Apricot Kisses (18 page)

“I want to discuss numbers with you—specifically, how much it will cost me for you and your wheeled suitcase to disappear. Whatever Fabrizio offered you to marry him, I’ll pay more.”

I let his words just sit there. They affect me more than I expected, and my confusion turns into rage within a few beats. The sneaky bastard.

“What makes you think that I can be bought?” I say with ice in my voice, noticing only then that I’m standing, not sitting, both of my hands on the desk. I lean forward, close to Marco’s smug grin. “Maybe you’re so grief-stricken over your grandmother’s death that you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lower my voice, even though I feel like screaming at him. “But don’t you dare ever treat me like a floozy again. I am your brother’s fiancée, and you will show me that respect. There’s only one reason I’m marrying Fabrizio: I love him. I’ve loved him from the first moment I met him, and nothing is going to change that, not a bankrupt estate and not a bag of bribe money. So shove your numbers and your Mafioso attitude where the sun don’t shine,
brother-in-law
.”

The silence lasts forever and my heart throbs hard.
“Mon dieu,”
Claire whispers in my head.
“That was good enough for a movie—you sounded like you meant everything you said.”

But Marco’s face shows no emotion at all, not awe or anything else. Finally he shakes his head and bends down. He turns on the shredder under the desk.

“How very tragic. Such true love! And so one sided.” He picks up the notebook and holds it in his palm for a while. When I don’t answer—partly because of the enormity of what I just said and partly because his own damning words are just starting to make sense—he opens his eyes wide in mock horror: “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.” In one smooth movement, without looking down, he shoves the notebook into the shredder.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, voice raised to compete with the shredder, my arms crossed in front of my chest. This scene has the feel of a dark comedy—and I’m in the tragic main role. The play is Fabrizio’s, however, and I promised to be part of it.

After Marco turns off the shredder, he comes around to my side of the desk. I automatically shrink back. I’m taller than he, but still, alarm bells go off in my head. But Marco stops at an appropriate distance and leans against the desk.

“Our dear Fabrizio gave his heart to someone else long ago, Hanna, and you’re out of your league in that competition. Nothing to be ashamed of, but even a supermodel has no chance against Sofia. He’s using you, and he’ll get rid of you as soon as he has secured the inheritance. Everyone knows that, even the people in town.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re wrong,” I lie, cringing on the inside. Sofia. Actually, the signs have all been there. Marco inspects his fingernails with a smile. They’re short and neat, and his hands are probably soft as a baby’s.

“I hope for your sake that I am wrong,” he says. “Because if this marriage actually isn’t just a business deal, you’ll soon find out that you bet on the wrong horse. I only mean well.”

“Thank you for your concern. But I’m used to taking care of myself.”

To my relief, Marco doesn’t stop me from walking out. But I pause at the door. Damn my curiosity. “Why do you want to prevent this marriage so badly, Marco?”

He looks at me strangely. His chest rises and falls, and I suddenly realize that his cold and calculating behavior is only a facade. “I protect what I love, starting with my wife, all the way to this estate. Lucia has earned a comfortable life in a place where she feels at home. If my brother takes over Tre Camini and keeps dreaming of international success for his apricots, our business will have to declare bankruptcy within a few years. The restaurant and hotel won’t be able to offset the deficits in the long run. I cannot allow that.”

“I understand.” I can’t help feeling sorry for Marco. He’s in the same hopeless situation as his brother—both are afraid to lose what they love most. Sad, but none of my business. I straighten up and try to stay on script. “I’m going to marry Fabrizio, though. And you won’t be able to prevent it.”

“We’ll see. No hard feelings,” he says condescendingly.

I nod and turn to leave.

“One more thing, sister-in-law. Lucia hates to be lied to, especially by people she loves. If there’s any truth in my assumptions, you better tell her soon.” Pointing to the magazine, he says, “Before someone else decides to tell her.”

I’m too agitated to go back to the kitchen and pretend I had a nice little chat with Marco. So I grab the basket Lucia keeps in the hallway for collecting eggs and go to the chicken coop, a decision I regret the very moment I enter. A dozen eyes stare at me. Like the distillery next door, the shed is larger than it looks from outside. A wire cage takes up half the room, and the space smells strongly of straw and bird droppings. Three hens with fluffed feathers sit on metal roosts on one wall. Little wooden houses—for nesting, I assume—are lined up along the cage like a miniature village. There’s clucking and cackling inside. I look at the basket in my hand, not sure what to do. It would be embarrassing to leave without eggs. I put the basket down, drop onto a bale of straw, and bury my chin in my hands. The steady cackling is calming, even though I still feel a little nervous to be near the chickens.

I watch a speckled brown hen scratch in the straw and then I get up slowly, slide back the cage’s metal bolt, which feels oily against my fingertips, and push open the little door. The hen pauses and then continues scratching. OK. Let’s say that was an invitation. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and step inside the cage.

For quite a while I’m unable to move, more out of disbelief than fear. Nothing actually happens. The brown hen shows no intention of attacking me, but struts slowly away. The hens on the roost don’t seem to notice the intruder. I tiptoe to the nearest nesting house, while an army of fists drums against the inside of my chest. One egg. I’d like to leave with at least one egg. I carefully remove the nearest lid, and a deep, throaty sound greets me—not much different from a growl. I freeze and almost cry out. A familiar face stares at me: Vittoria.

Fabrizio

At first, Rosa-Maria doesn’t notice me. Elbows on the counter, she’s buried in one of her beloved trashy novels. Her mouth is half open, her face distorted like she’s about to sob and laugh all at once. The book looks old and tattered. She’s probably read it a hundred times. When I lightly knock on the doorframe, she gives a start and puts aside the booklet immediately.

“I don’t mean to disturb you, Rosa-Maria. Have you seen Hanna, by any chance?”

“The signora went to the chicken shed,” she says. She seems surprised that I don’t add one of my usual biting comments about her taste in reading material. She reaches for a wooden spoon and weighs it in her hand as if contemplating what to do with it. Then she starts to stir the large sauce pot energetically.

I cross the yard feeling guilty. It’s wrong to make Rosa-Maria feel bad about doing something she likes. I decide to keep my opinion about her books to myself from now on—she’s her own person, after all. I have no idea what makes me change my mind about this.

Hanna isn’t in the chicken coop or the distillery. Strong cigarette smoke wafts toward me from the woodshed, and I see Alberto and Paolo sitting on the wooden bench in front of it, deep in a conversation that mostly consists of expansive gestures and laughter. They stop immediately when they see me.

“Signora Philipp?” I say curtly, ignoring the bag of cookies that Alberto hides behind his back. He smiles and points right, while Paolo points left. Then they look at each other and laugh that hoarse, old-man laughter that sounds like the decrepit starter of a two-cycle engine. I keep walking.

I find Hanna where I least expected to—behind the shed in Lucia’s herb garden. It belonged to Nonna until she had to admit she had no green thumb. Then Nonna tried her luck with Alberto’s bees, and, luckily for everyone, that was a success. Lucia has grown everything a cook’s heart desires in that garden ever since: wild thyme, garlic, rosemary, and edible wildflowers that Rosa-Maria uses to decorate dessert plates.

I stop in front of the crumbling stone wall that shows signs of losing its battle against the roots of a huge lavender bush. Hanna is huddled against the shed, her hands wrapped around her knees. She is looking at the horizon, where cypresses reach toward the sky like the tips of spears. She sits perfectly still, her graceful posture contrasting strangely with Lucia’s washed-out apron dress, which has slid up almost to her thighs. I suddenly remember something Salvi said: “I always thought that my Concetta’s legs were pretty, but now I adore them.” There’s much to adore about Signora Philipp’s legs.

A bee interrupts Hanna’s stillness. She gently brushes the pesky insect from her arm. Suddenly I feel like an intruder and quietly step back—not silently enough.

“It’s all right, Fabrizio. You can sit down.”

I’m unsure. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You didn’t?” She mocks me without turning her head.

“Whatever Lucia might say, I actually can sense when people want to be left alone,” I say. My voice betrays my hurt feelings, which upsets me even more. Hanna just smiles and motions with her chin for me to sit down next to her.

We sit silently for a while, but, unlike the last few times we’ve been alone, it’s not an uncomfortable silence. I look at the little basket at her feet and the single brown egg inside.

“Is that today’s entire yield? I’ll have to ask Alberto to feed the chickens more.”

“It’s actually a pretty good harvest for someone who’s scared stiff of chickens,” Hanna says. She sighs, and I sense exhaustion in it but also something else that I can’t quite explain. She reminds me of Marco when he’s reached the end of his daily run, or of Paolo when he’s picked the first apricot of the year.

“Was there a reason you were looking for me?”

My first impulse is to deny it. But then I remember my promise to Lucia and decide to risk annoying Hanna. I am almost certain that she will not like our game’s new rules.

“I was going to ask you if you’d go out with me tonight,” I say. She gives me a surprised look. “Well, it’s actually not a real date, but . . . we are invited to dinner at the mayor’s. It’s sort of a tradition before—”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

Now I’m the one to be surprised, but her expression gives nothing away.

“Honestly? You wouldn’t mind?”

“We made a business deal, didn’t we? If this is part of it, I’m going to play my part.” She shrugs.

“There’s something else.”

“I thought so,” she says dryly.

“They’re talking about us in the village. Maybe we should—” I can’t force the words out.

“Anything but kissing,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not stupid, Fabrizio. It’s obvious that we have to do more than just announce our engagement if we want to succeed,” she says and straightens her back. I’m not sure I like her matter-of-fact tone. It sounds too much like the Signora Philipp I didn’t like. “So we can whisper sweet nothings, hold hands, and even hug—but no kissing.”

“Okay. No kissing.” I stare at her mouth and suddenly want to do exactly that—even if she’d slap me. The silence between us stretches again, and this time it’s unbearable. Hanna seems to think so, too.

“May I ask
you
something?”

I nod.

“What are you going to do once you inherit the estate?”

“What do you mean, ‘do’?”

“I know it’s none of my business,” she goes on, “but I just wonder if your grandmother might have had a good reason to make a will like that.”

“You talked with Marco.” I purposefully don’t frame it as a question, and her lowered head is answer enough. Anger rises in me. “Did you ever dream you could do something, Hanna?”

She looks at me silently. Then she answers haltingly, “I always wanted to become a writer, to write novels.”

“But you didn’t—and now you’re going to prove to me that you were right to sell your soul instead.” Even before I finish, I realize how brutal it sounds.

“I did not sell my soul,” Hanna says. “Becoming a journalist was a compromise, one that has paid my rent.”

“I’m sure you could have done that by writing novels. I bet you didn’t even try.”

“I—”

“Just stuff it!” I cut her short. “I know what you’re getting at, but I’m not the compromising type—not in any way. My brother wants to cover my fields with a damn golf course, so some fools can hit little white balls around. But I will preserve the estate the way it has been for generations. And if apricots will help me achieve my dream, so much the better.”

“I understand. I hope for your sake that you’re betting on the right horse,” she says in a flat voice. I feel bad that she’s hurt, but I have no idea how to fix it.

“Don’t worry about my horse. It’s none of your business.”

“You’re right. But whether you want to be or not, you’re responsible for everyone else who’s affected by your dream.”

“It’s possible to achieve personal goals and still accept responsibility for others,” I say in a tone that allows no contradiction—though I don’t sound as self-assured as I intended. Hanna’s expression freezes, and she moves away a little.

“For Lucia’s sake, I hope you succeed,” she says in a cold voice and gets up. She only now notices that her dress is riding up and hastily pulls it to her knees. A few safety pins in the back are pinning the dress tighter, and the belt winds around her waist twice. She bends down to get her slippers. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I jump up and follow her. She strides across the yard with her chin raised high and her fingers bunched into fists. When I catch up with her, I grab her arm and spin her around. Startled, she stares at me, and I feel her breath on my face. Something happens in my brain.

“Watch out. Lucia’s at the window,” I lie, and I press my lips against hers.

Never in my life has a slap in the face satisfied me more. I swear.

Chapter Ten

Hanna

She sighed quietly as Hugh bent over her naked shoulders and nuzzled the sensitive skin in the crook of her neck. It made no sense to resist any longer. Hugh’s masculinity overwhelmed Prudence like a passionate hurricane, sweeping away her restraint. Her knees went weak and she collapsed into an embrace that . . .

Ohmigod! Snorting, I toss the book onto my pillow, only to pick it up again a minute later. I’m pacing in my Cinderella room, continuing to read and trying to suppress the unpleasant tingling of my skin. For the past few hours, I’ve also been trying to ignore the imprint of Fabrizio’s face on my memory.

With a throaty sigh Hugh lowered Prudence onto the deerskin in front of the fireplace and . . .

What was the matter with him? Hadn’t I made it absolutely clear what I wouldn’t allow?

. . . possessively . . .

At the window, I spin on my heel and head toward the door for what feels like the three-hundredth time. Lucia at the window—as if!

. . . pushed his hands between the folds of her dress . . .

There wasn’t a sign of Lucia anywhere when that guy finally removed his lips from mine and grinned at me.

“I want you,” he whispered hoarsely. The lust in Hugh’s voice almost made her faint.

I wiped that grin off his face, though I think he somehow expected the slap.

Prudence closed her eyes and murmured, “Take me!” And her fingers dug into his muscular back as his burning lips came closer and closer to her most sensitive spot.

My lips are burning, too—still are. Of course, I’m just imagining it, and it’s probably no match for the pain my hand left on his cheek. So there.

Hugh wasted no more words. Skillfully, he undid the lace of her corset.

Fabrizio hadn’t wasted any words, either. He simply disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. Not that I looked for him. But to leave me just standing there in the middle of the yard after that outrageous kiss, as if I were a—

I stop abruptly.

What am I saying? I’m complaining about Fabrizio’s glaring indifference toward me. As if I cared. I look at my suitcase, propped next to the wardrobe and revealing nothing of its volatile contents.

I continue pacing: door, turn, bed, table, window, turn, bed, door. I’m obviously in a confused state of mind, because then I start talking to the urn. “My life was perfect until I stumbled on you,” I say. “But since then I barely know who I am anymore.”

What’s worse is it’s not Giuseppa’s fault alone. It’s this place. It seems to breathe and suck me in—as if every chest of drawers, every wardrobe, and even the harmless picture of Holy Mary above my bed wants me to become part of it.

What kind of nonsense am I coming up with? A look at my watch makes me even more annoyed. Fabrizio is ten minutes late. Why am I not surprised? Italian punctuality doesn’t care about urgent repairs or schedules of any kind. So why should it be different for an appointment with the mayor?

For a second, I consider calling Claire to unload my irritation. But I decide against it. While I appreciate her strong opinions, I’m in no mood to hear “Ooh! Don’t make yourself so complicated,
chérie
.” So I drop the groaning Hugh and swooning Prudence on my sheets and retreat to the bathroom to kill time.

I’ve powdered my nose for the third time when I hear a knock on the door. Sulking, I reapply mascara—and do a thorough job of it. Then I count to twenty. Only then do I totter to the door on my way-too-high stilettos, wondering if they’ve always been this uncomfortable.

The famous mystery writer Donna Leon once said that Italian men have an innate elegance. I look at Fabrizio in disbelief. He’s wearing a T-shirt stained with obvious remnants of Rosa-Maria’s pasta sauce, and the faded shorts he wore this morning. His knees are as dirty as his feet, which are in his ubiquitous leather sandals. Well, Leon lives in Venice and her comments must have applied to Venetians only. This Italian obviously has his own ideas about what to wear to a formal dinner.

“What’s the matter?” Fabrizio says.

“What’s supposed to be the matter?” I say, tugging at my dark-blue sheath dress. I feel quite overdressed. Fabrizio frowns.

“You German women are strange.”

“That so?” I bite back the retort that half of me is Italian. It doesn’t matter anyway; he has permanently labeled me a black-red-and-gold German.

“Any self-respecting Italian woman wouldn’t even talk to me before I showered and put on a fine suit. You’re forcing a smile and seething silently. Why?”

“First of all, Fabrizio, I couldn’t care less what clothes you run around in. And second, I don’t teach a grown man how to dress. I’m not your mamma.”

Fabrizio laughs. “You’re right, there’s nothing of an Italian mamma in you.”

“And thank goodness for that!” I snort, and dig through my handbag without looking for anything in particular.

“Actually, I came here to let you know I’ll be half an hour late. Carlo had a spark-plug problem—well, not he, his car. The old lady’s up and running again, though, and Carlo’s moved to tears. To say thank you, he’s going to drive us to town.” Fabrizio turns to leave, but seems to reconsider. I clench my fists behind my back, anticipating his next verbal attack.

“You look very pretty, by the way.”

I slam the door shut in his face.

Fabrizio

I’m glad Carlo offered to drive us to city hall. What man would volunteer to spend time alone with an angry woman? Carlo doesn’t seem to notice Hanna’s grumpy expression or the icy silence in the little car. He turns on the radio full blast and screams to drown out the screeching announcer, as if we’re sitting in a soccer stadium. Wildly gesticulating, he explains to Hanna how he jacked up his scooter, while I look out the window and think.

I don’t regret kissing Hanna. If I had regrets about all the kisses I’ve planted on more-or-less willing women, I wouldn’t be able to leave Lorenzo’s confessional. Fifty daily Hail Marys till the end of my life would not wipe out my transgressions in Göttingen alone, while I studied agricultural economics. And I don’t believe the man upstairs would accept a broken heart or too much alcohol as an excuse.

What does it matter? It was just a kiss provoked by the attitude of a beautiful, cool woman—and I paid the expected price for it. Quid pro quo. End of story. So why do I feel that I’m missing something?

I glance in the rearview mirror. I’m happy to see that Hanna is wearing almost no makeup, just a pinkish shimmer on her lips. She immediately evades my glance, and I’m upset that I didn’t beat her to it with a pointed turn of my own head. I’m the one who should feel insulted.

She acknowledged my tailor-made suit and white starched shirt with a raised eyebrow, then ignored my offered arm and climbed into the backseat without saying anything. Lucia gave me a surprised look—I’ll have to explain it to her, since she’s become Signora Philipp’s guardian of late. What childish drama, all because of a silly kiss that was more of a battle than surrender.

I loosen my tie and tell Carlo—who’s crawling along, using both hands to tell his story—to step on the gas.

“Eh, calm down, my friend. They won’t start with the soup until you’re there. You’re the guests of honor, after all.” Carlo winks at Hanna, who, as expected, does not respond. This doesn’t faze Carlo, who begins to sing “Ti Amo”—completely off beat and two registers too low. I give up and just stare straight ahead until I finally see the red tiles of Montesimo.

Holy Anthony, make this evening go by fast.

At the piazza, a loud, hungry multitude greets us. Carlo, honking and waving, steers the car through the mass of craning necks. Hanna tries to shrink into the backseat. Nonna always claimed that the nosiest Italians south of Verona live in Montesimo, and tonight’s mob would have impressed even her. Some tourists, cameras ready, are recording the native spectacle for their friends at home.

Carlo parks his Fiat. Before he kills the motor, a realization shoots through me like an electric shock. It has nothing to do with the mob outside or the imminent examination disguised as a dinner.

She kissed me back.

Hanna

Fear presses me against the car seat. Even if my mother hadn’t taught me as a teenager that neither a future as a superstar nor a future as an international top model awaited me, it would be no less true today that I don’t like to be the center of attention. I nod shyly to an elderly woman who knocks on my window, and I smile into the camera of a red-faced man who is unceremoniously pushed aside before he can press the button. Bodies float around the car as if they want to sink it in a sea of enthusiasm. These people act as if there hasn’t been a wedding in Montesimo for ages.

Just a moment.

Maybe that’s it.

I squint. Try not to panic. Fabrizio is obviously very popular in this village, so his engagement definitely is something special. They’re not interested in me.

When the door opens, a wave of warm, whispering air rushes in. Carlo braves the masses first, calling out and joking, and I’m so nervous that I don’t understand what he says.

I remember hearing Mamma’s calm voice behind the assembly-hall curtain when I was supposed to go out and accept an award at my high-school graduation: “Toss your heart and just follow it,
carissima
.”

“Eh, signore.” Now Carlo uses an authoritative voice that’s a perfect fit for the black-bearded Sheriff of Nottingham. “You’re going to see the happy couple often enough in the future. Go home now and let them get out of the car.”

In high school, when I crouched behind the heavy brocade curtain, engulfed in its musty odor and my too-sweet perfume, I did throw my heart on the stage—as far as I could. And then I stumbled after it and messed up my big moment by turning my acceptance speech into a flaming plea for the elimination of tuition fees. My parents were proud of me, but I suppressed the memory of it. Only Mamma’s words stayed with me.

I will do it again now. I throw my heart into the town square and hope to find it again later.

When I open my eyes, I’m looking right into Fabrizio’s face. He props his hands against the roof, creating a space between us, so I can get out of the car without being pushed. The faces out there suddenly fade into a blurry background, and all I see are fine lines, maybe laughter lines, around Fabrizio’s mouth.

“Are you all right?” he asks. I nod.

“I’m sorry they’re behaving like paparazzi,” he whispers and looks intently at my face for a moment, as if he wanted to read my thoughts. “Let’s bury the hatchet for tonight?”

“You’re not going to apologize, are you?” I whisper back.

“No.”

“All right. Neither will I.” I take his hand and disentangle myself as gracefully from the little car as is possible in a tight dress. Then I put on a smile that, in my opinion, could be the smile of a bride—a happy soon-to-be bride.

“Ciao, Hanna! Ciao, Fabrizio!”

“What a beautiful couple.”

“All the best! God bless you!”

Fabrizio, holding my arm against his ribs, guides me through the throng behind Carlo. I smile until my cheeks hurt and shake slender, calloused, and quite a few tiny, sticky hands. An old woman with a face like a walnut holds back a redheaded boy by the straps of his overalls. A little girl gapes at me as if I’m Cinderella emerging from a pumpkin carriage. Two more young girls, dresses flapping in the breeze, whisper and take my measure less kindly than the rest of the crowd.

Then we ascend a few stone steps, and my window into the life of Princess Kate ends with the thud of the ironclad city-hall door closing behind us.

It takes me a minute in the dimly lit foyer to notice that I’m still clutching Fabrizio’s arm. We let go at the same time, and I bump into Carlo.
“Scusi,”
I mumble and step back, but Carlo pushes me toward the elegantly curved flight of stairs.

“The wolves are waiting on the third floor. After you,” he says and bows, ignoring both my irritated look and Fabrizio’s frown. Actually, my fiancé has looked as if he had a bellyache ever since we entered the building. I thought that was my job today.

“Is city hall the mayor’s residence?” I ask.

I swear that Fabrizio pales even more. Carlo laughs out loud, as if I asked a really stupid question.

“Let’s say his residence serves special purposes.”

“Which are?”

But Carlo just grins and hurries up the steps. Fabrizio seems to steel himself, because he doesn’t move until Carlo is nearly halfway up the staircase. Then he follows, acting like he’s walking barefoot over shards of broken glass.

Carlo turns left when we reach the second floor instead of following the aroma of roasted meat up to the third. He stops next to a white door and points to its sign, which says “Post Office.” I look to Fabrizio for an explanation, but he just leans against the railing and rolls his eyes.

“Wait, Hanna. Look.” Carlo sprints to the next door, also white. Its sign reads “Bank Manager.” Then Carlo steps in front of the third door, hiding the sign with his broad shoulders. “What do you think it will say?”

“Beauty Salon?” I say, quick like a shot, and hear suppressed laughter from behind me. So Fabrizio hasn’t left his sense of humor in the car.

“Office of the Mayor, of course,” Carlo says, miffed, and he looks at me expectantly.

“And?” I ask the question he wants to hear. “What’s so special about these three doors?”

“There is one single room behind it,” Carlo says in a hushed voice.

All right. I am surprised.

“Ernesto uses a spatial illusion to hold his three offices,” Fabrizio explains impatiently. “One office, three doors, three opening times. They remodeled the third floor to serve as his apartment since he changes clothes three times a day.”

“So Ernesto really is the mail carrier, mayor, and bank manager, all in one? How crazy is that?”

“As crazy as the rest of this town. I can’t take a backseat to them,” says an amused voice behind us.