Beauty found by accident . . . like you.
She turned and reached up. Pulling her basket close she began picking the ripe cherries, fishing through them, scrutinising every single one before deciding whether or not it would make the cut.
‘Let me help you,’ he managed, thankful for the distraction. But the sight of her legs in that position drew the strength from his own.
Didn’t see this coming today. Not at all.
Francesca started rattling off all the recipes she used the cherries for, but it all washed past his ears, never catching. Alessio’s libido couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly happen between the two of them. They had all summer. She lived right next door. Things were comfortable and easy between them. They shared a love of food, of eating and cooking . . . She was gorgeous beyond his wildest dreams.
As a smile broke across his lips, she caught his shoulder with her hand and said, ‘What’s that about?’ Her chin flicked in his direction. ‘Why are you smiling?’
Reaching for another cherry he said, ‘I’m really happy to be here with you, Francesca. Honestly.’
She righted herself, her shoulders pinned back. ‘I’m glad. But our time here hasn’t even really begun. We are going to spend many nights together yet.’
Was she teasing him? ‘Nights?’
‘Yes, for our Secret Life of Pasta lessons.’
‘Ah, yeah. Right.’
‘We have all summer, remember?’ She carried on picking and plucking the cherries from the branches, adding them to her basket.
But Alessio paused for a moment, noting how the sunlight glinted in her dark chocolate curls, how it bounced off her golden skin, how her toned arms moved and worked with dexterity and enthusiasm. He sighed.
All summer. Will that be enough?
quattordici
With a few kilos of cherries in the basket on the back seat, Sophia zipped through the countryside.
Francesca waved one hand languidly out the window, catching the skipping breeze around each corner. She would point to properties, noting the businesses and produce they farmed: the Nunzios – nuts, in particular almonds; the Antonuccis – purveyors of organic herbs; the flour mill; the slaughterhouse; numerous olive groves; many vineyards; orchard after orchard; and all quite thirsty.
Alessio noted a sign up ahead on the left with a black painted crucifix. Cimitero. ‘The cemetery?’ he asked.
‘The largest gathering of the townsfolk we will ever manage.’ She indicated left and pulled off just before the turn-off. ‘When you are ready, that’s where you should go. If your nonna spent any of her youth here, she would have known plenty of people buried there. Perhaps you have other relatives there.’
‘Is that where your . . .?’
‘Papà is there, waiting patiently for us. As is Nonno. And Mamma’s parents.’ Alessio watched as a faraway look came over her face. ‘Sometimes if I make too much pasta I bring Papà what’s left. I leave him a few farfalle, or orecchiette. The orecchiette were his favourite.’ She smiled sadly. ‘The entrance is just around that bend.’
Just as Francesca was about to indicate and pull back onto the road, something made Alessio reach over and stop her.
‘How far are we from Impastino now?’ He craned his neck to assess the roadway behind them.
‘Hmm. I think three kilometres.’
His eyes locked onto the side road and that sign, Cimitero, faded and cracked, beckoned him. Not later. It called him now.
‘Do you mind if I go ahead now on my own? I can walk back by myself.’
Francesca’s eyes softened. ‘Would you like me to stay and wait for you?’
He smiled his gratitude. ‘Francesca, you are already going above and beyond for me. Grazie, but I’d like to do this myself. I’ll walk back.’
‘Sicuro? It’s getting hot—’
‘Very sure.’ He gave his water bottle a reassuring shake. ‘You need to get back for lunch prep. I’ll be fine. A pasticciotto upon my return will be all I need to revive me.’
