Margherita's Notebook (25 page)

“Obviously.”

After she hung up, Margherita stood there staring at the screen on her phone, incapable of analyzing her emotions.

I must have imagined I was in some movie. Too bad the main character was someone else.

If Nicola wanted to spend his birthday with Carla, then her own role was obviously a minor one. Very minor. Margherita was overcome by a single feeling, one that was easy to identify, that blocked out all the others: anger. Primarily, she was angry at herself. Because she was forced to admit something that up until then she'd refused to acknowledge: her emotional involvement with Nicola. She had told herself that it was only a physical attraction. Powerful and new to her, but not more than skin-deep. That didn't touch her deeper side. Delicious icing, with lots of nuances, sweet, exciting, creamy . . . yet nothing more than that: icing. But this icing had turned out to be quite fragile, and it had cracked, revealing what it had been hiding all along: a beating heart.

I'm jealous.

The truth appeared before her loud and clear, with no ifs, ands, or buts. No icing could be firm enough. Her emotional fiber was like
pâte brisée
, flaky and ready to crumble. But now that she knew how things stood, she could erect some defenses, before she ended up smashed to bits.

What do you do when the dough falls apart? You add cold water, egg whites.

She needed an antidote. One whose effect would be instant and powerful. There was still some time left before her heart would be shattered in a million pieces, crushed into a shapeless slush. Her anger would help her keep it all in one piece, she decided. She remembered the afternoon, while she was making one of her dinners, that she'd seen Carla come in from the garden sneezing insistently. She had
discovered that Miss Lemon Popsicle was allergic to pollen and to dust. She also remembered something interesting she'd once read about how the interaction between substances can determine allergenic potential. She turned on the computer and at last found what she was looking for in an article on a medical website titled “Substances That Can Cause Food Allergies and Cross-Reactive Symptoms in Allergic Subjects.” Margherita was quickly engrossed.

“A subject who is evidently allergic to certain substances can manifest the presence of IgE toward other allergens which until that moment they had always been able to tolerate. This is because there is immunochemical reactivity between molecular components that are shared by pollens and certain types of food . . .” This was followed by a long list that compared certain foods with allergizing substances. Anyone allergic to dust, for instance, should avoid shrimp, while a person allergic to grass pollen was advised never to eat peanuts, and so on.

Margherita grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and began jotting down certain combinations . . .

The next day she arrived at the villa determined to see her plan through. She ignored the voice inside her—to be honest, a rather weak one—that represented her ethical and professional conscience, and got down to work, intent on creating her masterpiece at all costs. As her hands flew above the counter, her imagination pictured every possible scenario: the first symptoms of itching right after the shrimp and avocado cocktail, with a few crushed peanuts and slices of orange thrown in . . . the welts after eating rice and beans with crabmeat . . . and after the grand finale, chocolate pie
with a crust made of almonds, peanuts, and hazelnuts. She envisioned herself as a witch in training, except that instead of a cauldron, at her disposal was a whole series of nonstick pots and pans, and the ingredients she used weren't toads' tails and bats' tongues but innocent-looking delicacies.

She tried not to picture Nicola sitting with Carla in the dim candlelight, touching her, feeding her with her fork . . . she tried not to think that she wished to be there in her place. Soon afterward, when she saw Carla's car drive up, she vanished through the door reserved for the help. She had no intention of running into her, to have to put up with the look of victory in her eyes, her words laced with poison. But more important, she didn't want to run into Nicola. She knew that right now she would have failed any such test.

Carla saw Margherita leaving and felt a satisfying sense of victory. She'd managed to get rid of her, at least for the time being. Now it was up to her. She pondered her image in the large mirror at the entrance and nodded with satisfaction. She was perfect. She felt confident, and when she heard the front door opening, she met Nicola wearing her sexiest smile.

“Welcome back and happy birthday!”

He turned to look at her surprised.

“Thanks. Why are you still here?”

Carla refused to let his coldness break her spirits.

“I wanted to surprise you for your birthday . . .”

Nicola straightened his back. “I appreciate your good intentions, but you know I don't like surprises.”

What had at first seemed to her like a brilliant idea suddenly no longer did. But she'd made up her mind and decided to see it through.

“Why don't you come and see?” she asked, showing him
into the hall, where Margherita had prepared and set the table.

At the sight of everything, Nicola's eyes shone and Carla's confidence grew. But then he asked a question that made her freeze: “Where's Margherita?”

“I thought we wouldn't be needing her . . . I can take care of everything myself.”

The look Nicola gave her made her burn with humiliation.

“I thought you'd be pleased . . . ,” she muttered.

“I told you, I don't like surprises,” he answered frostily.

Then his gaze hovered over all those specialties prepared by Margherita.

“It would be a shame to waste all these marvelous dishes.” Hearing those words, Carla felt as though he'd slapped her across the face. “Well, then . . . have a seat.”

T
he next morning, it seemed as though every single member of the culture and tourism association had gathered at the Bar dello Sport. The one running the show was Italo: on his way to the town doctor to pick up some prescriptions, he'd run into Carla.

“You should have seen her,” he said, accompanying his words with sweeping hand movements, “as bloated as bagpipes . . . You couldn't even see her eyes!”

Everyone laughed heartily.

Margherita, on her way back from her food shopping, stopped to say hello and asked what all the merriment was about. But when she heard the detailed description of Carla's condition, a feeling of guilt began gnawing at her.

I must have overdone it! What if she'd gone into anaphylactic shock?

“So how is she now?” she anxiously hastened to ask.

“You know what they say, weeds never die! But I think we won't be seeing her around for a while,” said Italo.

Margherita left the group and headed home, several thoughts crowding her mind.

What have I done . . . what if she dies?

That would make me a murderer!

I could end up in jail!

And for what? For a man.

Enough is enough. I need to distance myself once and for all. I need to be myself again.

That evening, when Nicola got home, sitting on the kitchen counter was a delicious chocolate
bacio di dama
, lady's kiss. Right next to it, a note, in handwriting that was all too familiar. It contained only a few words: “I'm sorry I completely ruined your birthday . . . Forgive me. Margherita.”

The note could mean only one thing. She must have been the one to sabotage the dinner, and this meant that his enchanting chef was jealous. And that she had used the weapons that suited her best: her incredible recipes. A smile crossed Nicola's face. Margherita never ceased to surprise him.

Matteo still hadn't recovered from the festival in the piazza. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were Margherita and Nicola's entwined bodies as they danced the lambada. Years before, Francesco had entered the restaurant and, like a strong gust of wind, had swept Margherita away with him. Now the same thing could happen with this Ravelli guy. Matteo couldn't let it happen. He needed
to take action. So he'd asked his boss for time off and gone to pick up Margherita. He'd suggested they go on a day trip, and he came up with all sorts of reasons to persuade her to come with him. Where they were going was top secret. Convinced that he could appeal to her memories, Matteo had planned a tour to all the spots that had marked their friendship. He was sure that by going back over all the most beautiful times they'd had together, Margherita would succumb and finally understand that he was her yang and she was his yin.

He parked the car in front of Orbetello Cathedral. Then, taking Margherita by the hand, he led her in the direction of Via Dante.

“We need to make a stop here. Pistachio and chocolate . . .”

“You remembered.” Margherita smiled.

“With a double helping of whipped cream, of course,” he added, laughing. “Pinuccio never wanted to add the extra cream!”

“ ‘It'll cost you more,' he'd say . . .”

Paying close attention to even her smallest reaction, Matteo was satisfied with what he saw. His Margy was letting her hair down.

“But all it took was a smile from you to win him over,” he added gently, caressing her.

Margherita laughed and headed toward the small ice-cream parlor that had recently been renovated. A few minutes later they were back outside, each holding an ice-cream cone.

“Where to now, tour guide?” she asked, enjoying every bit of her ice cream.

“As always, Cosa's waiting for us, with the sun setting behind
the ruins,” he replied, pulling her toward the car. “Let's move it, otherwise we'll get there too late.”

Fifteen minutes later, the car was climbing through the twisting mountain roads that led from Ansedonia to the ancient Roman city. They parked close to the entrance and then walked the narrow path up to the acropolis. They stood on the rocky bluff overlooking the Feniglia. As the red sun set slowly into the sea, they could hear the incessant song of the cicadas, and a light breeze blew Margherita's hair around her head and her face.

“It's beautiful here, it's been so long since I last saw this place,” she murmured.

Nicola would love it here.

Margherita hadn't noticed that Matteo had moved closer to her.

“You're the one who's beautiful,” he whispered in her ear as he stooped to kiss her.

Margherita drew back instinctively, looking at him with a startled expression.

“Matteo . . . what
are
you doing?”

Matteo tried to enfold her in his arms.

“I know you want it, too.”

“You're wrong about that!” she replied, stepping back to put some distance between them.

Matteo gave her a hangdog look. “Please, Margy, don't pretend you don't know how I've always felt about you, you've always known.”