‘Of course. I can help you. There are many resources we can use and people we can speak to.’
‘Francesca, that’s not nec—’
‘Your little Italian will only get you so far. Let me help you.’
Watching her plate up two mismatched bowls of tagliatelle, tossed in that glossy sweet sauce, Alessio wanted to push back but couldn’t. He wanted to go this alone, but acknowledged his language skills were lacking. Francesca knew the land, he didn’t. She was offering the help so selflessly and openly, so he said, ‘Grazie. I appreciate that.’ He twirled his fork in the tagliatelle, knotting the strands in one tight cluster. He took a generous first bite and closed his eyes. At first it was the tomatoes . . .
Cherry, but definitely datterino variety.
Olive oil, but slightly acidic. Perhaps cultivated on volcanic soil.
Garlic, purple. Or wild.
And . . .
‘White wine?’ he asked.
Dry. Local. Citrus undertones.
‘Just a splash. A local bianco from one of our suppliers. Friends, really.’
The pasta was toothsome yet smooth. Al dente. It had just the right texture to catch and hold the sauce. As simple as the combination was, Francesca had married the elements perfectly. Sweet yet tangy, and above all perfectly balanced. It wasn’t just on account of the clearly superior ingredients. Whatever it was that fuelled Francesca’s cooking intuition was innate and natural. A beautiful thing.
And, watching her sitting across from him, twirling her own fork of tagliatelle, the word ‘beautiful’ lingered in Alessio’s mind.
Beautiful.
The food. The setting. The company.
‘Thank you for this incredible lunch, Francesca. And for making me feel very welcome.’
‘Prego.’
‘It probably sounds very clichéd, but just being here chatting with you . . . I feel like I’ve known you . . .’
‘Forever?’
‘Ha! Yes.’
Twirling her fork in her plate, she said, ‘I feel it too. It’s very easy. Natural. Are you single, Alessio?’ Francesca’s lips wrapped around her fork, capturing the hearty mouthful in one.
He nodded. ‘Very. You?’
Setting her fork down beside her plate, she said between chews, ‘Also, very.’
His mind blurred with the stinging question – could time with Francesca be enough to keep him there, in that little apartment, hovering over one of his greatest fears?
He smiled. ‘Good to know.’
sette
Francesca paced back and forth on the tiles by the foot of the bed, keeping time with Maria’s snoring in the adjacent bedroom. After a nervous afternoon trying to reconcile Alessio’s story with the desire to simply drop to her knees and beg for his help at the festa, she felt completely torn.
He had been so completely vulnerable with her. Achingly so. And what had she done? Tensed up? Withdrawn? It wasn’t that what he had divulged had made her uncomfortable – if anything it had made her respect him for his strength and honesty – it was that now, knowing what she knew, she couldn’t see any respectful way to broach the topic of the festa with him. Even so much as suggesting he uphold a charade, lie to the townsfolk and battle it out in the kitchen on her behalf, was an insult to his injuries. Not to mention the trust he had placed in her.
‘Ughhh!’ she moaned into her palms as she came to a stop at the piazza-facing window. She unlatched the shutter and pushed it open, and a warm breeze danced past her, drawing goosebumps across her bare arms.
Francesca pulled the oversized tee she ritually wore to bed down a little further and hugged her arms across her body. The cotton was cocooning and comforting.
