Again, her hand gripped his bicep, and Alessio was sure that this time it wasn’t the crema pasticcera that made his blood sizzle through his veins.
It wasn’t even the pasticciotti.
It was Francesca.
nove
As if he were a fireman carrying heavy equipment across an emergency scene, Alessio’s return to Trattoria dei Fiori, ten-kilo hessian sack of potatoes tossed over his shoulder, earned him applause from both Maria and Francesca, and a curt smile from Elena.
Although she tried to hide it, Francesca could not help but beam at the sight.
He’s enjoying every second of this attention. Look at him. All charismatic and gorgeous. Wait – gorgeous?
Just as she began to examine this thought, Alessio said, ‘Can you take my sunnies off, please?’ They had slipped down his aquiline nose and threatened to drop to the floor tiles.
‘Certo!’ Francesca removed them and folded down the arms. ‘I’ll leave them here,’ she added, and popped them on the serving ledge.
‘Patate per Nonna Maria,’ he announced, setting down the bag on the bench as Maria rushed to clear a space. ‘Dieci chili,’ he confirmed, which was rewarded with a pinch of his left cheek.
‘Grazie, Alessio!’ Then she launched into a torrent of dialect, and while the sounds were likely familiar to Alessio’s ear, Francesca knew the pace would be too quick for him.
Alessio turned to her with ‘help me!’ eyes, and she translated an abridged version: ‘She thanks you and she’s very happy to have you here.’
‘Right. Grazie. No wait, prego.’
‘Thank you, Alessio.’ Elena stood forward. ‘Do you have plans for the rest of your day? We are going to open soon for lunch.’
‘I thought I might go upstairs and unpack. I haven’t got around to it yet. Have some breakfast.’ He tapped the bag of groceries Francesca had kindly carried for him. ‘Then perhaps a beach walk, or some time down there with a book.’
Francesca’s heart seized again. That would be another opportunity for him to encounter the townsfolk. She felt Maria’s hand catch hers and give it a settling squeeze.
That’s her way of telling me to just let it happen. I can’t control this situation under these circumstances . . .
She stole a moment for a breath before saying, ‘There’s a street library box by the bar in the piazza. You should go have a look on your way down to the beach. You might find a book – o due! – to read. The English ones are mostly left by tourists.’
Suddenly, one of Maria’s phones began to ring and she pulled it from her apron. She had an interested party of three looking on as she sat back down in her chair by the end of the bench. ‘Pronto? Giannina, ciao. Ahh, sì. Mmm. E sì? Ma no?’
This carried on for a few moments, prompting Francesca to clarify for Alessio, ‘Giannina is her best friend. They play tombola together at the church social nights, double-date, cook and shop together. They have been best friends since they were five.’
‘Ahh. Impossibile! La signora Ricci? Ma no . . .’ Maria’s free hand came down with force on the benchtop beside her.
‘Is everything alright?’ Alessio asked, clearly noticing Maria’s shocked expression.
But just as Francesca was about to answer, Maria ended the call and began rattling off her usual brand of impassioned dialect, wild gestures accompanying her story.
Francesca doubled over from the force of her laughter and had to brace herself against the kitchen bench.
‘What? What’s happened?’ Alessio asked, eyes wide.
Rising again, Francesca fanned her face with her hands in an attempt to calm herself before saying, ‘There is a woman in town, Signora Ricci, who has a certain “reputation”. She was just seen in the supermercato. Buying plastic bags.’
Alessio blinked. ‘You’re joking?’
Francesca clasped her hands over her mouth and shook her head. ‘See? Do you believe me now?’
‘I’m a convert.’
‘Fidati di me, Alessio. I’ll look after you in Impastino.’
