But he silenced her with his index finger raised mid-air. ‘Because I lost my business to the post-pandemic world of economic crises and the exorbitant cost-of-living issues. I’m here to reset and reboot and to have some time for myself. To look for my roots in this town. I am leaving behind some of the shittiest years of my life to be here in the spirit of healing.’
‘We too are in a period of healing, Alessio. We are mourning.’ Elena’s expression was flat.
‘This . . .’ He gestured between them all, indicating the tense atmosphere. ‘This isn’t mourning. And it’s certainly not healing. You’re all struggling. That’s what I see.’
‘I don’t need a psychological assessment. Grazie.’ Again, Elena attempted to brush him aside, and anger flared within him. Then he looked again at Francesca.
He remembered the enthusiasm with which she had prepared their lunch on the terrazzo, her intuitive knowledge of the flavours, the ingredients . . . and it was suddenly clear to him that Francesca would never be able to flourish in this mess. He understood now why she had escaped to London and why she, her father and Maria had conspired to keep it a secret. As long as Francesca was here in Impastino, in this situation, she would always struggle to break free.
Just as he was about to turn and leave, his mind snagged on a memory. Something his psychologist had once shared with him about acknowledging growth and healing. At the time, Alessio had taken it as a throw-away comment to fill the dying moments of the session. He hadn’t really considered it, because back then he couldn’t see himself ever being in a place of acceptance and change.
‘You’ll know that your acceptance has transitioned to growth when you are able to use your own knowledge about your journey to support someone else. It will take an immense amount of strength, courage and a deep sense of self-awareness. But one day, Alessio, I truly believe you will reach that point. And, you will have the power to change someone else’s life. For the better.’
He stepped towards Francesca and the rest of the scene around them blurred to white noise. The thought of being in that kitchen downstairs and working alongside this dysfunctional trio of stubborn southern Italian women made his breath hitch and filled him with core-shaking anxiety. It made no sense, but he couldn’t stop the words tumbling from his lips.
‘I’ll do it.’
undici
Francesca bolted upright, despite the boneless sensation in her legs. ‘You’ll what?!’
‘I’ll do it.’ Seeing Alessio stand a little taller helped to placate her hammering heart. ‘But I can’t and won’t do it under these circumstances.’ He gestured between the women. ‘I’ve learned the hard way what a toxic environment does in the kitchen. When you bring your outside issues in, it taints more than the atmosphere. It sours the food.’
Elena was having none of it. ‘Alessio, you do not need to do this. This is ridiculous. Just go and save your name and dignity. I doubt there will be much left of ours by the end—’
But Maria had clearly understood enough and heard enough. ‘Stai zitta, tu!’ she bellowed, rising from her chair. Then she launched into a pugliese tirade, although Francesca barely heard it. All of her focus was on Alessio, still standing by the door with his open palms outstretched, looking exhausted.
Their eyes met, and Francesca wished Maria and her mother would simply disappear so she could speak with him alone.
After a few moments of relentless back and forth between Maria and Elena, Francesca broke. ‘Basta! Enough! Be quiet!’ She shook her head. ‘Mamma, Nonna, go back to the kitchen. You need to get lunch service ready! Alessio and I will talk. In private.’
‘Cesca—’
‘No, Mamma! You said it yourself, I made the mess. Now, let me clean it up.’
* * *
It wasn’t until they had reached the bottom of the garden, away from prying eyes and straining ears, that Alessio felt he could breathe again. The wafting earthy aroma of the tomato vines mixed with the sweetness of the abundant basil roused his senses.
He patted the wooden slat of a sleeper bed bursting with viridescent flat-leaf parsley, encouraging Francesca to sit beside him.
She did so, and immediately started speaking. ‘Alessio, I’m so very so—’
‘Shh,’ he said. ‘I know. You’ve said that. We will get to the competition in a sec, but just tell me this first – has she always been so difficult?’
Francesca twitched at this unexpected opener. ‘Mamma?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She has always been protective of the trattoria. Always. But since we lost Papà things have been much worse. She’s trying hard to maintain control, to uphold the legacy my Papà forged for us. She wants to keep us safe financially and socially. I understand that. But she’s not coping with her grief. It’s very difficult to work with her. I do love Mamma. Please understand that. I don’t want it to seem like I don—’
He nodded. ‘Does she always belittle you?’
‘Belittle?’
‘Uhm.’ Alessio searched for the words. ‘Talk down to you like you’re a child. Seems like she doesn’t trust you.’
‘Never quite this bad. I’m used to it now.’ Alessio watched as she tried to force a smile.
