‘There’s no one here!’ With a mouthful of pastry and crema pasticcera, he sauntered to the door, calling back over his shoulder, ‘Grazie, cugina!’
Watching as his slender frame was caught by the sun in the piazza, she sighed. ‘Grazie a te . . .’
A zing of energy rippled down her arms and through to her fingers. She shook out her hands, trying to calm herself, but all it did was bring an untameable smile to her lips. The morning they’d spent together, their simple playful exchange just now, had changed something between them. She could feel it in the air, and it intoxicated her more with every breath. Francesca had seen his eyes come to rest on her thighs in the car. And she had watched him swallow nervously when he’d closed his eyes and she’d pressed the fragrant cherry to his lips. Was it simply innocent flirtation? Or could it be more, despite the risks and challenges of the charade they had committed to playing out?
I do want more . . .
Shaking herself out of these thoughts, she turned back to the dough she’d been kneading at her workbench, but at that moment Maria arrived through the kitchen door, prayer missal in hand.
‘Did I hear the word “married”? Even I know that word . . .’
Francesca rolled her eyes.
Of course! Nosy Nonna knows no bounds.
‘No one is getting married, Nonna.’
Maria gave an indignant snort as she reached for her Virgin Mary–shaped bottle of holy water in its usual place by the olive oil. Maria opened the stopper, poured some into her hand and flicked it at Francesca.
‘Eh! Stop that!’ Another handful. ‘Nonna! Enough!’ Francesca tried to swat away the water, but it kept coming.
‘Stay still, you need this!’
‘I don’t need a consecrated shower!’ Another handful of water shot at her, hitting her square in the face. ‘Please, Nonna! Stop!’
Finally, Maria relented, setting the bottle down on the end of the bench. ‘There. It’s in God’s hands now.’
quindici
It wasn’t until he was lying face down on his towel with the warm breeze wafting up off the Adriatic that Alessio was able to wipe the smile off his face.
With his shirt bundled under his cheek as a makeshift pillow, he took a long breath, feeling his lungs fill and his chest expand. His feet dug into the coarse pebbly sand, feeling it grow cooler the deeper he went. It was a welcome reprieve from the bite of the sun, which blazed overhead, blanketing his naked back with its touch.
He mentally sifted through the events of the morning, savouring each one over again. The car ride. The donkey. The properties. The cemetery. The cherries . . .
Whatever the magic, no matter the spell, he felt drawn to Francesca. He couldn’t deny it, and he didn’t want to, either. His mind enjoyed returning to her, recalling and reliving a smile, a stare, the bounce of her curls. The passion. Her fire. Her appearance in his life was unexpected, yes, but most certainly welcome.
The women in his past were often tied to work: his staff; his team; his restaurant; suppliers. As much as he now hated to admit it, so many of those connections were founded purely on convenience. Long hours. High stress. Being close to someone who was already there. It took the guesswork out of dating, but also had the potential for disaster when things went wrong. And they often did.
Now, lying there on the beach in Impastino, with the prospect of a delicious summer ahead of him, Alessio felt content. Truly content. It was as if the ‘relax’ switch had finally been flicked, and he could simply let go. So he did, drifting into a doze under the southern Italian summer sun.
* * *
WHACK!
Alessio was ripped from his repose, sent flying from his towel in a daze. The volleyball that had smacked him across the back of the neck had come to rest in a sandy hollow a metre beyond him.
‘Scusaci il disturbo!’ said a lanky, long-limbed man who was bounding over the sand. He began rattling off more apologies, but Alessio stopped him with outstretched hands.
‘It’s ok. Va bene. Non parlo . . . bene . . . italiano.’
‘Ah. Turista? Americano? Inglese? Tedesco?’ While much of the man’s height derived from his spindly legs, Alessio couldn’t help but notice the length of his wafer-thin torso. ‘You are here on vacation?’ His accent was thicker than Francesca’s, less refined and rounder, pinching his consonants together.
Alessio politely rose to standing, dusting off the coarse sand. ‘Erm . . .’
Boom!
Public interrogation. He’d known he would have to start living out Francesca’s charade eventually, but hadn’t really prepared for it. Steeling himself, he said, ‘Sort of. I’m here from Australia visiting cousins of mine. I’m staying with them, and I’ll be working in their restaurant. But just for the summer.’
