‘The brutal truth is that I am anaphylactic to fish. Which is not helpful when you come from a long family legacy of fishermen and your family’s restaurant specialises in fish dishes.’ She grunted. ‘So, formaggi and salumi it is! I stay away!’
‘Simona, I feel I need to tell you that Alessio has already found the love of his life in Impastino . . .’
What?
Alessio’s skin suddenly blazed with heat.
‘What? No room for me?’ Simona gestured to the display cabinet again. ‘But I have all the cheese in town!’
Francesca tutted. ‘No, no. He sold his soul to someone much more special. Someone who stirs something inside him . . . She gives him incredible pleasure. And daily!’
Jesus Christ!
Simona lowered her voice and stepped around the counter to meet them again. ‘Ohhh. Who is it? Not Signora Ricci’s daughter, Alessio? She might be beautiful, but that whole family—’
‘Ma, no! It is Ornella. Her pasticciotti have stolen his heart.’
Fuck. Thank God.
Simona laughed, and her plastic-gloved hands danced through the air. ‘Ah! No woman in Impastino has a chance then. He is ruined for all of us!’
Alessio allowed himself the laugh, but something twinged in his middle. Until now, he hadn’t made the connection that Francesca was suddenly off limits on account of their lie. The twinge tightened even more when he realised that this inability to pursue her publicly meant something to him.
Was it the fear of missing out? Or was it something more? A genuine building desire for Francesca?
‘You will represent Trattoria dei Fiori in the Festa della Pasta, no?’ Simona asked, looking between them with wide curious eyes.
With a curated smile and unquestionable confidence, Alessio assured her, ‘Yes, and it will be my pleasure.’
* * *
Once all their errands had been run and Alessio had spent some extra time in the mercato watching the pasta-making ladies, they decided it was time to get on with other pressing matters for the day. Given that asking the elderly members of the community about his nonna had drawn a blank, Francesca suggested they seek more bureaucratic support.
Together they walked to the comune office, tucked out of sight just behind Lu Ientu, and Francesca introduced him to Elisa on the reception. Elisa kindly promised she would help get Alessio started on his hunt for clues about Nonna Immacolata in the town’s historical records room.
And so, with Alessio settled and a kitchen requiring her support, Francesca bid them farewell and started off home.
Just as she was crossing the piazza her phone chimed with a message from Simona.
Simona: He’s NOT your second cousin, is he?
Francesca felt a pang of guilt, but replied: What are you talking about? Yes he is.
There was a short pause until the bouncing ellipses returned.
Simona: I understand WHY you’ve done what you’ve done, but please just tell Carlo. He will never win the festa, but he deserves to know.
Francesca: Ok. Thank you for not making a big thing about this.
Simona: Is Alessio single?
Francesca: Are you interested?
Simona: Not at all. Was thinking for YOU . . .
The final message lingered on her screen, and Francesca reluctantly left Simona on Read.
She didn’t have the emotional or social bandwidth to reply just now. Between dealing with her mother’s antagonistic ways, the Festa della Pasta, holding up the second-cousin charade and looking out for Alessio, she could only focus on one thing at a time. And right now that meant triaging her life.
