‘Yes. Please.’ All the while his eyes never left swaddled smiling baby Joe.
‘This will be my final letter . . .’ Francesca blew out a loaded sigh. ‘Giuseppe arrived safely three months ago. Motherhood is difficult, and has come later than I had hoped. I am tired. My body is still healing. But I wouldn’t change it for anything.’
Alessio’s eyes rose as he set down the photo, and he swallowed past the lump building in his throat. ‘Francesca . . .’
‘Antonio is a wonderful man and a caring father. I feel supported, and I have learned to love him truly in return. So that is why we cannot continue to write. Even in friendship. I need to devote my life to these men. My present and my future. And to any children that come as a blessing in the next generation.’ Francesca paused. ‘That’s you, Alessio. She was welcoming the possibility of grandchildren into her life with Antonio.’
His eyes had clouded with tears and he nodded, bringing his steepled fingers to his chin. ‘I’d always wondered if she didn’t want . . . But now we know.’
‘And you need to focus on your life with Maria in Impastino. And with your son, Giacomo. Because that is where your heart is. Lose yourself to love, to the sea and the land. If business is as bad as you say in town, perhaps you should try your hand as a sfoglino? You have all the passion to eat, why not put those skilled hands to work in another way? But please, whatever you do. You must forget about me. As I will now try to forget about you . . .’
Francesca’s hands hit the tabletop, letter still in her grasp. ‘My nonno became a sfoglino because of her . . . I just know it.’
‘What was he before?’
‘A farming mechanic. His father, my bisnonno, was a sfoglino. But not him. It would have skipped his generation entirely. Or ended with him. But Immacolata . . . She saved him with this new path. Because if he truly loved her as much as I think, he would have listened to her.’
‘So, all this . . .?’ Alessio cast his eyes across the apartment, then gestured to the restaurant downstairs. ‘And your father? And you . . .? Your pasta legacy?’
‘Was all because of her.’
ventotto
The first tappa of the Festa della Pasta may have been behind them, but Francesca and Alessio’s Secret Life of Pasta evenings continued.
In fact, they intensified even further. Francesca found she really enjoyed imparting her knowledge, and Alessio was such a willing and gifted student.
This evening was no exception: Francesca’s plan was to focus first on small bread knot nibbles called taralli, then return to pasta with cavatelli and casarecce. However, she was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.
As they were working the dough, Francesca glanced over and realised that Alessio had closed his eyes. She stopped her own kneading and turned to look at him. His brows had drawn together, creating a thoughtful furrow across his forehead. His head dropped slightly to the right as he took a deep breath and held it momentarily. Francesca noted the spray of freckles that dotted his deepening golden skin, disappearing into his few-days-old stubble. He looked every bit the Mediterranean dream.
Then his face cleared. ‘The gluten has finally released,’ he said, opening his eyes and finding Francesca’s.
She grinned and leaned her back against the edge of her board.
I taught him that.
Hearing him echo her wisdom drew his previous compliment – You would make an amazing teacher – to her mind.
I could teach, I guess. Share my love and passion for food, my way . . .
Alessio searched her face. ‘Are you ok?’
Francesca nodded, suddenly self-consciousness under his scrutiny.
Alessio dropped his dough to the board and wiped his hands slowly on the front of Giacomo’s beloved old apron. His dark brown eyes absorbed all of Francesca as he moved closer so their knees met. In that instance everything seemed to still.
Then she felt his arms reach around her middle and knot themselves in the small of her back, drawing her nearer. With one hand he traced a slow line around her hip and up and over the small mother of pearl buttons which fastened the front of her dress, coming to rest at the nape of her neck, cradling her head. Without conscious thought, Francesca softened in his grasp, leaning her head tenderly into his hold.
It felt delicious.
Alessio’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips, and that guiding hand softly caressing her neck pulled her nearer still. His other hand caught the other side.
His voice, low and gruff, tested the final shred of Francesca’s self-control. ‘No one will find us here.’
She swallowed as the heat radiating from Alessio’s body ignited her skin’s desire for contact.
Then, he dropped his forehead to rest against Francesca’s, and the way the tip of his nose toyed with hers, teasing her . . . it was too much, yet not enough.
