Margherita's Notebook (17 page)

Nicola was staring at her so intensely that she was forced to look away. She feared that gaze could overcome her defenses, her barriers. It was like a laser beam that can cut through steel as though it were butter, melting it at once. His gaze seemed to be telling her that he understood something that she herself did not, something that would prevent her mind from controlling her body's impulses. Something that told her that in another situation she would have been quite happy to yield to his will . . .

Nicola found her intriguing, he couldn't deny it. He had imagined her coming to do the job with a compliant, apologetic
attitude, but no, she was feisty, determined . . . and something else, too.

“Have you finished listing your demands?” he asked, grinning, interrupting the silence that was starting to feel uncomfortable.

Margherita came out of the sort of trance that for a few seconds had made her lose control of the situation.

“No,” she hastened to answer, trying to pick up where she'd left off. “I'm the one who has to decide what's on the table, because every menu has its own way of being presented. And I want to know about the guests in advance so that I can make dishes that are suited to them. And”—she looked up trying not to blow her cool, not to lose herself in his eyes—“I want a raise.”

For a moment, Nicola was at a loss for words, but then he laughed. Deep, sexy laughter, to-die-for laughter, she registered in spite of herself.

“Aren't
I
supposed to be the one who is only interested in money?”

“This is different . . .”

“What do you mean different?”

Those eyes refused to let her go. They disoriented her, forcing her to answer in kind.

“Different, that's all.” End of discussion, although Margherita was sure that the first round had definitely been won by her opponent.

Nicola started putting his shirt on and again Margherita looked way, hoping she didn't look like a child in front of a jar of Nutella. Except that Nutella, with all its calories, would be much less bad for her . . .

She tried to shift the topic of conversation to safer ground.

I'm only here to work . . . I'm only here to work . . .

She focused on that thought, hoping it would have the miraculous power of a mantra.

“Well, then, who are our guests this evening?”

“Only one guest. And he's already a fan of yours.” Her quizzical look made him smile. “Vittorio Giovanale.”

She nodded. Then she looked at him seriously.

It's a good thing he's got his clothes on now.

“I need you to tell me what you want to tell him with this dinner.”

Nicola looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I need to know what you want to convey. Elegance? Conviviality? Affinity? Do you want to amaze him, or do you want to make him feel comfortable?”

“Do you really need to know all these things just to make a dinner?”

Margherita heard the note of impatience in his voice. “To be able to express myself in the best way possible, I need to know what kind of atmosphere you want to create, the reason you are having the dinner—”

He interrupted her brusquely: “Haven't you ever heard the word ‘privacy'?”

Margherita blushed.

“You know who Giovanale is, and I'd say you don't need to know any more than that,” said Nicola drily, putting an end to the discussion.

In other words, you just focus on the cooking. Fine, serves me right this time.

“As you like.” She picked up the grocery bags and headed toward the entrance to the villa without uttering another word. So she couldn't see Nicola smiling and looking at her in amusement as his gaze followed her.

“Vittorio Giovanale was one of your mother's regular patrons,” said Armando the next day.

Giulia, who was sitting in front of what remained of the specialties Margherita had prepared for dinner, smiled. “If she cooked the way you do, I'm not at all surprised.”

“She taught me to cook.” Margherita's voice was laced with sadness.

“She was a great cook.” Armando hesitated for an instant, and then added, “And a wonderful woman.”

Giulia looked at him and noticed a wave of emotion pass over his face, quickly replaced by his usual carefree expression. “Which explains why I have such a fantastic daughter. Because she certainly doesn't take after me!”

Armando's words contradicted the regret that Giulia had perceived in his words, and for a second she wondered if she hadn't been wrong.

“Do you really believe that Giovanale wants to sell?” Armando changed the subject.

Margherita shrugged. “I'm not 100 percent sure, but I think that was the main dinner topic.”

“That's strange,” Armando remarked. “If there's one person who really cares about his vineyards, it's Giovanale. I can't believe he's thinking of selling to someone who is not from these parts.”

“Maybe he feels it's time for a change.” Giulia's words seemed to hover in the air for an instant, as if they had a much more personal meaning. She and Armando exchanged an intense look, and Margherita had the feeling she shouldn't be there. When her father began speaking, the
atmosphere changed again. “I wouldn't believe it if I saw it! Those vineyards are like children to him.”

“What can I say, Papa . . . I mean, Armando,” she corrected herself. “I might be wrong. All I know is that he really liked the dinner, and that my boss accepted my terms.”

“Which are?” Giulia asked.

“A monthly salary plus extra for each dinner. And carte blanche in the kitchen.”

“Right! Well done! And how many dinners a week do you have to cook for him?”

“I don't know. He didn't say.” Margherita looked at her. “I don't want to have too much free time. I love being home again, but working helps me to straighten out my life.”

Giulia stopped to think for a moment.

“Have you ever thought of selling those scrumptious cakes you make?”

“Brava!” Armando sang out. “That is a great idea! And you know another thing that would be good about it,” he said, winking at Giulia, “it would help me shed a few pounds.”

“Not just you!” Giulia smiled. Armando turned to Margherita. “So, what do you think?”

“I like the idea. But I can't just set up a cake stand on the sidewalk.”

“When word gets out, you won't be able to keep up with the orders, no doubt about that. You could start by asking Serafino if he's willing to sell some for you. His bakery always seems to be packed these days.”

Margherita grinned. “I'll take your advice and go talk to him tomorrow.”

She was about to say good night when the doorbell rang. Margherita and her father exchanged a look of surprise. Who could it possibly be at this time of night?

Armando headed for the door and, before Margherita could utter a word, she heard Francesco's voice loud and clear. “I just have to talk to her, Armando. And please don't tell me she's out.”

Oh no, no, and NO!

Margherita searched Giulia's face, hoping to find an answer there.

“It's Francesco, but I don't want to see him. Not now!”

“You know sooner or later you're going to have to face him.”

Margherita took a deep breath. Then she cocked her head to the side. “You're right.”

With great determination, she headed for the living room, where Francesco was waiting for her.

He walked to her, smiling. “Margherita . . . you're so beautiful . . .” Only a few weeks had passed since she'd left, and yet she seemed different. She had the carefree air of a young girl, her cheeks were pink, and she had a sparkle in her eye. “I've missed you so much . . .”

Margherita didn't say a word. She was surprised not to feel anything for him, no beating of the heart. Yet at one time, she'd thought she was head over heels in love with him.

Armando took his cue to leave. “I'm going to take Giulia home. Take care, Francesco.”

And a second later he was gone.

Margherita turned to look at Francesco. “How's Meg?” she asked, point-blank.

Francesco was crouched on the ground playing with Artusi, pretending he hadn't heard.

“See, he misses me . . .” Then he looked up at Margherita and, with the tenderest expression he could manage,
which had always worked with her in the past, he added, “Do you?”

Margherita shot him an annoyed look.

“No, I don't. And I don't think Artusi's missed you at all, actually, seeing as you never bothered to even take him for a walk!”

Francesco looked mortified and dejected, and under any other circumstances his expression would have tugged at her heartstrings. But things were different now.

“What do you want, Francesco? Why are you here?”

“I can't live without you,” he mumbled.

The perfect victim.

Margherita went on the counterattack.

“You're such a liar. What do you miss about me, my pineapple cream pie? My ricotta fritters? Or the fact that I was willing to spend my precious time standing in line at the post office for you? Or maybe Meg isn't as willing as I was to waste her time at the drugstore refilling your prescriptions?”

The look on Francesco's face was that of a desperate man. He had come to Roccafitta determined to take her back with him to Rome, and he had no intention of letting her refuse. He took her hands in his and, gazing into her eyes, dived in: “I miss you, I miss your smile, I miss that sleepy look you have in your eyes when you wake up in the morning, I miss hearing you sing in the shower and while you're cooking and your nose is streaked with flour—”

“Please, there's no point dwelling on those things,” she tried to interrupt him.

But he wouldn't let her talk.

“I can't help it! I keep thinking about all the things we've done together,” he continued emphatically. “Remember when we found Valastro? He had a broken wing, and I didn't
want to take him home, but you wouldn't listen to reason . . .”

Margherita couldn't help smiling.

This gave Francesco some encouragement. Perhaps all was not lost after all.

“When he cawed, ‘No, Cesco,' he won me over. Also because I couldn't say no to the love of my life,” he added, gazing at her with an intensity that Margherita hadn't seen in his eyes in years. “Margy, come home,” Francesco pleaded.

Margherita stiffened. She was growing tenser.

“You have Meg now . . . ,” she mumbled.

But Francesco was determined not to give in. “Come back and I'll leave her. I'll be a different person, tell me what to do and I promise you I will do it. My life is worthless without you!”

For a second, Margherita felt as though her determination might waver. She looked away. Was she doing the right thing? Was it wrong to throw away five years of marriage without giving him a second chance?

Francesco, who could see that she was wavering, pressed on. “Ratatouille, Artusi, Asparagio, come here, I'm home again!” he shouted joyfully. Then he turned to look at her. “Pack your bags. We'll head right back to Rome so you can start looking for another apartment. We have to leave ours in less than a couple of weeks.” When he saw the look in her eyes, he quickly added, “How does a nice ground-floor apartment sound, maybe with a garden? It's what you always said you wanted.”

He hadn't changed at all. He was still the spoiled brat who expected everyone to say yes, and her to solve all his problems.

He'll never change.

“No, Francesco, I'm not coming back with you,” she answered calmly but firmly.

Francesco realized that in a split second he'd lost any headway he'd managed to make with her. He played one last card.

“I want you to choose a place you like, that you feel is yours and that can become a home for the two of us.”

But she interrupted him. “It's pointless, Francesco. I've made up my mind. I'm sorry, I don't want to get back together with you. At first I was angry, hurt . . . but in the past few days I've come to realize that it really is over. I care for you, I always will, but I also know that I don't love you anymore.”

No other words were needed. Something in the tone of her voice, in the look in her eyes, in her confidence, told Francesco that Margherita would never take back her decision.

This time he'd lost her. Forever.

A
nd he didn't insist?” Matteo asked the next morning, while accompanying Margherita to the baker's. Deep down, he was very pleased with the way things were turning out.

“Francesco has many faults, but he's not stupid. He realized I'd made up my mind and that I wasn't going to go back on my decision.”

Matteo stopped and looked into her eyes. “So how do you feel now?”