She felt her cheeks warm. ‘You did?’
‘A beautiful touch with the pasta.’ His lips curled into a kind smile. ‘It’s really very sweet.’
Her eyes pulled away from his. Lowering her voice, she said, ‘I just miss him. He was my pasta partner in crime.’
‘I know. And he’d know it, too.’
She looked up. ‘Grazie, Alessio.’ It was at that moment that Maria ambled past the kitchen, her grey bun just visible over the serving ledge. ‘Alessio, shall I ask her now?’
Alessio’s shoulders rose. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Nonna!’ Francesca called, and Maria’s head popped through the saloon doors. Francesca continued in Italian, ‘Alessio is trying to learn more about his nonna, Immacolata Mazzotta. She was born and grew up here, but migrated to Australia after the war . . .’ The mention of the war prompted a swift sign of the cross from Maria. ‘Did you know her? Remember anyone by that name?’
Maria’s brow furrowed as she pondered the name. ‘There were many girls and women called Immacolata. But Mazzotta . . .’ Her lips pursed and she cast her gaze to the ceiling. ‘No. I don’t remember her.’
‘Really? Nothing?’
‘No.’ She gestured to Alessio. ‘Does he have an address? Names of other relatives?’
Francesca relayed the question to Alessio in English, and he shook his head. ‘Tell her we have no living relatives here in Impastino that I know of, and no details such as past addresses. Whoever was here has long since left or passed away.’
Maria shared her heartfelt apologies before heading to the dining room to fold napkins at one of the tables.
‘I’m sorry, Alessio. Nonna can’t remember anyone of that name.’
‘Grazie. I understood enough to piece that together.’
‘But we can keep trying.’ She gave him a gentle smile. Noting how the skin of his neck and the tip of his nose had reddened under the morning sun, she said, ‘You’re looking very hot.’
Alessio flinched. ‘Hot?’
She pointed to his shirt. ‘Look at how red and sweaty you are.’
‘Ah. Right. But I’m heading down to the beach now to cool off.’ He gestured to the blue and white striped towel tucked under his arm. ‘I just wanted to stop by and say thanks for the ride this morning.’
‘Di niente! You’re welcome.’ She darted off to the fridge and collected a small paper-wrapped parcel and a bottle of water. ‘Ecco,’ she said, setting the bottle down on the ledge first. ‘You will need this down by the water.’
He gave her a wink. ‘Grazie.’
And just as he was about to turn and leave, she reached over the ledge and grabbed his arm. His smooth skin radiated a delicious sun-kissed warmth. ‘And this . . .’ The little parcel hit the counter.
She watched as his eyes narrowed on the sealed paper-wrapped bag of intrigue. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
She feigned ignorance. ‘Boh!’
‘Francesca . . .’
‘What? I did nothing! Nothing!’
‘If that’s what I think it is, I might just have to marry you.’
She couldn’t withhold the bubbling laughter and it bounced around the empty kitchen. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep!’
With an effervescent tingle in her stomach, she watched as he slipped a finger under the tape and opened the paper. Not one but two pasticciotti lay in wait.
‘You’ve gone and done it now. Married with kids it is! Three. Two boys and a girl!’
Through her laughter she tried her best to silence him, pressing her index finger to her lips. ‘Cousins, remember?!’
