Luscious (17 page)

He frowned, looking down the row of pinkish Molinara, then began walking again. “I disagree with fashion. At Villa Farfalla, the woman who sells us cheese walks up a mountain to get the best goats’ milk. The man who grinds our rice uses the same stones his grandfather used. What is the saying? ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’? The Molinara is an elegant grape that lends acidity to the blend. It holds its own and keeps things lively. Last year Amarone was granted DOCG status, the highest recognition of quality among Italian wines. It is our goal at Villa Farfalla to use this honor to propel our Amarone to the top of the market—by honoring traditional grapes. One day we hope to equal the success of our legendary wine La Farfalla.”

Sean finished his croissant and followed the group across the vineyard to the barn-like building that sat below the tasting room. Mr. Marconi raised his arm. “This is the
fruttaio
, where we dry the grapes. If the weather holds and the grapes continue to sweeten, the harvest for the Amarone will begin at the end of the month.” He opened the door to the
fruttaio
. “When we bring the grapes in here, we open all the doors and windows to allow the air to circulate. The perfume of drying grapes is indescribable—intoxicating. After four months, we crush the grapes, press them, and age the wine for at least two years.”

Sean cleared his throat. “Didn’t you say you only pick the best grapes for Amarone? What do you do with the rest of them?”

“We make the Valpolicella. Although the remaining grapes are not chosen for the Amarone, they are by no means inferior. A picking crew sweeps through the vineyard to pick the rest of the grapes. They are crushed immediately. If Amarone is the heart of Villa Farfalla, then Valpolicella Classico is its lifeblood. Valpolicella is meant to be drunk young, so we have a quicker return on our investment.” His grin was a sharp flash of white in his swarthy face.

They filed into the
fruttaio
, where Sean saw neat rows of racks stacked ceiling high. Mr. Marconi gestured at the racks. “Although many wineries have switched to plastic or wooden racks for practical reasons, Villa Farfalla uses the traditional river reeds, which allow for better air circulation.” There were no grapes in evidence but the air smelled sweet, as if the souls of millions of dried grapes surrounded them in the wide room.

The crowd was silent, eyes wide, as if they too could feel the presence of history and tradition. “It is my goal to produce the best wines in Italy and bring the legend of La Farfalla back to life,” Mr. Marconi vowed.

“Will we get to taste La Farfalla?” Mrs. Schmidt asked.

“The old bottles are very valuable. Each one costs almost as much as a week at the villa, so no, I’m sorry, we won’t taste La Farfalla.” Mr. Marconi gave her a warm grin. “But I will show you the remaining bottles of the vintage. Last year we began exporting our Valpolicella Classico and just this summer our first vintage of Amarone became available in the world market. I hope you’ll like our wines enough to look for them in your local stores when you get back home. Like La Farfalla, all our wines bear a butterfly on the label, making them easy to recognize.”

He opened the door again and gestured outside. “Let’s take a quick trip through the wine cellar and the barrel tunnel before we go to lunch and taste the other wines—always the favorite part of the tour.”

Sean stayed toward the back of the crowd as they moved toward the tasting room.

The winemaking process was unbelievably complicated. With so many variables—weather, soil, varietals, sugar, and aging—it seemed impossible to believe that anyone could recreate a vintage. How many years would it take to recreate La Farfalla? A lifetime?

Giovanna greeted them with a wave as they entered the tasting room. He waved back and followed the crowd into the back hallway. They passed the offices and the small kitchen. Mr. Marconi used a key to unlock the door at the end of the hall, the door Sean had discovered the day they arrived. He reached into the darkness and flipped a switch.

They shuffled forward into a low room now filled with dim light. Mr. Marconi shut the door behind them.

Racks of wine bottles filled the mouth of the tunnel. Farther down, he could see barrels lining each side of the long tunnel. The smell of oak made Sean feel woozy, as if he were recovering from a weeklong bourbon bender. Mr. Marconi began explaining about the wines in the racks, stopping to display a dusty bottle or two. He walked farther down the tunnel and stopped in front of a large cabinet built into the wall. He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the cabinet.

There was a collective gasp as he opened the doors.

Five wine bottles sat nestled in red velvet. “The legend lives on,” Mr. Marconi said, caressing the hand-drawn butterfly on the label with one gentle fingertip. Sean noticed there was room for one more bottle in the rack and wondered if it had once held six.

Mr. Marconi closed the cabinet and locked it, urging them to continue down the aisle. On the right, small barrels were stacked three high, to the ceiling. On the left, fatter barrels were lined up single file. Each barrel sat on its side and had a fat cork wedged in the top. Mr. Marconi launched into a detailed explanation of what was in each barrel and how long it would stay there, but Sean tuned him out and wandered toward the end of the row. His brain had already acquired about as much wine knowledge as he could handle today.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, so he stepped behind a barrel to check his text messages.

Arriving
Valerio
Catullo
eleven thirty pm. Pick me up.

Dare he suggest Russo take a taxi? Before he could hit reply, another text came through.

I
need
to
talk
to
you.

He sighed. The sound was loud and he noticed Mr. Marconi was no longer talking. He stepped back into the aisle. When he saw the others were already near the mouth of the tunnel, he hurried to catch up with them. Mr. Marconi led the crowd through the tasting room and out the door, but Sean hung back. What could Russo need to get off his chest before he reached Villa Farfalla? A mistress? An offshore account?

I’ll be there.
He hit send.

From the wine bar, Gia held up a glass and raised her eyebrow.

“Wine before lunch?” he asked as she poured two samples.

“Wine before everything. You’re in Italy, remember? Did you enjoy the tour of the vineyard?”

He nodded and pointed at the bottle. “Let me guess—Valpolicella?”

“Absolutely.” He heard the bell on the front door tinkle. She sighed. “No wine for the weary. I’ll be right back.”

He nodded and took a sip. He was no connoisseur but he would describe this wine as fruity. It wasn’t sweet but he tasted cherries—or was that the power of suggestion from his recent wine lesson? Whatever its properties, it made him hungry. His stomach growled and his mouth began to water as he thought of the cold cuts that had been served as appetizers when they arrived at the villa. He craved olive oil, bread, and more wine. And cheese. If Olivia didn’t have to cook today, he would have loved to take her on a picnic.

Sean finished his wine and leaned over the counter to place his wineglass in the dish rack, waiting for Gia to return so he could ask her how to get to the airport.

Olivia glanced at the clock. Any minute the guests would stream into the kitchen for the cooking class. They were actually in pretty good shape as far as prep work, but she had butterflies in her stomach anyway.

She went over her checklist one last time. All the tools were gathered, all the ingredients within easy reach. She had multiplied all of the recipes by five and made copies for everyone. She had even kept copies of the original recipes in case anyone wanted to make a smaller batch for their family once they got back home. They had plenty of aprons, towels, and tasting spoons, but she still felt like they were missing something.

The door swung open and the guests poured into the kitchen.
Showtime
, as Marlene would say. Olivia began to hand out aprons and direct them to their stations. When everyone was settled, she still had one apron in her hand. Where was Sean? Skipping class? Disappointment struck low in her belly as she realized she’d been waiting all day to see him again. She ignored the sinking feeling and divided the guests into teams and explained the menu.

As everyone got busy, the noise level rose and her nerves sharpened. Everyone had a question for her to answer and she couldn’t take a step without needing to say, “Excuse me,” and gently nudge someone out of her path. She wanted to say, “Behind you!” which was kitchen slang for “Get the hell out of my way,” but she controlled the impulse. Instead, she took a deep breath and focused on putting out fires, cleaning up spills, and making sure everyone was handling their knives correctly.

The kitchen congestion eased as the guests settled into their tasks, but half an hour passed with no progress. The simple menu, which had seemed brilliant yesterday, now seemed impossibly complex, even with much of the prep work already done. At this rate, they wouldn’t eat until midnight.

She heard Marco singing in the dish room and dashed up the stairs. “Have you seen my mother?” she asked, hoping for some reinforcement since Marco was still finishing the lunch dishes and Alessandro was flitting around the kitchen being charming but useless.

Marco broke off in the middle of his aria. “She’ll be back in time for dinner. She said she had to bribe a banker.”

Olivia frowned. “Really?”

He laughed. “With your mother, it’s hard to tell. She also asked me to tell you that someone named Marlene called for you.”

Olivia blew a breath out through puffed cheeks. “Thanks. I’ll call her back later when I don’t have to be in four places at once, trying to get dinner on the table.”

Marco dried his hands on a towel. “The dishes are done. What can I do to help?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.” She began to laugh.

The fact that she was laughing instead of screaming or crying made her laugh harder. Last week, this situation would have been the last straw. The sheer impossibility of producing a decent meal for twenty people with at least twelve of them standing directly in her way would have sent her around the bend. Today, she felt only mild irritation coupled with the urge to order takeout Italian for twenty and drag Sean upstairs. A week ago, calling for takeout food wouldn’t even have occurred to her. What had changed?

She felt her cheeks heat. No way. She refused to believe that all she had needed to regain perspective on her life was good sex. Sean was good, but not that good. Actually, he might be that good. How would she know?

“Olivia?” Marco waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Can I help you cook?”

“Right. Sorry.” She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. No time to think about sex, especially since Sean wasn’t even here. She would focus on the food, the job, the challenge of the moment, and would handle this in her tried and true fashion.

One plate at a time.

She grinned, remembering Alessandro had said this was Marco’s menu. “Marco, my friend, you’re in charge of the entrée.”

***

Olivia stood on the kitchen stairs looking out over her students. She released a sigh of relief. Everything was going much more smoothly now that Marco was working on the
bollito
misto
with three of the four chatty American couples. The selection of boiled meats, beef, veal, and a local smoked sausage would be served as the entrée with
la
peara
, a special Veronese bread sauce, and Marco had assured her it would be
perfetto
.

The Australian couple had recovered from their jet lag and had the appetizers well in hand.
Primo
piatto
, an easy risotto with pumpkin and walnuts, was being tended by the Germans, and the fourth American couple had the
dolci
under construction. Jury was still out on whether they could handle the
torta
sabbiosa
, a cake made with polenta flour, but so far, so good.

The door opened and Sean walked into the kitchen. Her heart did a happy dance and she walked to meet him, half expecting a kiss, but stopped short when he beckoned to a stunning redhead standing in the dining room with her father.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sean said. “My client’s wife is now staying at the villa.” The woman shook her father’s hand and walked toward them. “Mrs. Russo, this is my friend Olivia. Olivia, meet Marilyn Russo.”

Olivia held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Russo.”

“Thank you. Please call me Marilyn.”

This was the woman Sean had called last night? Was it too late to be jealous? Reluctantly, she offered, “The villa guests are making dinner tonight. Would you like to join us in the kitchen for the class today?”

Mrs. Russo stifled a yawn. “I think I’ll nap instead. I was too excited to sleep last night.”

Sean and Marilyn smiled at each other and Olivia felt another flash of uncertainty. “Please excuse me. There’s chaos in the kitchen at the moment, but I hope you’ll join us for dinner. I have a feeling it’s going to be an adventure.”

“Thank you. I will.” Mrs. Russo walked toward the stairs.

Sean followed Olivia back through the dish room. “Chaos, huh? Everybody certainly looks happy.”

She glanced down at the lower kitchen. The guests were smiling and laughter rose above the noise of the hoods. “Happy? Happy won’t get food on the table, but I’ll take it.” She walked to the stairs, feeling the need to get everyone moving faster.

Where should she start? Marco was directing traffic at the stove and Alessandro was leaning on a table, watching the Australians spoon tomatoes onto grilled bread, a job that should have been done at the last minute. The bread would be a soggy mess by dinnertime. Why wasn’t he stopping them? If every task had to be done twice, they’d never eat tonight. She felt her muscles cord and her jaw clench.

Sean put a hand on her arm. “Relax, Olivia. Nobody is here to become a chef. They’re here to have a good time.”

She paused, hand on the rail, foot poised to descend the stairs. She’d never thought about it like that. Was her job done if everyone was smiling at the dinner table, even if the food was terrible? Understanding bloomed, giving her an idea. “You are a genius.”

She hurried down the stairs. “Alessandro!” she called. “Would you get us some wine, please?” Then she turned to the Australians and said, “Your bruschetta looks so good, I think we should eat it now. What do you think?”

The Australians beamed with pride and Alessandro and Sean headed out the back door to the tasting room for wine. Olivia relaxed and reached for an appetizer. She cupped a hand beneath her chin to catch any falling tomatoes and bit into the crunchy bread. It tasted like sunshine. The late summer tomatoes and basil had been tossed with olive oil, sea salt, garlic, and fresh-cracked pepper, and the bread had been kissed with more olive oil before it had been marked on the grill. It was amazing how something so simple could be so intensely satisfying.

She pretended to swoon and popped the other half into her mouth. The guests crowded around the platter and she faded back toward the stove to keep an eye on dinner.

***

Sean followed Alessandro out the back door and up the small slope to the tasting room. The chef selected several bottles from the rack on the wall and Sean helped him carry them back to the kitchen, where the guests had abandoned their tasks and were clustered around a platter of hors d’oeuvres. Sean snagged one while Alessandro gathered glasses in the upstairs wine bar.

Olivia was busy at the stove, stirring, then bending to peer into the ovens. He watched her buzz around the room, talking and laughing as she gathered dirty dishes and rearranged the tools and ingredients at each station. She might have her doubts, but to him, she looked utterly capable and completely in command. There was no question in his mind she belonged in the kitchen.

His stomach hollowed out, and he looked at the hors d’oeuvre in his hand, no longer hungry. Leaving Norton, he’d had every intention of making sure she returned home with him, but as he watched her work he couldn’t deny she was in her element in a way she hadn’t been in the Chameleon kitchen. He watched her dice an onion, feeling just as wistful as he had in high school, sneaking peeks at her in study hall.

Abruptly, he wondered what was going on at home. Colin’s hearing was coming up, and although no news was good news, he should probably check in. He sent a quick text to Colin and his mother.
How’s it going?
He dropped the phone in his pocket as Alessandro came down the stairs, easily balancing a full tray of wineglasses.

As the guests converged on the tray, Sean steeled himself to ask, “Would it be possible for me to borrow your car tonight? I need to pick up a friend at the airport.”

“Not a problem,” Alessandro said. “Marco can take me home.”

“
Grazie
. I’ll fill up your tank.”

Alessandro nodded and handed him the last two glasses from the tray. The chef was a mystery, alternately infuriating and accommodating. Sean was never sure what to expect from him, but he was glad Alessandro was in a helpful mood at this moment. “
Grazie
,” he said again.

Sean joined Olivia at the stove.

She arched an eyebrow. “Ready to take orders?”

His pensive mood vanished and he returned her smile with a wink. “Ready and willing.”

***

Eventually all of the food was finished and they were seated at the trestle table. Each team served the course they had been responsible for and told how it was made, accompanied by giggling over the mistakes. The atmosphere was relaxed and celebratory. There were smiles on all the faces around the table. Even her mother looked content.

Alessandro had been charming and suave all afternoon, pretending to learn the recipes right along with the guests, which put everyone at ease. Of course, he wasn’t pretending, but she and Marco were the only ones who knew that. Marco had come through like a champion with the
bollito
misto
, and the bread sauce was melt-in-the-mouth perfection.

Marco had retreated to the dish room as soon as everything was on the table, declining her invitation to join them. The guests had pitched in to scrub pots, so she didn’t feel guilty leaving the rest of the cleanup to him, but he deserved to celebrate a job well done. All day, he had moved around the kitchen with the ease of one born to cook. It was a shame that he seemed most comfortable cleaning. Before the end of the week, she and her mother were going to have a talk about kitchen organization. She didn’t care how comfortable he was in the dish room, he should be offered a promotion—if for no other reason than because the villa needed all of his talents at its disposal.

The wine continued to flow, but Olivia only sipped at hers. Now that the stress of teaching the class was over, she was looking forward to dessert, and not the moist, buttery polenta cake that sat in front of her either. As the food had cooked, her private fantasy had simmered in the back of her mind all afternoon.

Sean took her hand under the table and she blushed, sure he must have sensed the direction of her thoughts. She looked up at him and he winked.

“Think anyone will notice if we skip dessert?” he whispered.

She looked around the table. The Germans were regaling the Americans with their summer wine adventures, her parents were chatting with Gia and the Australians, and Alessandro was pouring more wine for Mrs. Russo. No one was paying attention to them, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave the table just yet.

She moved closer to him and put her mouth by his ear. “Everyone will notice if we skip dessert.”

He laughed and put his arm around her. She had loved spending the day in the kitchen with him. He hadn’t been kidding—he really couldn’t cook, but she had enjoyed showing him the proper way to hold a French knife, the most efficient way to dice an onion, and how to skim a sauce. Most of all she had loved the way he had appreciated her skill without somehow making it a competition, like her ex-husband would have.

She leaned into him, inhaling. Even though he had spent most of the day in the garlic- and onion-scented kitchen, she could still smell clean soap on his skin. Desire rolled through her, tempting her, setting her on fire. She knew what she wanted—to be the one in charge. She wanted to take pleasure from him, to give pleasure to him the way he had pleased her last night. It was her turn for a fantasy—if she dared. How long until they could sneak away?

Sean faked a dramatic yawn and she pinched his leg under the table, trying not to giggle.

Across the table Mrs. Schmidt yawned too. “I think our late night is catching up with me.” Her husband stood and took her hand, drawing her away from the table amidst a flurry of good nights. The Americans picked up their wineglasses and moved toward the dining room, bickering good-naturedly about which card game to play tonight. The Australians looked like they might sit and talk to her parents all night, but Olivia no longer felt awkward leaving the table.

She seized the moment and stood up.

Sean rose casually beside her and they eased toward the dish room.

“Your room or mine?” she whispered over her shoulder when they reached the stairs.