“He has a good heart. He’s been through a lot, you know? He carries a lot of heavy things on him since New York. And he works harder than ten people here, so—” She turned back to the bar, where a customer was waiting. “He’s the best, really. Let me know if you need anything. Enjoy!” she said, leaving them with their lunch.
“Well, there you have it,” said Vilmari. “Straight from the source. If you don’t trust this woman, I’m going to call bullshit. A liar could not serve this food.”
Lora drank a gulp of the crisp white wine and glanced at the table where Andrea had been sitting. What did Giada mean about “heavy things since New York”? Maybe there was some other reason why he left the city besides wanting to help out here. Either way, maybe, just maybe, she could be alittle more open-minded. If Franca was able to find some way to rocket her to the front of the citizenship line, she’d have to admit it was because of him. He could actually be an ally if she played this right.
“I’m not saying anything.” Lora leaned over Vilmari’s dish. “Now let me see what this pesto obsession is all about.”
Chapter 6
Andrea should have known that he would be late getting back to city hall. Elia and Angelo Solari were two of the oldest people in town, at ninety-seven and ninety-nine, and lived the farthest away from the center, up a very steep hill and deep into the olive groves. The best way to get out there was to use his official government vehicle, the only one allowed to park in the pedestrian-only zone in the town center, which happened to be a 1995 Fiat Panda 4x4. He’d had the little car painted forest green with the town seal emblazoned on the hood and a red, white, and green stripe along the side. It had no radio, no airbags, no power steering, no power anything, and no air conditioning, but was one of the best off-road vehicles ever made, so it seemed like exactly the right one to commission when he had to get himself up the side of a mountain to save some tomatoes. By the time he hauled out his tools, fixed the chicken-wire fence, and refused at least eight kilos of apricots from their tree in thanks, it was almost four in the afternoon.
As he bounced down the rocky, unpaved road back to town, it occurred to him that Lora was likely still sitting in his office, and an unmistakable flare shot up in his stomach. He felt ridiculous. Was this… a crush? His eyebrows knit together as he wrestled the unyielding steering wheel to make a three-point turn out of the narrow street. He’d gone from slow dancing with her in front of the whole town to trying very hard to stay out of her way. Right now, she seemed to regard him as something between a mosquito and a case of the flu. He needed to think of a way to make things right with her—just for the sake of being cordial. He was only trying to be honest about what she was up against. He sighed, pulling into his parking spot. Honesty was often useless when the other person was convinced they were right.
On days that city hall was not open to the public, Franca usually left by three in the afternoon. So he had been surprised to see her still sitting at her desk when he got back. She’d puffed out a great breath as he entered, and the ruffled collar of her white blouse seemed to stand up on its own around her neck. No matter how many times he told her to dress casually, she always showed up to work in what Giada called “Serious Ladywear.”
“What?”
“Ufff.” The sound had many meanings, none of which were ever good.
“What happened?”
“I have the American woman’s files, and I made some calls,” she’d said, gesturing toward the landline phone that had withstood her favor since around 1991.
“And?”
“And I doubt that she will be pleased.”
She explained the substance of what she had learned, and like her, he predicted that none of the information was going to be met with joy. Still, he had to tell Lora what she was up against, and the sooner, the better. He rounded the corner to his office and found her sitting at the back table by herself with her legs tucked under her on the chair.
“Hi,” he said, and her head popped up in a startle. “Sorry, I didn’t want to scare you.” Yet he knew that he was about to scare the hell out of her anyway.
“No, no, it’s OK. I was just focused here.” She waved an arm over the mass of papers.
“How are things going?” he asked, still standing across the room.
“I’m not sure?” she asked, as though it was a question he could answer.
“Did Vilmari give up?”
“I made her take the afternoon off.” She smiled. “There’s no reason for her to suffer through jet lag for me and my quest. Plus, we’re not used to eating bowls of pasta for lunch. No wonder everything shuts down in the middle of the day. You’re all in a coma.”
He laughed, and much to his relief, the corner of her mouth was turned up too.
“I’m glad it was good, though,” he said. “Giada is the best.”
“That’s what she said about you too. I guess you’ve known each other a long time.”
“We have,” he said, dropping his phone on his desk. “We grew up together. She’s also one of the only people who stayedhere as an adult, so it’s nice to have a friend from my generation. She knows me better than anyone.”
“That’s good to know,” she said, untucking her long legs. She crossed the room and leaned on the arm of one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Thank you for asking Franca to help me. It’s very kind of you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, guilt seeping in. He shook his head perhaps a bit too vigorously.
“No, but I do. I’ve been a little bit thorny, and while I could blame it on exhaustion and stress, that’s not a great excuse.”
“It’s understandable. This is a very stressful situation,” he said, feeling the familiar bloom of acid in his stomach. He found the pink-and-yellow box of Biochetasi tablets on his desk, popped it open, and threw a tablet into his mouth. “For my stomach,” he said, noticing Lora watching him. He picked up a half-drunk bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and took a long gulp.
“I don’t want to be upset. We’re going to be around each other a lot, it seems, and I would like us to be friends.” Lora leaned forward slightly, enough so he could smell whatever whipped cloud of frangipane she’d rolled around in before leaving her hotel this morning. And all of this should have made him feel fantastic, but why, why, why did she have to be lovely right at the moment that he was going to drop a bomb again?
