Georgia's Kitchen (23 page)

From that day forward, Georgia barely had time to shave her legs, let alone worry about her parents’ fall visit, Claudia and
Sergio, Gianni and the blonde, Glenn and the poo girl, or her own sorely single state. Besides, she’d come to Italy to cook, not to be consumed by what was happening in the Hamptons or rejected by guys she barely knew. So cook she did, forgetting, for a while anyway, about everything else.

D
id they really send dessert back?” Vanessa asked. Her face was slick with sweat, despite the red terry-cloth headband she’d taken to wearing around her forehead à la Björn Borg. It even had the little Fila
F
on it.

Georgia nodded. “I don’t care who they’re related to. Two bottles, one app, one entrée, plus a dessert?” She wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve. Despite the late hour, the temperature hovered in the upper eighties, and the air in the kitchen was so thick you needed a scythe just to move from sink to stove. She was probably rocking a Jackson Five–style ’fro, frizz factor at least nine. “Who sends dessert back?”

The table in question was a twelve-person party of a certain age, several of whom were said to be distant relations of the deposed Italian monarchs. Socialites and social climbers might be snippy, thought Georgia, recalling her Marco days, but low-ranking royals were worse. The restaurant had been open for four excruciatingly busy but ultimately satisfying weeks, and until this group showed up, the number of sendbacks could be counted on one very small pinkie.

“Are they even allowed in the country these days?” she asked. “The king or prince or whoever it is?” She swiped her blade across her stone several times, then slipped it back into her knife roll.

“Yes,” answered a male voice. “They are. As of a few years ago, they’re allowed back in.” Looking cool as a frulatte in an untucked white shirt and perfectly faded jeans, Gianni stood in the steamy kitchen. He held a bottle of
rosato
and two wineglasses.

To Georgia, he may as well have been a mirage. The last time she’d seen him was at the friends-and-family party in June. It was now the end of July, and after what she’d heard about him and the blonde, she’d assumed there wouldn’t be another time. His curls crept past his collar, but otherwise he looked exactly the same: all chiseled cheekbones, olive skin, and juicy lips. No wonder she’d wanted him.

“Hi, Gianni.”

“Ciao, Georgia.” He crossed the room and walked toward her. “I came to deliver my compliments to the chef. The dinner was spectacular, especially the
maiale.
Each time I eat here the food gets better.” He looked at her slyly. “You really are as good as they say.”

“Thanks.” Feeling her face get hotter than it already was, she stared down at her clogs. “But it’s really a group effort.”

“Even the specials? Claudia tells me they’re yours.”

“The specials are, yes.” Georgia would forever be indebted to Claudia for putting her in charge of specials, which attracted even more attention than the à la carte items. One day, one day very, very soon, she would create an entire menu
and
the specials.

“Then I delivered my compliments to the right person.” He smiled. “Would you join me for a drink? I can fill you in on the Savoys, our answer to the Windsors.”

She looked at him blankly. “The who?”

“The Italian royal family? The one you were just talking about?”

“Oh, right,” she said in her best easy-breezy voice. “The Savoys. Let me finish up here and then”—she met his eyes—“I’d love to join you for a drink.”

“I’ll be waiting.” He walked to the
melanzana
door. “Ciao, Vanessa,” he called over his shoulder.

Vanessa, who’d fastidiously been cleaning her station, looked at Georgia from underneath her sweatband. “I thought you were working on being happily single these days?”

“I am. It’s just a drink.” And if it turned into something more, well, being single didn’t mean being celibate. Banishing all thoughts of frazzled hair, sweaty skin, and bodacious blondes, she took off her apron and followed Gianni out the door and into the sultry night.

They sat at the same table where Claudia had delivered her pep talk to Georgia at the beginning of the summer. Gianni opened the bottle with a corkscrew on his key chain and poured two glasses. “To you,” he said.

“Not sure why, but why not.”

That night they sipped pink wine under white stars, and when they’d polished off the first bottle, he magically produced a second, which he’d stashed—in a cooler, no less—under the table.

“Guess you were pretty sure I’d join you for a drink.”

“Actually,” he said, uncorking the second bottle, “I was.”

Halfway through, he invited her back to his place. She said yes. The last person she’d slept with was Glenn, and it was so long ago it felt as real as a cheesy sitcom dream segment. She was beyond overdue.

They walked back to the vineyard hip to hip, their shoulders and elbows occasionally meeting. His fingers grazed her leg as
they climbed the stairs to his apartment, and seconds later they were entwined in a kiss that landed smack in her stomach. They stood in the hallway, kissing, and he cupped her face in his hands, then ran his fingers to the nape of her neck. He gently pushed her head forward and kissed the hollow just beneath and slightly behind her ear, instinctively zeroing in on her most sensitive spot. Her skin tingled, and she clenched her shoulder blades together.

“Finally,” she murmured, her eyes half lidded, her lips turned into a lazy smile.

Then, without any warning, he stopped. Just like that, Gianni stopped kissing her.

Her eyes sprang open. “Gianni? Is everything okay?”

“I’m sorry, Georgia, but I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You what?”

“It’s not you, Georgia. I like you and I want to get to know you. But not like this.” He bowed his head. “Please forgive me.”

“Sure, Gianni. But it’s okay, really. I
want
to do this.” Was she begging the Italian Stallion to take her to bed? Because it sure sounded as if she was.

“I don’t want it to be this way. Not with you.” He held out his hand. “Come. Let me take you home.”

Throwing herself out there—out of desperation or desire, it didn’t matter which—and getting flat-out rejected was more mortification than she could handle. Without a word, she turned and walked out the door and down the stairs. Maybe, she thought, as she headed to the villa, it really wasn’t her. Maybe he’d suddenly remembered he’d run out of condoms. Or Viagra. Or maybe he was having a herpes flare-up. Then again, maybe it
was
her. She walked faster.

Gianni followed behind, shouting for her to slow down, finally catching up when she reached the villa’s back door. “Please don’t be mad at me,” he said breathlessly.

She spun around to face him, but before she could say anything, he reached out and touched her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Georgia. Even when you’re mad, you’re still beautiful.”

“That’s great, Gianni. Thanks. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go inside now.”

“Will you listen for one minute? You left so quickly I couldn’t explain.”

“No explanation necessary. Good-bye, Gianni.” She turned back to the door.

“Come to Sicily with me,” he blurted.

“What?”

“In two weeks, for Ferragosto, one of our biggest holidays. I have business to do in Bologna and Milano, but then I am going to Taormina, to the Palazzo Lazzaro, my most important client. It’s so romantic you can’t imagine. The beach, a suite in the best hotel in Sicily. A nice restaurant. Or better yet, room service. Taormina in August is
perfetto
.” He clutched his hands together in mock prayer. “Come with me.”

“You’re crazy, Gianni. One minute you want me, the next you don’t, now you do again.”

“No.” He put his finger on her lips. “I’ve wanted you since that day we met, even with that ugly hat on your head. But I want it to be right.”

He looked so genuinely earnest—and so insanely gorgeous—there was no way to not consider his offer. Plus, he’d invited her to Sicily. Sicily! Then there was the weekend Claudia owed her, and the lack of anyone to share it with. Which led to her third rationalization: if not Gianni, then who? There wasn’t exactly a cast of thousands (or even one) waiting in the wings. And though it made her feel like an eighteen-year-old boy on spring break in Cancún, there was the sex. She could have sex in Sicily.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “You’re on.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Vanessa asked. “Going away with Gianni?”

Georgia and Vanessa sat on the patio drinking glasses of icy
limonata
laced with fresh mint, relishing their only break of the day. The air was hot and heavy with humidity; swollen clouds hung, unmoving, in the gray sky above. Dinner rush would hit shortly, and neither Vanessa nor Georgia nor anyone else on the Dia staff would rest until the last customers walked out the door, their bloated bellies hanging over their belts, pledging their imminent return. The summer had seen a stretch of near flawless weather, and that, combined with near flawless reviews, meant a jam-packed restaurant each and every night. The crew was exhausted; rain was just what they needed.

“No,” Georgia answered, “I’m not at all sure it’s a good idea. But I’m going anyway.”

“But you hardly know him! What if he’s a series killer? And what about that blonde?”

“He’s not a serial killer, Vanessa. A womanizer, yes. But a murderer? No way. And she’s his cousin.”

“Sure she is.” Vanessa put down her glass and stretched her fingers to the splotchy sky. “As long as you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m giving it a chance. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to do?”

Fat raindrops began to fall, leaving leopard-print spots on the slate patio. Neither girl flinched.

“I guess so,” Vanessa said finally, not sounding entirely convinced.

With a single clap of thunder, the sky broke open and an avalanche of water tumbled out, instantly drenching them
both. Shrieking, they jumped from their seats and ran to the
melanzana
door, which was locked. They pummeled it with their palms, shouting for someone to open it.

Effie peered out at them through the window next to the door. “Oh, hi, guys. Did you want to come in?”

“Effie, open the door now!” Vanessa yelled.

Effie fumbled with the lock. “Whoops. Having some difficulty here, girls, stay with me.”

“Open it now!” Georgia shouted as Effie pulled open the door.

Georgia and Vanessa jumped into the vestibule, laughing as water pooled at their feet.

“Is it raining? You guys look a little wet.” Effie tossed them two dish towels.

“You,” said Vanessa, “are a dead man, Effie.”

That night it rained so much a flood warning was issued and drivers were advised to stay off the roads. Trattoria Dia shuttered its doors at 11:07 p.m., the first time in the restaurant’s brief but bustling history it had closed before midnight. The staff celebrated by going to sleep.

For the next two weeks, Georgia tried to focus on work and nothing else—not on Gianni, who was away on business, and whose kiss she could still sort of feel when she closed her eyes and imagined his delicious, red lips, and not on their upcoming trip to one of the most romantic places in the world, where what she’d been hoping would happen since the friends-and-family party would almost definitely happen. Fortunately for her, the restaurant was jumping all day long, leaving little time for daydreaming or anything else.

At last, the eve of their departure arrived. Georgia packed her bag, did a homemade avocado hair mask in a futile attempt to tame her frizz, and fell into bed, where she promptly passed
out. The next morning, she and Gianni sat in seats 3a and 3b, respectively, on Alitalia flight number 4144, final destination Taormina.

“Nice seats,” Georgia said as the stewardess ushered them to their Magnifica-class seats. “They even come with choice of water.” Georgia pointed to the small bottles of sparkling and flat waters tucked into the roomy armrests between seats.

“You deserve the best.” Gianni placed his black Prada duffel bag into the overhead bin. “Is this yours?” he asked, pointing to the L.L. Bean tote sitting on the seat.