing to stay, to confront the demons he knew would be waiting for him if he ventured into the kitchen downstairs to cook for himself. He knew it could also be a moment of acceptance, of challenge, a sign of strength to face the past, or push beyond it. If he up and left, if he tried to find somewhere else to stay that didn’t come with a side order of kitchen nightmares, would that render him a coward? Or in denial?
A knock on the door tore him from his reverie.
‘Alessio, buongiorno! Are you in there?’ Francesca’s voice trilled through the heavy wood. ‘I was just wondering . . .’
Shit!
‘Coming!’ he called, checking his phone. It was almost noon. He realised he had all but forgotten Francesca’s kind invitation to lunch. He opened the door and there, with her knotted fist poised mid-air, stood the ethereal Francesca.
A breeze blew into the apartment from behind her, catching the scent of her perfume and her clothing, evaporating Alessio’s resolve.
There’s the brown sugar . . .
She looked radiant this morning, even more so than yesterday. Perhaps it was the midday sun outlining her silhouette, or the freshly washed mop of curls? Something about Francesca caught Alessio off guard.
The apron and sundress of yesterday had been replaced by a low-cut V-neck white tee with rolled sleeves and skin-tight dark rinse jeans. They grazed Francesca’s ankles above sandal-clad feet. The shadow of a black bra was visible from under her top, and Alessio made a respectful point of not giving it the attention it deserved. Three or four gold necklaces bundled together at her cleavage, featuring at least one crucifix and Madonna.
But it was her curves that stole Alessio’s attention. Just as the sundress had narrowed her waist, today those jeans revealed all of her form. Francesca’s shapely hips gave way to her peach-shaped bottom, dropping to her feminine thighs. Alessio thought her reminiscent of Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida and Monica Vitti, icons of the Italian screen, eternally splashed across popular culture for their glorious womanly curves and unbridled talent.
The intrigue he had felt for Francesca yesterday suddenly morphed into something which resembled desire. Longing. A sensation Alessio hadn’t felt for a very long time.
Clearing his throat he found his voice. ‘Buongiorno. Sorry. I haven’t forgotten about your lunch invitation. I just allowed myself a sleep-in. Would you like to come in?’ He stood to the side so she could pass.
‘No, thank you. I was just checking to see if you were still coming. I hadn’t seen you up and about yet. But I see you have more colour than yesterday.’ Her smile was radiant.
‘Yes, I’m feeling more human today.’
The tinkle of her laugh was effortlessly charming. ‘Eccellente!’ Francesca playfully extended her bent right arm. ‘May I escort you to lunch then, as my guest of honour?’
Alessio laughed and looped his arm around hers. ‘How could I refuse this service?’
‘Andiamo, straight up to the terrazzo.’
Was it the comforting warmth of Francesca’s arm around his, or the way her eyes seemed to trap him with their spirit that tied his conscience in a knot?
The last thing Alessio saw before pulling the door closed behind him was the suitcase on the end of the bed. Somehow he knew that lunch on that terrazzo would answer the question that rattled through his chest.
Would he stay, or would he go?
* * *
‘Welcome to my little piece of paradiso in Puglia.’ Francesca turned and held out a hand to pull Alessio up the final rung of the ladder. ‘Nonna never comes up here, and Mamma stopped long ago. It’s just me who uses this space now.’ She clasped her hands behind her back and smiled. ‘And now you, too, I guess.’
The terrazzo offered the same charm iconic of Impastino’s town centre: whitewashed, rendered ledges and low walls gave it structure and provided privacy from prying eyes, while smooth terracotta pavers gave it a sense of space and warmth. To their left ran a maiolica-style white and blue patterned tiled workbench which led to a wide farmhouse-style wash trough. Beyond that was a small bar fridge and a large freestanding wood fire oven. It was also whitewashed and its smooth rendered dome with terracotta brick-fringed opening gave way to a wide-set aluminium flue that reached for the clear summer sky. Neatly sawn logs filled the storage space under the oven like a completed jigsaw puzzle, packed to perfection.
Alessio walked over to the oven and ran a curious hand over its domed top. ‘Do you use this much?’
‘I haven’t used it for a long time. Papà used to use it daily to make the bread for the restaurant.’ There was something about the way her smile became forced that told Alessio all he needed to know. Used to use it . . . Francesca shook her head. ‘But we have plenty of time for that talk. We have all summer.’
Alessio felt a twinge of guilt about his indecision over whether to stay or go. Presumably Francesca and her family were relying on the rent his stay would bring in.
‘Allora,’ Francesca said, clearly keen to change the subject. She gestured to the tiled benchtop behind them. ‘I’m going to finish lunch, please take a seat.’ She motioned to the long wooden table, already set for two, with enough room for at least another ten. The thick glass tumblers tinted pistachio green matched the stark white plates with green trim, reminiscent of something from the seventies. Mismatched cutlery and linen napkins lay to the side, with a blue pitcher of iced water.
