A sizzling roasted peppercorn steak followed with fresh green beans, and finally, there was peach gelato with thin, buttery sugar cookies for dessert.
All this was accompanied by the perfect pairing of wine for each course.
Domenico raised his glass. “To my lovely wife, who brings a grown man to tears with her squash ravioli.”
“To Caterina,” Anton said, raising his glass as well, then leaning in his chair to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you for another splendid dinner.”
At the end of the evening, Lillian helped in the kitchen, and Caterina shared her secret recipe for the squash ravioli, which wasn’t really a secret at all because Caterina loved sharing anything and everything when it came to food.
She rinsed a plate and handed it to Lillian to dry. “Tell me about your husband. Anton said he left for Paris this morning. Why does he leave you?”
Lillian bristled at the underlying suggestion that Freddie had “left” her. “He has work to do,” she explained. “He’s writing a book, and he needs to do some research.”
“Is he published?”
“Not yet, but we’re hopeful that this will be his debut novel. When he gets an agent, everything will be easier, financially. Then we can start a family.”
Caterina considered this for a moment. “So you are the breadwinner?”
Lillian cleared her throat. “Yes, I suppose, for now, but I don’t mind. I enjoy working. Especially here.” She smiled.
“But you want to have a family,sì?”
“Yes, very much so.”
Caterina dipped a large ceramic bowl into the hot, soapy water. “You must tell us the name of your husband’s book so that we can buy it when it’s published.”
“Fingers crossed,” she replied.
Caterina passed the bowl to Lillian, and she set it on the worktable behind her. “Your husband must be very creative,” Caterina continued, as she scoured an iron skillet in the sink. “There is something about artistic men that is very appealing, don’t you agree?”
“Sì,” Lillian replied.
“Anton is an artist,” Caterina casually mentioned. “Did you know?”
Lillian remembered how enraptured he had seemed when she mentioned that she wished she had a paintbrush to capture the clouds. “No, I didn’t. What sort of artist is he?”
“He paints with oils. He’s very good.”
Lillian chuckled softly. “I’m both surprised and not surprised.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he seems to have an artistic soul.” It was there in the way he spoke about wine and pleasure and a deeper meaning to everything.
Later, Lillian and Caterina returned to the dinner table to drink some grappa with the men. As soon as there was a break in the conversation, Caterina pounced on the opportunity to change the subject.
“Anton, I told Lillian about your art.”
Everyone fell silent. Anton sat back in his chair and inclined his head, scolding her a little with his tone. “Cat ...”
“I couldn’t help myself!” she replied defensively. “It just slipped out.”
“Is it supposed to be a secret?” Lillian asked, innocently.
Domenico slapped the table with his hand. “That has been my question since the day I met this man. Why won’t you show anyone your paintings, Anton? They’re very good. They deserve to be seen and enjoyed.”
“I don’t paint for other people,” he replied. “I just do it for myself.”
