Georgia's Kitchen (25 page)

“So, Georgia,” Mervi said, walking up behind her, “are you seriously considering this job offer?”

“I am. I’d be crazy not to, don’t you think?”

He shrugged.

“The chance to create an amazing restaurant, plenty of money, an apartment—”

“With maid service,” he threw in.

“With maid service,” she repeated. “How could I
not
seriously
consider it?” In addition to all the perks Luigi had mentioned, there was also the chance to check out of her New York life and check into beautiful, tranquil Taormina. Throw in a sexy winery owner who rocked in bed, and the offer was almost too good to refuse. Except for one thing: she
liked
her New York life. Not all of it, but big, substantial chunks of it—Central Park, her friends, sushi, poppy seed bagels, the
New York Times,
Sunday-afternoon shopping trips, supersize iced coffees… and Sally, sweet, sweet Sally. The obvious thing missing from the picture was the gorgeous guy. But she’d been around long enough to know that not all summer romances translated into lasting relationships. Sometimes a fling was just meant to be a fling—fun and carefree and fleeting.

Mervi dangled his foot in the water. “It’s freezing. I’m not going in.” He returned to his towel and his book, smearing extra sunscreen across his bald chest.

Georgia took a few steps forward so that the water barely covered her knees. Grammy would scoff at her tentativeness. She used to dive into Silver Lake’s icy waters—chilly even at the tail end of August—without so much as dipping in a toe first. Good for the heart, she’d say as she emerged from the lake, her torpedoed bosom leading the way, her chartreuse skirt-suit circling her thighs.

Even after Grampy’s early death forced her into single motherhood, Grammy never lost her zest for life. As she told it, she could have remarried in a heartbeat. There’d been plenty of suitors—including the town doctor—but that would have been the easy way. Instead she devoted herself to building her bakery from scratch, working seven days a week so she could provide for Dorothy, her only child. By the time Georgia was born she was ready to throw in her rolling pin. She’d missed out on raising
Dorothy, but in Georgia she saw her second chance, and she was determined not to miss a thing. If you want to be happy, Grammy always said, stay true to yourself and work hard enough so that you never have to ask what-if.

A batch of wispy clouds passed over the sun, and Georgia felt goose bumps rise on her arms. The ocean and the sky were almost the same color, and she stared at the horizon trying to determine where they met. Her future was out there somewhere. She reached her hands overhead, clapped her palms together, and dove headfirst into the salty sea.

Georgia slid the key card through the lock and pushed open the hotel room door. “Gianni? Hello?”

The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner, which she swore she’d shut off before leaving for Vendicari that morning. Mother Earth did not approve of running the AC all day, especially when no one was home, so she turned it off to make up for wasted energy. She kicked off her sandals and flopped onto the bed, noticing a tiny vase of white freesia propping up a cream-colored envelope on the night table. The envelope was addressed to
Signora Giorgia Grigio,
her name translated into Italian, which sounded much prettier to her American ears.

“Dear Georgia,” she read aloud. “I will be back at five to take you to my friend’s winery. Dress is relaxed. Until then, Gianni.”

Leaning back into the pillows, she tried to envision her life as the head chef at the Palazzo Lazzaro and the girlfriend of the hotel’s owner—because there was no way Gianni would have her as one and not the other. In the early stages, when she was first settling in, she could imagine a succession of dinners and winery visits and alfresco lunches and nonstop sex. Then later, when they moved from planning to execution, she’d start working
around the clock and he’d start wondering what happened to the up-for-anything girl who used to jump him every chance she got and who now dropped like a brick the second she got to bed. Which begged a bigger question: Did she want to dedicate two years of her life to opening someone else’s restaurant? Or did she want to go back to New York and do it for herself?

A quick glance at the clock cut short her introspection. She’d have just enough time to rinse off and choose her best “relaxed” outfit, which she interpreted as a sundress and sandals. She stepped out of her clothes and into the shower, wondering if providing a dress code was a Gianni thing or an Italian thing—and thinking probably a bit of both.

The sun pushed down from above, relentless even in the early evening. Mount Etna, snowcapped and mammoth, loomed in the background. Every once in a while, a hot wind rustled the vines, a reminder of the legendary
scirocco
that blew into Sicily from the Sahara, bringing with it swirls of dust and sand. Georgia and Gianni walked down a row of vines plump with purple grapes. Her brow was damp with sweat, and her hair, shellacked with product, was scraped back in a bun—the frizz factor in these conditions was off the charts.

“Isn’t this place amazing?” Gianni said.

“It is.” The drive from Taormina alone—through sunbaked hills, chestnut groves, the remains of a centuries-old town carved from lava—was worth the trip to Gianni’s friend’s winery, which sprawled across the southern slope of the volcano.

“And so are you.” He leaned over and kissed her lips.

She smiled. Cheesy lines rolled off his tongue so effortlessly they were actually somewhat charming. With anyone else, she wouldn’t be so charitable.

Gianni plucked a grape from a vine and crushed it between
his thumb and forefinger. “See this?” He showed her the smashed flesh. “It’s Nerello Mascalese, native to Etna. It’s almost ready to be picked.
La vendemmia
will begin soon.”

The Italian wine harvest kicked off in Sicily, then continued up the boot, hitting Puglia, Campania, and Tuscany, among other regions, not stopping until it passed through Veneto, Piedmont, and Trentino–Alto Adige, Italy’s northernmost wine-producing province. Celebrations honoring the mighty grape abounded during the harvest, and it was nearly impossible not to run across a festival somewhere.

“Next year, we’ll come here for
la vendemmia.
After the first day of picking, everyone goes back to the cantina and we eat a huge feast and have a great party. The real work doesn’t begin until the next day… when we’re back at the Lazzaro.” He sucked the grape into his mouth and licked the juice from his fingers. “What do you think?”

An image of Lucille Ball, barefoot and stomping grapes at an Italian vineyard, popped into Georgia’s head. Grammy had adored
I Love Lucy,
and Georgia remembered watching that hilarious episode in Grammy’s den. She laughed out loud.

“Can I take that as a yes?”

“I was just remembering a funny TV show I used to watch with my grandmother.”

He studied her for a moment, looking peeved with her non-answer before offering his hand. “Come, let’s go have a drink.”

They walked toward the main house, crunching over dirt so rocky and dry it was a wonder anything grew there at all. The rose-hued villa was designed in the baroque style, complete with Juliet balconies, arched windows, and heavy wooden doors. A double staircase, perfect for making dramatic exits, led to a terrace overlooking the vineyard.

They followed a winding path to a patio nestled against the side of the house. A pergola blanketed with violet bougainvillea ran overhead, and a couple of café tables and chairs offered respite from the sun. A wet bar with a fridge and small cooktop was tucked into the corner next to an arched door.

“My friend Ilario said to make ourselves comfortable.” Gianni opened the fridge and pulled out bottles of sparkling water and white wine. “It’s too hot for red, so let’s have a glass of this.” He looked at the bottle and frowned. “Not my favorite, but don’t tell Ilario.”

While he poured the wine, Georgia poked around the fridge, finding a wedge of pecorino siciliano, a package of crackers, and a jar of fat, green olives, an impromptu antipasto plate. She arranged the food on a cutting board sitting next to the sink and set it on the table.

“A toast,” Gianni said, holding up his glass. “To you.”

“And to you. I can’t thank you enough for bringing me here. I’ve seen so much of Sicily I feel like I’ve been here for three nights instead of one. I just wish we didn’t have to leave tomorrow.”

“You’ll be back, Georgia. As soon as you finish up at Dia, you’ll be back at the Lazzaro.” There wasn’t a trace of doubt in his voice.

She cut a piece of cheese and put it on a cracker, which was cold from the fridge. “I don’t know, Gianni. I’ve been doing some thinking—”

“Don’t.” He leaned across the table and rested his finger on her lips. “Don’t say anything now unless it is yes. Otherwise, don’t think about anything until we’re back in San Casciano. We have this whole place to ourselves tonight. Let’s make the most of it.”

He was right. There’d be plenty of time to think about things
the next day, or the next, or even the next. It was her last night in Sicily and she was with an amazing guy in a magical place and she wasn’t about to screw it up by
thinking
. “Okay.”

“Now,” he said, rising from the table, “would you like to see the tasting room?”

“I would love to see the tasting room.” She took his hand and they walked into the house.

The last of Dia’s customers were still straggling out of the restaurant when Georgia and Gianni pulled up to the villa sometime after midnight. After a whirlwind weekend and a full day of traveling, the only thing Georgia wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there for a week—and if Gianni wanted to join her, all the better. But since he was jetting off to spend the rest of Ferragosto with his family in Puglia, and her presence was required at the Dia kitchen first thing in the morning, the most she could hope for was a solid six hours… alone.

“So when do you get back?” Georgia asked.

“In a week.” He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “I wish you could come with me.”

“Bruno would kill me. And if he didn’t, Effie would. But it does sound nice.”

“As nice as moving to Taormina?”

“Gianni,” she began, but he rested his finger on her lips to stop her.

“When I get back,” he said.

She nodded. “Thank you for a wonderful weekend.”

“Thank you for being a wonderful woman.”

They kissed good-bye, and she grabbed her tote bag from the backseat and walked into the villa.

C
hien wiggled his rump in greeting as Georgia entered the Dia dining room, and she knelt down to give him a scratch. As the de facto mascot, Chien roamed the restaurant premises like a king patrolling his castle. In New York, a dog in the kitchen was a surefire route to a nasty health-code violation and a guaranteed shutdown. In San Casciano, the health inspector handed Chien scraps of his veal chop under the table while polishing off his third glass of Barolo, compliments of the house.

Bursts of laughter sounded from the kitchen, which could only mean that Claudia was back. Like every other Italian, she celebrated Ferragosto by going on holiday, though hers had been shorter than the typical two weeks. She’d left Bruno in charge, which had been fine with Georgia.

She walked into the kitchen, where Bruno, Tonio, and a bunch of the newer staff members were huddled around Claudia, who read aloud from a magazine splayed on the kitchen table. She said something Georgia couldn’t decipher, and the group responded with a smattering of applause.

“Hi, Claudia!” Georgia called.

Claudia looked up and grinned. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. In the last few days she’d sprouted a minibump, and it protruded slightly from underneath her swingy black shirt. “Georgia!” she said. “Come listen to this.”

“What is it?” Georgia asked, Chien at her heels. After Claudia, Georgia was his favorite person. And with Sally an ocean away, he offered the doggy love she craved.

“
Taste
magazine,” she said happily. “The story’s running in the current issue. They sent us these.” She pointed to a stack of magazines in front of the fridge.

Georgia picked one up and began flipping through it. “Page?”

“One hundred eleven,” Bruno answered. “But check the cover first.”

She closed the magazine and held it at arm’s length. A collage of images from Tuscany and beyond graced the cover of the all-Italian issue. In the top left quadrant a pine farmhouse table was laid out with a single place setting and a smorgasbord of Dia’s best (and most photogenic) dishes. “The Little Trattoria That Could,” read the cover line.

“Wow,” Georgia said. A lovely plate of sole e luna, which didn’t exist when the cover was shot, had been Photoshopped into the picture and sat smack in the middle of the table. “This looks beautiful.”

The story was reported and filed before Dia had opened its doors, so long ago that everyone had almost forgotten about it. Its publishing date was timed to coincide with Tuscany’s official high season, which had hit. San Casciano, along with every other town that boasted at least one church and one café, was abuzz with tourists. Even without a gushing
Taste
cover story, Dia was a tough reservation. Now, scoring a table would be like scoring tickets for the next unannounced Stones show at the Beacon Theater.