‘Ladisa. That’s a great surname,’ Alessio said.
Francesca jumped in before Elena could. ‘In Italy, Alessio, women don’t usually change their names when they marry. So Mamma isn’t a Fiore.’
‘Ah. I didn’t know that. Interesting.’
‘Yes.’ Elena’s smile tightened. ‘Women are forever connected to their families this way. To their fathers, in particular. A somewhat unshakable bond.’
Clearing her throat, Francesca interjected, ‘How did you sleep last night, Alessio?’
‘I think I’ve kicked the jet lag for good now. After our lunch I simply headed back to bed and slept off the meal. Cruised right through until six am.’
‘Lunch?’ Elena’s eyelids fluttered. ‘I must have missed the invitation.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that. Francesca kindly prepared me lunch on the terrace to welcome me to the town.’
‘Did she now?’ Elena turned, her smile barely reaching the corners of her lips. ‘That was very kind.’
‘It was delicious. She’s a very talented chef.’
‘Our Cesca is a naturally talented cook. All stemming from her learnings here in this kitchen.’
Though Elena had delivered that last statement without any detectable inflection, it was her choice of the term ‘cook’ that got under Francesca’s skin.
Cook? Is that all you see me as? Just a cook following a recipe? Even after all I’ve already proven to you?
Could Alessio sense Francesca’s unease? Had he read the well-disguised layer of tension in Elena’s comment, and the chagrin it had caused her daughter? He pursed his lips for a moment before he carefully rebutted, ‘She’s no cook. Francesca’s skills and intuition, not to mention her experiences in this kitchen, well and truly make her a chef.’
Elena’s smile tightened and her hands came to rest on her hips. ‘Respectfully, Alessio, a chef has studied formally in the culinary arts. Not one of us in this kitchen, myself included, has ever done such a thing. We are and always will be cooks. Passionate ones, but the fact remains.’
Stop talking. Just stop talking now.
Alessio gave a slow nod. ‘I guess we must agree to disagree, then.’
Francesca wondered if Alessio would reveal his own professional background in the moment. ‘Actually, I am a chef. A well-respected and highly acclaimed chef . . . So my opinion trumps yours . . .’ But thinking back on his reluctance to cook at all in the wake of his trauma, she figured he would keep quiet on this point. And so he did. Turning to Francesca, he said, ‘I was hoping you might be able to direct me to a pharmacy? Or the supermarket? I need to grab a few things.’
Francesca suddenly realised how dangerous it might be to send Alessio out into the town unchaperoned. What if he introduces himself to someone? Or people ask who he is? This charade might come undone before it’s even begun.
She tried to think logically. No one except Felice and Giovanni, and perhaps anyone at the comune managing the administration of the festa, would know she had nominated Alessio to represent them.
Ok, breathe. This can be managed. But I can’t risk him saying he’s here for any other reason just yet. Especially if he somehow, by some miracle or magical twist of fate, actually agrees to this plan . . .
‘Ermm,’ she stammered. ‘Please, let me come with you.’ She passed her bowl of shelled broad beans to Maria. ‘I’ll give you a super-quick tour of the town and show you where to go.’
He raised a concerned hand. ‘No, it’s fine, I can see you’re busy. Just point me in the right direction. I’ll find it.’ He slipped his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose, ready to set off.
‘Not at all.’ Francesca turned, and with wide eyes communicated her fears to Maria, who nodded her understanding and began a wild rant in deeply native pugliese dialect, marked by hand gestures and finger pointing.
A word Alessio would have understood in the midst of the vocabulary torrent, however, was patate.
‘Ah, sì,’ Francesca sighed. ‘We do need potatoes. Thank you for the reminder, Nonna.’
‘We don’t need potat—’ Elena attempted to chime in.
‘Dieci chili!’ Maria pressed firmly. ‘Per gli gnocchi!’ Then the word scramble was unleashed once more, with Maria pointing to Alessio’s toned arms.
Wanting to cheer at the brilliance of Maria’s quick thinking, Francesca tried her best to remain neutral. ‘Nonna is wondering if you might be able to carry some potatoes back from the supermarket for her. She wants ten kilos.’
Alessio gave Maria a cheeky wink. ‘For this beautiful nonna, I’d bring back twenty.’
