Apricot Kisses (22 page)

I stare at her in disbelief. However absurd her reasoning, there’s some truth in what she’s saying. Because of the urn, I came to see Fabrizio in person instead of just writing a letter of apology. And I can’t deny that something happened between Fabrizio and me that had little to do with a business relationship.

“Looking at it that way, she was successful,” I admit, smiling, though I feel pathetic for only telling Lucia half the truth. But sometimes the whole truth isn’t the solution, especially not when it involves the less-than-romantic reasons for my upcoming wedding.

“So everything is as it should be,” Lucia says, abruptly getting up as if she’s afraid I might change my answer. “I don’t care when, how, or why you fell in love with each other. You’re getting married, and
basta
. If Giuseppa doesn’t want to come home yet, we better let her have her way.”

“So you’re really not going to take the urn?” I ask, and Lucia just shakes her head with a smile.

“Put her back in your suitcase until she’s ready, or Fabrizio is.” Lucia’s almost out the door when she turns and adds, “I really like you a lot, Hanna. Just trust me.”

I swallow and fight back tears, mostly because I can’t remember when I last heard such words.

“But if you don’t treat Tre Camini better in your new article, you’ll be sorry. I’ll sic Rosa-Maria on you.” She winks and closes the door.

Fabrizio

I can’t concentrate. I’ve been kneeling in front of the distillery equipment for half an hour, staring at the temperature gauge without seeing the numbers. With a sigh, I stand up to stretch my legs. I walk over to the table where I’ve lined up the bottles from last week’s production, each labeled with the distillate’s ingredients and process.

I uncork the first bottle and exhale in disappointment. The aroma alone tells me I was not successful. The second, third, and fourth bottles are fruity and balanced, but not Nonna’s. Something is missing, maybe only one or two ingredients. The colors of bottles five and six are off. I can’t smell a thing anymore when I reach bottle seven. I fill half a shot glass, take a sip, and immediately spit it on the floor. It seeps through the cracks between the wooden boards. Damn it!

Elbows resting on the table, I ruffle my hair. I’ve taken apart the entire house, the barn, and even the chicken coop, but Nonna’s green recipe notebook is nowhere to be found. And since I’m too stupid to figure out the right mix of ingredients, Nonna’s liqueur will be ancient history faster than Alberto can gobble down a box of cookies. The worst thing is that Marco is right about everything he says, damn it, even though he’s my little brother. I have no idea how I’ll be able to hang on to the apricot orchards, never mind making a profit and supporting the family.

Angrily I sweep bottles and glasses off the table. Bang and clang—and the strong smell of alcohol permeates the room. I stand in front of the shards with burning eyes and a cut across the heel of my hand, feeling suddenly as empty as I did the day after Nonna’s death, and just as tired. I haven’t slept through a single night for two weeks—Nonna won’t stop rattling around my bedroom and lecturing me on what she expects and doesn’t expect from me. Sometimes I really think she’s not dead at all.

As I awkwardly try to stop the bleeding with a dishcloth—Lucia is going to kill me—I see Hanna’s face, a face that’s full of warmth when she thinks nobody is looking.

Much more than bottles have been broken these past few weeks. Why? Because I’m an egotistic idiot who doesn’t realize when a dream is over.

This has got to stop.

I wrap the dishcloth tight around my hand and stride to the broom closet. The sooner I start cleaning up the mess, the better.

Chapter Twelve

Hanna

At seven-thirty I get up from the desk and press “Enter” with a pounding heart. I’m drunk with the words and images that seemed to gush out of me—as if this were my usual writing routine. At the same time, I’ve never been less sure whether the text actually expresses what I want it to say. Staring at the confirmation on my e-mail display, I use my phone to write a short text message to Claire, asking her to check my article for spelling mistakes and bloopers before bringing it to tomorrow’s editorial meeting.

Her reply arrives soon after:
Do you want my opinion, too?
How can she sense my state of mind even from over six hundred miles away?

Absolutely not,
I type with a smile and put the phone in my handbag. I have to get ready for my date with Fabrizio in five minutes. When I hear a quiet knock at the door, I almost drop my mascara.

“Just a moment,” I shout, tugging on my turquoise dress, which looks as wrinkled as I feel.

Lucia’s voice comes through the door. “Fabrizio asked me to tell you that he’s waiting in the yard.” I glance one last time into the tiny mirror—I’ve looked better, but whatever. I’ve never liked makeup, and I have the feeling that Fabrizio doesn’t mind.

I force myself not to run down the stairs. Nothing is more pathetic than a woman who shows up for a date with a bright-red face. Before my first date, Mamma told me, “A woman in high heels is never late.” But I was—forty-five minutes—because I couldn’t fix my hair. The young man was too impatient to wait for me, but I didn’t care too much since I didn’t really like him anyway. Mamma went to the movies with me instead and treated me to a giant bag of popcorn, which she ate up by herself. It hurts to realize how long ago that was. I skip the infamous creaking step, pass the kitchen door—hearing Rosa-Maria’s voice beyond—and walk into the yard. Not a single living thing is visible other than Vittoria and her flock.

Fabrizio

My father’s motorcycle has been tarped in the garage for years. An old 1950s Agusta, it was his pride and joy, and I still remember how excited I was when he first let me ride it. I wobbled across a field at fifteen miles an hour and felt like Giacomo Agostini, the Grand Prix road racer, while Father ran behind me screaming that I could just as well drive on the road if I wanted to kill myself.

I gently touch the red lacquer, which he kept well polished. I was convinced for years after Father disappeared that he would come back for the bike. He would never leave his Agusta behind, no matter how much Mother’s death tortured him. But the bike remained here, and eventually I stopped waiting for him to come and get it.

The kick-starter is stuck, and I have to try several times before the bike roars to life. It stutters its resentment through the exhaust pipe, coughing smoke. But it runs. The gravel crunches under the wheels as I ride into the yard. I tilt up the visor of my helmet.

“Are you ready,
amore mio
?” I ask with a grin, and play with the gas to make the old Agusta growl. Hanna crosses her arms, attempting to look neutral.

“You’re scaring the chickens.”

“Not just them, it seems.” I hand her the second helmet, and she turns it in her hands as if she doesn’t know what to do with it. “The visor goes in the front.”

Hanna hesitates. “Don’t we have a car?”

“You aren’t afraid, are you?” I nod my chin at the kitchen window, sure that Rosa-Maria and Lucia are betting on who’ll win this tug-of-war.

“Come on, I’m hungry.” I pat the seat behind me. She sighs, then straightens and puts on the helmet. A moment later she’s crouched behind me like a little monkey.

“You’ll be sorry if you don’t bring me back in one piece,” she shouts over the engine noise. She snaps down her visor and wraps her arms around my waist. I give her the thumbs up and see Rosa-Maria and Lucia applauding through the kitchen window. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco coming from the distillery with the phone at his ear. He stops and looks at us. I give Hanna’s hand a brief squeeze, and we’re off.

Hanna

At the restaurant, we’re welcomed by warm air and muted music. I’m still intoxicated from the ride, even though my legs and butt feel like I just did five hundred squats. Why did nobody ever tell me how much fun it is to ride a motorcycle?

I let Fabrizio guide me through the room, noticing that we seem to be the only guests. At a window table, Fabrizio pulls out a chair and asks for my jacket. Confused by his manners, I sit down. He bends toward me. If I weren’t already weak at the knees, I would be now—he smells irresistibly manly, a mix of leather and gasoline.

“Everything all right?” he whispers, and I nod. I hope to find my voice again in the course of the evening; otherwise it’ll be a quiet dinner. But my silence doesn’t seem to bother Fabrizio. Smiling, he sits down across from me while I look around.

The Osteria Maria has no more than five little tables, all covered with simple white tablecloths. A cupboard with latticed wooden doors stands next to the entrance, seeming strangely out of place since it resembles a confessional. There are only a few items on the small blackboard—all solid, plain fare. I realize that I’m not hungry at all, but excited, and very nervous. Yet I don’t feel the usual tingling sensation in my fingertips. I pick up the wine-bottle-shaped pepper mill and listen to my inner self. Nothing. Nothing at all. I feel no urge to swipe it. Amazing.

“So? Do you like it here?” Fabrizio looks at me, his chin resting on his hands. How long has he been doing that? One minute? Ten? I’m gradually losing all sense of time and space in this country—and it’s disturbing.

“It’s pretty nice.” I’m annoyed with myself for sounding so reserved. Fabrizio frowns.

“It’s probably different from what you’re used to. We can drive to Grosseto, if you like. They have a starred restaurant.”

“No, I like this osteria. I do.”

“You better,” someone grumbles. I look up, startled. None other than Salvi—or at least his doppelgänger—is standing next to us. Yet this man is wearing a shirt and tie, and his neatly parted hair covers some of his bald spots. He whips out his ordering pad and says in a formal voice, “
Buona sera,
signori
.
Will you start with an aperitivo?”

Fabrizio looks at me, but I’m too baffled to answer. A mayor playing mailman, and the bar owner imitating a pretentious server. There’s nothing you can’t find in this village.

“Aperol Spritz for the lady, Salvi. I’ll just have a Coke.”

Salvi scribbles on his notepad and, with just a hint of a bow, rushes to the bar. I look on in amazement. Fabrizio clears his throat and leans toward me.

“The Osteria Maria belongs to Salvi’s parents. The old couple is so attached to it that they don’t want to close. So Salvi runs both: the osteria from Sundays to Wednesdays and the Amalfi bar from Thursdays to Saturdays.”

“Weird.”

“By the way, he could use a good review. The osteria isn’t doing all that great.” Fabrizio winks and smiles. My stomach somersaults.

“Is that why you brought me here, so I would write a good review? You want to slip me another business deal—maybe in return for bailing out my car from Stefano’s garage?” I sound edgier than I intended. Fabrizio, who’s about to light the little lantern on our table, stops.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” He seems puzzled. “I just thought, if you like the food, you could make Salvi’s day by writing about it. I’m sorry if it came out wrong.” His espresso-colored eyes are so honest that I feel cheap. What’s the matter with me? One moment I’m on top of the world, and the next I’m as jittery as a racehorse. If that’s a sign of being in love, I can do without it.

“I’m the one who should apologize. That was stupid.” I pick up the pepper mill again, but I still feel no tingling, despite the stress.

“At the risk of really making you mad . . . may I ask you a question, Hanna?”

I put the pepper mill down and sigh. “I owe you one.”

“Why do you swipe stuff?”

“Anything except that,” I say.

“But it really interests me. I’ve been watching you. You’ve been stealing things: the salt shaker in the Amalfi bar, Rosa-Maria’s measuring spoon, Lucia’s pincushion. Even Alberto’s pipe cleaner disappeared into your apron pocket. And you also walked off with my grandmother.”

“The thing with the urn was an accident,” I say weakly, but add, “Besides, I only
borrow
stuff. I returned the spoon and pincushion a long time ago, and I would have returned Nonna, too, if you’d taken her back.”

“Explain it to me,
bellissima
.” His voice is soft, and I shiver. No man has ever used a term of endearment for me.

“I can’t explain it myself,” I say. “It just happens to me—when I’m under a lot of stress. First, my fingers start to tickle, and then I itch all over. I get into a panic and can’t breathe. Then more panic and less air—and it only stops when I steal something.”

“Have you always had that problem?” he asks.

“I don’t understand your question.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“You mean, like in a crime story? The first victim is the key to nabbing a serial killer?”

“Or the key to understanding a motive. It’s a strange comparison, but it actually works.”

In the back of my mind, I suddenly see my father’s emotionless face and Mamma’s disappointed head shake.

“I can’t remember,” I say and push the image away. Fabrizio nods as if he expected that.

“At some point you will.”

“Are you a psychotherapist?” I say crossly. Fabrizio just laughs. I don’t know if it’s because he’s obviously compassionate or maybe because he barely knows me, but I suddenly start to talk, the words pouring out.

“You won’t like me after you hear this. It’s impossible for you to like me—I’m totally messed up. I live in a tiny apartment and don’t own a single piece of furniture with any history. I work sixteen-hour days, have no hobbies, and spend even my vacations on a laptop. I have one single girlfriend and she’s even crazier than I. My longest relationship lasted two months, four days, and nine hours. I sometimes think I’m adopted because my own mother forgets my birthday every single year. My birth certificate says I’m not, but she would rather bake muffins for refugee children. And my father, ever since I got caught shoplifting when I was fourteen, he’s looked at me like I’m an atom that doesn’t belong in his universe. What’s worse is that I actually feel like a stray particle that has no place anywhere on earth. I come from nowhere, stay nowhere, go nowhere, and that’s exactly the reason—”

“That’s exactly the reason you’re here.”

Fabrizio

Hanna turns white as a sheet. I know I’ve pushed it too far, but I can’t take back what I said—or rephrase it without making it sound like a declaration of love. Salvi appears and sets our drinks on the table. He obviously finds it hard to handle the fine glasses—his huge hands are more used to pouring draft beer.

“Are you ready to order?” he says, his mouth in a circle that reminds me of a donut.

“We’re the only guests, Salvi. Stop treating us like celebrities.”

Salvi purses his lips. “I’m just being polite. You don’t often come here with a pretty signora. And if I’m supposed to take care of only one table this evening, then—”

“What do you recommend?” I interrupt. This dimwit is giving the game away. Hanna isn’t supposed to know that I asked Salvi to cancel all the reservations for tonight so I could be alone with her.

“We have sole in sage butter,” Salvi says, offended.

“You know I don’t eat fish.”

“But you were the one who suggested the dishes. I don’t understand why you’re asking for my recommendation.”

“Why don’t you shut up, Salvi? Bring the fish for Hanna and the damn filet of beef for me.”

“On its way.” Salvi stalks away. Hanna clears her throat and tilts her head.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I say, feeling my face redden. “I just told him that you’d probably like fish since you’ve had to subsist almost exclusively on Rosa-Maria’s pasta for the last week.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.” I want to kiss the tiny smile that appears on her face. “I love sole.” I breathe a sigh of relief, but then I notice the sparkle in her eyes. “And now I’d like you to explain why we’re the only guests in this nice little restaurant.”

Hanna

He has feelings for me! The shocking realization makes me want to jump up and hug Fabrizio, fat Salvi and—no, I’d like to embrace the entire world. I actually figured out the answer when Salvi carried a sign reading “Private Party” by our table with careful nonchalance and put it outside.

Fabrizio is fidgeting, red faced, in his chair. His embarrassment is so sweet and sexy that I have to stop myself from grabbing his sleeves and dragging him outside to some deserted street, and . . . But a persistent ringtone interrupts my fantasies and gives Fabrizio a temporary reprieve. He leans back and downs half his Coke in one gulp. I rummage in my handbag for the disruption, annoyed that I forgot to put it on mute. At first, I’m not sure if I’m reading the caller ID correctly: it’s my mother.

I hesitate while the ringtone goes on and on. Then it stops, only to resume a few seconds later. I get up grudgingly.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” I say. Salvi, who’s leafing through the local paper at the bar, looks up in alarm. I gesture that everything is fine.

I call her back as I step out into a gentle evening breeze that smells of fried food and exhaust fumes. A few kids kick a soccer ball in the street. I can almost see an upstairs window opening and an Italian mother, right from the TV spaghetti-sauce ad, calling her Federiiii-co to dinner. I need a spot where I can talk quietly. Skipping down the steps, I find a fountain in an alcove in the wall across the street. A sign says: “No Drinking Water—Not a Public Place to Rest.”

“Mamma? You called?”

“
Carissima!
How did you know it was me? I didn’t leave a message,” she says. I climb up on the fountain and lean against the wall, still warm from the sun. I reach out and dip my finger in the water.