She nodded. ‘Hmm?’
‘Maybe Monday night? We can do another Secret Life of Pasta session, and then I can teach you something. In the past, some of my junior chefs have needed to hone specific skills that require regular practice to really nail. If you don’t do them over and over again, you just lose the ability. Like tempering chocolate . . . That can be really finicky and frustrating. And I don’t know, say . . . cooking flambé? Those sorts of things. What do you think? Might that interest you?’
Francesca couldn’t help the full force of the smile that broke over her face. ‘Alessio, I’d love for you to be the one to help me with those things.’
‘Gently, of course.’
Looking at him standing there wearing her father’s silk scarf, dustings of flour across his shorts, pasta dough drying on his hands and a radiant grin stretching across his handsome face, caused something to flip over in her heart.
You’ve been sent by the pasta gods to save me, haven’t you, Alessio Ranieri? The sign I’d been waiting for . . .
diciannove
Monday proved to be particularly hot, with the mercury skipping past thirty-eight degrees, and no reprieve of an overnight cool change on the cards. The steamy piazza held all the day’s heat.
The people of Impastino kept to the shadows and darker corners of the town, stepping out of their homes only to seek the beach or life’s necessities. Alessio was no exception; following his pasticciotto and coffee breakfast at the bar, and after collecting supplies for his evening’s cooking tutorial after their Secret Life of Pasta session, he spent an hour in the comune archives searching for traces of Nonna Immacolata, still to no avail.
He rechecked the same files and folders he had filtered through a few days before, in case he’d missed anything. He even touched base with his parents to update them on his lack of progress, and once again they advised him to take it easy and enjoy his break. Thankfully, Joe and Silvana didn’t see Alessio’s eye roll.
While the thought of spending his Monday afternoon relaxing with a book was appealing, Francesca’s offer of something even more refreshing on her day off piqued his interest.
* * *
The water was up to their waists and rising with each step they took.
Francesca indicated twenty metres ahead, to the edge of the rock face. ‘Where the rocks jut out over the water, that’s where the shelf drops.’ She turned to face him, another wave lapping at them, now reaching their chests. ‘It’s too dangerous to swim around, as the current can push you against the rocks. That’s why no one comes here.’
‘So how do we get to this cove of yours, then?’
‘We go under.’
‘Under?’ Alessio’s expression tightened. ‘Under what?’ His wide eyes flicked up to the jagged dark rocks reaching across the water.
‘Follow me.’ Francesca’s hand caught his, and she walked him towards the cliff face. She had promised to show him a very special local ingredient which grew in a hard-to-reach place. But this wasn’t what Alessio had envisaged.
When they reached the rock face, she assessed it, looking for a specific spot. ‘Here,’ she said, pointing to a small red love heart painted against the façade. ‘Smalto. Nail polish. So I always know the safest entry point. See it?’ He nodded. ‘You drop down about a metre or so, push and kick for another two, and you will pop out the other side.’
‘You’re joking?’ Alessio took in the enormity of the rocky cliff.
‘This bit of rock is mostly narrow. Difficult to see at this angle. Like a fin, rising from the water.’ She prepared herself with a deep breath then disappeared under the water.
Alessio’s jaw dropped open. Just like that? No practice shot? No test run?
It took a few moments but then Alessio heard Francesca’s voice calling from the distance. ‘Alessio, dai! You can do it! Just swim under!’
Alessio couldn’t see any other option. He simply had to trust her. He filled his lungs and dove under the water’s surface.
The clear blue reflected the sun’s light all the way down to the pebbles below. Eyes open under the water he could see the tunnel-like space under the rock, and with a few solid kicks he pushed through then resurfaced, breaking the top of the water with a splash.
‘Non è difficile, eh?’
He laughed. ‘Looked more intimidating than it was.’
‘This is why no one comes here. They all stay on the main beach. But the privacy here is worth it.’
Privacy . . .
It took only a few steps before the water line receded back to their hips, then knees, and then they were on the shore. The inlet was secluded and quiet. They were completely hemmed in by the cliffs behind them and to the right, and the rock face behind them. The small length of beach, perhaps ten metres wide, was pristine, the grey pebbles reflecting the sunlight.
