Margherita's Notebook (19 page)

“Oops . . . sorry, Miss . . . I should probably call you Margherita, seeing that you're so young. No need to be so formal, don't you agree?”

She smiled in spite of herself before such spontaneity.

“Margherita is fine,” she answered. “I agree, I hate formalities.”

At that moment, Carla appeared behind Enrico. As usual she was wrapped, actually squeezed, in a suit, this time a bright pickle green. She looked at Margherita with her customary condescension, without saying anything, just nodding, then turned to the guest. “Enrico, I'm sure you'll want to go to your room to freshen up . . . Everything's ready.”

“I don't doubt that, knowing how efficient you are. But frankly, I'd rather stay here and keep this lovely creature company.”

Carla's face clearly showed her disapproval. Margherita held back a smile.

“The truth is she doesn't want anyone around while she prepares her delicacies.” The way she said it served only to confirm the nickname Margy had given her.

Enrico turned toward Margherita, smiling irresistibly. “Is that so? In that case I'll get out of your way.”

To contradict Carla, but also because she enjoyed having such cheerful company in the kitchen, Margherita replied, “That's usually true, but I can make an exception this time.”

Enrico turned to Carla and made the victory sign with his fingers.

“You see? It's probably Nicola's fault, with his habit of wanting to be in control of every single little thing! It's a shame that's also something most women find irresistible . . .”

Margherita laughed, but Carla wasn't at all amused.

“As you wish,” she retorted, with the slightest irritation in her voice. “If you don't need me, then I'll go.” She walked stiffly out of the kitchen accompanied by the clicking of her stilettos.

Enrico rolled his eyes and made a funny face as if to say that a great deal of patience was needed.

“Efficient, trustworthy . . . but no sense of humor!” he remarked.

Margherita nodded, smiling. “Perfection is not of this world!”

And she went back to stirring the couscous.

“Well said!” he agreed. “On the other hand, it takes a lot to put up with Nicola . . . I know all about it.”

“Have you known him for long?” she asked, curious but trying not to show it.

Enrico looked at her warily. “Don't tell me you've fallen for him, too!” He walked over and looked her straight in the eyes. “I'd never forgive him for it . . .”

Pretending that she needed to stir the sauce, Margherita turned around abruptly, hoping Enrico hadn't noticed that her cheeks were burning dangerously. She vigorously stirred the contents of the various saucepans until the color of her cheeks could be blamed on the steam that was spiraling up from all the dishes.

“Not at all . . . I was just curious,” she answered, hoping
to convey indifference. “What's more, he's not my type,” she added on impulse.

Enrico let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“That certainly is good news!” he exclaimed. Then, looking straight at her with a mischievous smile on his lips, he asked, “And just what is your type, if I may ask? Maybe not too tall, blue eyes, engaging smile?”

She laughed, charmed by his pleasant, easygoing flirting. But before she could answer, a voice behind her made her freeze: “Enrico, let me remind you that I pay her to cook, not to listen to your idle banter!”

Margherita and Enrico both turned around to find themselves facing Nicola, whose brow was furrowed. Enrico looked like a kid who'd been caught with his hands in the cookie jar.

“Well, wouldn't you know it. Fun's over! He's been like this ever since we were kids,” he said to Margherita.

Nicola was visibly annoyed. “Please, not this again . . .”

“He's always been a party pooper!” Enrico exclaimed, while he winked at Margherita, who was listening to this exchange with curiosity, wondering how two such different people could possibly be friends and have anything in common.

Nicola sighed, exasperated. “Why don't you come with me now and let her work?”

“To be honest, it didn't look like she really minded my being here,” Enrico replied saucily.

Nicola gave Margherita an accusing look. And she, without really knowing why, felt guilty.

“Go ahead,” Margherita quickly said to Enrico. “As I was properly reminded, I'm here to
work
.” She emphasized the word, giving Nicola a challenging look.

He seemed like he was about to answer, but then thought better of it.

“Let's go,” he said to Enrico. “We need to talk about those vineyards.”

Reluctantly, his friend followed him, after giving Margherita a martyred look.

“See you later. You'll be dining with us, won't you?”

“Well . . .” Margherita hesitated, giving her boss the most innocent look she possibly could with her big blue eyes.

Nicola was caught off guard.

“Invite her,” Enrico butted in. “What are you waiting for?”

Gritting his teeth, Nicola asked her to stay. “I thought you would rather go home,” he added, looking at her askance.

“Not always, it depends on the company,” she replied suavely, earning an enthusiastic look from Enrico and one that was anything but benevolent from Nicola.

Margherita was having a world of fun. For the first time ever, Nicola Ravelli was in a tight spot, and this made up for all the awkwardness he had caused her.

But that was not all. She had to admit that she liked to provoke him, to watch his reactions.

“Since when did you two get so chummy?” she heard him ask Enrico as they walked out. And, unaccountably, her heart skipped a beat.

Stupid. Foolish. Asinine. And ridiculous. That's what she was.

Better, much better, to go back to the stove and put certain ideas aside.

Nicola, who was taking Enrico to the patio right below the kitchen, was trying to figure out why he felt so annoyed. He was used to Enrico's ways and they rarely caused him
to react the way he just had. There was only one answer: it was because of Margherita. The friendliness he'd noticed between them had gotten on his nerves. Actually, it had made him blow a fuse. He found it hard to believe that she was so immune to his charm.

“Earth to Nicola, Earth to Nicola . . . You still with us?” Enrico was staring at him with a look that was somewhere between sardonic and perplexed.

“I'll bet you didn't hear a word I said, right, Nick?”

Nicola glared at him.

“You talk too much,” he replied, which got him out of answering the question.

Enrico looked at him quizzically. “That I'll give you, but you have to admit that you have some pretty . . . weird reactions. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were jealous!”

“I told you, you talk too much. And most of the time you don't know what you're talking about,” Nicola replied, determined to avoid a subject that he refused even to consider.

“If you say so.” Enrico didn't seem at all convinced. “So you won't get in my way if I try to get better acquainted with your beautiful chef, then?” he teased Nicola, pretending to be naïve.

Nicola had to keep himself from grabbing his friend by the neck and shoving him up against the nearest wall. But, as always, he was able to exert self-control.

“I don't think you'll have the time, seeing that you'll have to leave,” he said simply.

“But I can always come back . . . I'm sure it would be worth my while!” his friend insisted, smiling.

“Shouldn't we be talking about business?” Nicola snapped. “There are lots of things we need to discuss.”

Enrico knew Nicola well, and he also knew when it was time to stop.

“Right, let's talk about the vineyards,” he answered compliantly. “I'm all ears.”

“The Chinese want to double their orders.” Nicola's voice had resumed its detached, professional tone. “If we can buy Giovanale's land, we should be able to make it, but we'd have to step up production.”

Enrico looked at him. “You know what the risks are, Nicola. Intensive production without thinning the grapes, cutting costs on the products used to treat the plants, will result in poor-quality grapes, which in turn means we'll have to use more concentrate to raise the alcohol content and give the wine more color—”

Nicola interrupted him with a gesture of annoyance.

“No need to lecture me again. I know exactly what the risks are. And frankly, I don't care. They'll never know. As long as they're not getting their wine from cartons, they're happy with an Italian label on a nice glass bottle.”

Enrico nodded. “As you wish. You're the boss.”

Nicola didn't answer. He turned suddenly toward the kitchen window, and for an instant his gaze met Margherita's clear blue eyes, as she carefully arranged the dinner on the serving platters. He felt an unfamiliar ripple of unease. He turned to face Enrico again. “Come on, I've got a bottle of Gewürztraminer 2011 from the abbey of Novacella that's waiting for us.”

“An exceptional vintage! You're a real connoisseur,” said Enrico with a twinge of sarcasm. And they headed toward the dining room.

The dinner was a huge success. Enrico had expressed his enthusiasm at each bite, joking throughout the evening that food can be a very powerful weapon of seduction. Margherita had had fun, too. She'd laughed at all his witty remarks and managed to keep up with her own.

I was flirting with him.

Innocently, cheerfully, but that's precisely what she'd been doing.

Once she was home, getting ready for her usual walk with Artusi, she kept thinking about the evening. For as much as Enrico had been fun, relaxed, witty, Nicola had been cold, detached, and quiet. He was probably irked by his friend's attitude and the fact that he'd practically been forced to invite her.

“Mr. Frozen Foods in all his splendor,” she said sardonically to Artusi, who licked her hand.

It's a good thing someone loves me, she thought as she rubbed and scratched the dog's head affectionately.

Nicola's behavior clearly showed that he didn't like to mingle, especially with his own staff. He'd done nothing to hide it. And the more standoffish he'd been, the more she'd shown just how much she enjoyed his friend's easygoing attention. When the evening ended, Enrico had said good-bye warmly and even given her a firm kiss on the cheek. Nicola, instead, had only shaken her hand and uttered a formal, frosty good-bye. And yet, once again, all it had taken was the touch of his fingers for Margherita to feel a shiver instantly travel straight to her nerve endings. It was something she couldn't control. All she could do was avoid any physical contact with Nicola, even of the apparently innocent kind. What Margherita needed to focus on now was straightening out her life. She had to overcome and accept the failure of
her marriage, find a goal that would give meaning to and put perspective on what lay ahead. And there was no place for Nicola Ravelli in this big picture. Best if he remained a bit player, merely someone who had offered her the chance to venture down a new road. Period.

“Period!” she repeated out loud to Artusi, who answered with a bark.

And for a second, Margherita had the feeling he was making fun of her. Who was she trying to fool? Nicola wasn't a bit player. Unfortunately for her.

“I know, you're right.” She looked Artusi in the eyes. “But I have no choice. Any advice?”

Artusi cocked his head to one side and looked at her pensively for a moment. Then he gave her his paw.

“Not exactly the kind of advice I was hoping for!” Margherita said, laughing, and she untied his leash, launching into a race with him through the empty meadows. A bit of healthy weariness and a good night's sleep would keep troublesome thoughts from filling her mind.

T
he following day, Margherita woke up feeling motivated. She wanted to get Serafino on her side, and she had decided that she'd start by offering him a cake for children. Every morning the mothers of Roccafitta stopped by the baker's to buy a snack for their children, and Margherita intended to wow them with a colorful cake decorated like a Barbie. She was sure that the little girls would be enchanted by the beautiful dress decorated with garlands of flowers of all colors. After finishing breakfast, she took the icing she'd prepared the day before and colored it pink. She'd baked the cake in a round pan with a hole in the middle so that she'd have a place to put the doll. She'd make the doll's fluffy outfit out of the cake and the icing. She sliced the sponge cake and filled it with custard. Then, after dusting the work surface with confectioners' sugar, she rolled out the fondant for the dress. By lightly coating the cake with apricot jam, she got the icing to
stick to the cake. Last, she shaped some tiny rosebuds from the icing and artfully arranged them to hide any imperfections.