She plated up a bowl each, and with two glasses of vino bianco, they retreated to the lounger.
Francesca watched as Alessio took his first bite. ‘Hmm?’
‘It’s . . . perfection. The pasta is toothsome, with that subtle kick of smoke. The sauce coats your tongue. But it’s not heavy. It’s smooth. Settling. Calming.’
Francesca took her first mouthful and closed her eyes. All the sensations hit her at once. This was why it had to be Alessio’s dish. The one she would forever cook and prepare in the memory of their summer together. For the wins, the losses, for the growth and change. For whatever came next. The unknown.
‘Grano arso is often misunderstood. The colour. Grigio. It can be unsettling at first. It’s not what you expect of pasta. But it’s so closely tied to our pugliese soil. It’s imperfect. Burned. Battered. Tired. Where so many might have given up on the burned grains, for others, it means life.’ She dropped her head to his shoulder and let it rest there. ‘You are this hope for me, Alessio. You’ve helped me infinitely this summer.’
He leaned his head against hers and sighed. ‘You’ve given me a second chance, Francesca. Truly. I’ll always be in your debt.’
As he turned her chin to catch her lips, she whispered to the stars, ‘Ti amo, Alessio. You’re my love, al dente.’
‘And you’re mine,’ he replied. ‘Ti amo.’
quarantatré
‘I know this won’t be arrivederci forever,’ Carlo chuckled, pulling Alessio’s bags from the boot of the car, which he’d double-parked behind a pair of carabinieri vehicles in front of Foggia’s train station. ‘The trouble with Impastino is that it gets under your skin. It’s hard to remove.’
‘Skin? Or nails?’ Alessio remarked playfully, picking at some flour which seemed permanently embedded under his fingernails.
Francesca, though relatively quiet on the drive from Impastino, managed a smile. ‘That can be your little reminder of us.’
‘It will take much more than a decent nail-scrubbing to forget you all.’ On that note, Alessio turned to Carlo and opened his arms. ‘Come on, get in here.’
At least a foot taller than Alessio, Carlo launched into a fierce man hug, lifting him off the ground. ‘Non te ne andare, Alessio!’ he wailed melodramatically, prompting Francesca to whip out her phone and catch the moment in a series of ridiculous long-limbed slapstick tableaux. ‘Mi mancherai!’
‘Oi!’ Alessio pulled his way free, laughing in turn. ‘How you’re single, mate, I’ll never understand!’
Francesca smiled. ‘Carlo is just waiting for his true love to come save him. Aren’t you?’
Carlo pinched his fingers and waggled them with Italian passion under Alessio’s nose. ‘I am waiting for a lovely Australian girl. When you get home, put in a good word for me. Tell them I cook, eh? Who wouldn’t love that, no?’
‘A tall Italian man who lives in a tiny southern Italian town by the sea, who can cook, has a wicked sense of humour, and the strength of ten burly men?’
‘Sì, perfetto. Let’s go with that.’ Carlo nodded furiously. ‘The ad practically writes itself.’
‘Grazie di tutto,’ Alessio said, and he knew from Carlo’s expression that he had struck a chord.
Carlo kissed and embraced Francesca, pulling her suitcase from the boot and lengthening the handle. ‘Arrivederci. Have fun in London. See you in a week.’ With a last wave, he hopped back in the car and slipped into the traffic flow without indicating.
Alessio and Francesca stood for a moment until Carlo’s rusting yellow Fiat Panda turned the corner.
Francesca cleared her throat and tried to keep her voice light. ‘To Bari airport?’ Her smile was laced with apprehension and a tinge of sadness.
Alessio looked down as her fingers joined his and held on tight. The hands he had spent so much time studying, watching, trying to emulate as they created magic on those floury boards in the kitchen late at night. The hands that pulled at his clothing, that trickled down the bare skin of his back while she writhed beneath him. The hands that fed him the humblest yet most complex morsels, her fingers tenderly grazing his lips. The hands that reached for him. That played with him. Teased him . . . and that now sought comfort, betraying her fear that she was destined to lose him.
‘It’s time.’ He heard the words leave his mouth, almost disembodied, but they were whipped away on the morning breeze that danced past the singular sandstone façade of the station.
She gave a despondent nod. ‘At least we have the two-hour journey to the airport together.’
He gripped her hand a little tighter, and they went inside.
* * *
Francesca watched as her suitcase dropped then dipped from view on the conveyor belt behind the check-in steward’s desk. It all happened as if in slow motion.
The gentleman, wearing his navy three-piece corporate suit, smiled and slipped her boarding pass over the counter, gesturing in the direction of the security clearance area.
