‘Giovanni and I get to sit at the head table.’
Alessio broke into laughter. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’
Felice reached for the microphone and cut through the noise. ‘Impastino, join us here in the piazza for dinner tonight to close the festa! Bring your chairs and tables! Bring something to share! Come one, come all! Just come hungry!’ Another cheer soared skyward from the crowd. ‘We have much to celebrate in Francesca’s honour!’
They shook hands and Felice, Giovanni and the councillor continued on their way.
Yes! This was what success felt like. It had been so long since Alessio had been able to revel in victory. It felt buoyant and joyous and positive.
And there was Francesca, now walking back across the piazza with a crowd in tow, in the direction of the stage. The applause continued to follow her and, even at a distance, she seemed to glow.
Now twenty metres or so away, she stopped and called out, ‘Alessio Ranieri!’
‘Sì, Francesca Fiore?’
‘I think we have a kiss to finish!’
He jumped from the stage and the crowd roared. With each step he took, his mind conjured up vignettes from the past almost three months. Sophia the Fiat 500. The Secret Life of Pasta nights. The knuckle-whitening tension. The smell of her hair. The tazza della pasta politics. Her hips. Her thighs. The fusillo tattoo on her breast. That photo tag on Instagram with the watermelon smile . . .
Just as she caught him with passionate open arms, James’s WhatsApp response – Jesus Christ, mate. You’re in trouble – chimed in his memory.
I’m not in trouble. I’m right where I need to be.
quaranta
Impastino had gathered under the silken moon. The lights and firepits in the piazza cast glowing shadows across the wispy low-lying clouds, all grazed by the sea breeze.
The party was in full swing: the crackle of meat turning on rotisseries; the clinking of glasses, cutlery and servingware; the rattling bells of the folk singers; the timeless drawl of the piano accordion; together with the banter and battute of the town’s people, who had come along to join in the celebration in droves – well, most of them. This was the soundtrack of Impastino, with Francesca Fiore its muse.
Despite the still-hot days, the end-of-summer evenings were remarkably cooler. Short sleeves were swapped for long, and the warmth from the firepits was welcomed.
Francesca’s plate was loaded with local fare: orecchiette with broccoli; golden-skinned potatoes with bristly woody lengths of rosemary; skewered orange-tinted shrimp and pearlescent octopus brandishing grill marks; tomato salad spiked with parsley, garlic and red onion; and a few inches of sea salt–encrusted pork crackling.
She carried this in one hand, an Aperol Spritz in the other, and at her side was Alessio.
He picked a potato from her plate, assessed it then popped it in his mouth. His brow creased and he nodded while he chewed. ‘Oh, yeah. They taste like the earth. Grazie.’ He proffered his plate to welcome a scoop from the elderly gentleman server.
Francesca nudged him, nodding at the potatoes, and Alessio held one of his to her mouth. Her eyes rolled as the crispy skin gave way to a fluffy core. ‘Buonissima! Another, please! My hands are occupied.’ She laughed as he dutifully fed her another.
They continued down the long serving line that had been set up along the back of the piazza, in front of U Ssale, the tabaccheria and the bar. Francesca’s red midi-dress caught on the breeze, which also pulled her cardigan from her shoulder. The flush of cooler air drew goosebumps to her skin.
Alessio set his plate down and pressed a tender kiss to her collarbone. It shot tingles of a different kind through her. ‘Ale . . .’
‘Hmm?’
Another kiss, only slower. His mouth lingered for an extra beat.
‘You do realise that’s . . . not helping?’ She bit her bottom lip.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Bravo. Just . . . checking.’ He eventually pulled her cardigan back over her shoulder, and she sighed. ‘Is it too early for dolce?’
His eyes scoured the long tables ahead of them. ‘Dessert?’
Francesca leaned into him. ‘Not that kind of dolce . . .’
He laughed. ‘It’s always time for dessert. And we never finished this morning’s helping from the grain store.’
