‘A target?’
‘Sì. A target on you. Because of me.’
‘Those guys are the least of my worries. I would have defended myself this morning, but I chose to walk away until I had spoken with you.’
‘And I thank you for that.’ Her head slung low, Francesca said, ‘Elio will be your main competition. He will play hard and throw everything at his dishes for the festa. He won’t risk losing the title. The other two competitors . . .’
‘Just as fierce?’
‘I think given your expertise, they will be easy stepping stones for you.’
Alessio’s lips pursed. ‘Let’s hope I don’t trip.’
Francesca pulled her phone from the pocket of her A-line skirt and checked the time, yawning. ‘I don’t want to focus on the negative energy Elio brings to the town. Because he only says he has its best interests at heart.’ She kicked off her sandals, leaving them beside Alessio’s thongs. ‘Come spend the morning with me tomorrow before lunch prep. I’ll take you on a little tour of the lowlands. You may just find some links to your nonna.’ She gestured out over the darkened folds of Impastino’s extended fields, now blanketed by the night. ‘An hour or two. Just us?’
Time alone with Francesca certainly piqued his interest. ‘That would be great. Grazie.’
‘Prego. I’ll message you when I’m ready in the morning. For now, all I can think about is bed.’
Was it the fatigue after the day’s double shift that made Francesca reach for her own apartment door rather than the one she temporarily shared with Maria? Alessio just assumed it was. But nothing could have prepared him for the rush of blood to the head as their hands clasped around the doorknob together.
Francesca offered her apology over another deeper yawn before disappearing into Maria’s apartment.
tredici
Meet me at the bottom of the garden at 8, Francesca’s text read. So, that’s where Alessio waited for her, right on 7.59.
Unsure of how much terrain they would cover on foot, he brought a bottle of water, his sunnies, and made sure to wear his favourite pair of Adidas Gazelle sneakers. The clear sky promised a glorious day but also blistering heat, with no clouds to subdue its intensity. It didn’t matter to Alessio; he was just excited to see more of the place which had once supported his Nonna Immacolata.
Would he recognise anything in their travels that might spark a memory, some connection to her? He wondered. What if nothing seemed familiar? Would that mean the chance of connecting with her here could be unlikely? Would this whole planned summer in Impastino be a waste of time?
Alessio knew these anxieties were conjured by the same part of his brain that fought to control situations each step of the way. His psychologist had helped him recognise this pattern of thinking and encouraged him to acknowledge it, but not let it overwhelm him. He often caught himself trying to pre-empt feelings, emotions, sensations he might feel in response to occurrences around him. If he concentrated long enough, the emotions would materialise, welling in the pit of his stomach as if real.
The sound of jangling keys prompted him to turn, and there was Francesca. She wore a fitted denim skirt into which she had tucked a white boxy tee. She lifted her sunglasses to sit on her crown, pulling her fringe of curls back as if behind a headband.
‘Buongiorno!’ He immediately noticed that she was more made-up this morning. Her lips were tinted the same red as her nails, and a few extra pieces of gold jewellery adorned her warm olive skin: a chunky chain bracelet on her left wrist, oversized gold hoops on her ears. Over her right forearm she carried a wicker shopping basket.
‘Never head out in Italy without a reusable bag,’ he teased, pointing at the basket. ‘Someone wise once taught me that.’
She laughed, coming to a stop in front of him. And, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she grabbed him playfully and pulled him close, planting two enthusiastic kisses on his cheeks. ‘That someone is very wise, eh!’ With the pad of her right thumb she tenderly rubbed some stray lipstick from his cheek. ‘Scusami. My kisses were too passionate!’ Alessio swallowed nervously. ‘Oh, and the other one!’ She wiped again, then cupped his whole cheek in her soft palm. ‘Sorry.’
The comfort of the warmth of her hold took Alessio by surprise. Had she dotted her wrist with perfume? Her familiar scent clouded his mind, making his blood surge.
There are the sweet, gourmand base notes . . . the hint – almost an afterthought – of cinnamon?
The combination reached his palate and he could almost taste her. A sweet morsel. A mouthful. As if just one bite could sate his craving.
‘I can’t wait for you to meet Sophia,’ she was saying, ripping Alessio from his daydream.
‘Sorry? Sophia?’ She hadn’t mentioned company. And somehow the prospect of a third wheel joining them made his stomach sink with disappointment.
‘She’s waiting just through here. Come.’ Francesca caught Alessio’s hand and pulled him behind her as she covered the last few paces to the six-foot-high mudbrick wall at the bottom of the garden. It was a tapestry of knitted vines and overgrown wisteria, some of which reached up and tangled in the overhanging trees. The purple spray stood out against the fresh green of the vines, dotted with white-tipped flowers. No matter the confusion of wooden aromas and herbs, Alessio could still smell Francesca.
Releasing his hand, Francesca pushed past some of the greenery, finding a well-disguised wrought-iron gate. She flicked open the latch and ushered him past her. Beyond the fence was a small brick-poled carport with a terracotta-tiled roof. And under it sat a car.
‘Sophia. Most darling one. Andiamo,’ Francesca said, running an inviting hand over the car’s glossy cherry-red paintwork.
Seeing the vintage 1970s two-door Fiat 500 wasn’t what surprised Alessio. It was the relief that coursed through him, quashing the disappointment of having to share his time with Francesca with anyone else.
