Margherita's Notebook (9 page)

Armando had figured this out because of the refrigerator, which each day became filled more and more with delicacies of all kinds: from crème caramel to miniature chocolate truffles, zucchini parmigiana to tuna-and-potato loaf, from five-grain salads to thinly sliced salmon, tuna, stone bass . . .

“If you keep this up, we're going to have to invite the whole town over so that we won't need to waste any of these delicious dishes,” her father said one day, while
Margherita was trying out a new recipe in their small kitchen. “Since you got here, I've put on two whole pounds. And that's not good, kiddo!”

Margherita smiled. “You're right; I need to find something else to do.”

At that moment the phone rang again. Armando gave his daughter an inquiring look.

“If it's Francesco again, I'm not here,” was her answer.

Armando nodded and went to pick up the phone while Margherita, more energetically than usual, prepared the base for an Amalfitana cake, working the sugar into the butter.

From the other room she could hear Armando's calm voice: “I know it's hard, Francesco, but this time it was too much even for Margherita . . . No . . . NO . . . it's pointless for you to keep calling, she's made up her mind, she wants to stay here . . . That's enough already! You call her a dozen times a day, give her some breathing space!”

Shaking her head, Margherita added eggs, flour, cocoa, and hazelnuts that she'd toasted and finely ground to make the batter.

Why was he being so persistent? Wasn't Meg enough for him anymore?

She poured the batter into a cake pan.

By leaving him she'd actually done him a favor.

Armando came back into the kitchen.

“He just can't resign himself to it, and he sounds like he's sincerely sorry. What're you thinking of doing?”

Margy frowned at her father.

“Don't you take his side!” she scolded him, popping the cake into the oven.

Armando looked at her tenderly.

“How could I? But are you sure you did the right thing? Don't you miss him?” he asked her hesitantly, probing his daughter's feelings.

For a few seconds, Margherita was quiet as she strained ricotta through the food mill, and then began folding in the confectioners' sugar and whipped cream.

“No, Armando,” she replied finally, “I don't miss him, that is one thing I am sure about.” She dipped a finger into the filling and tasted it to check the texture. A smile lit up her face.

“Perfect. Just the right balance—you can't taste the ricotta and you can't taste the whipped cream.”

Armando knit his eyebrows.

“Then why are you cooking so much? What's bothering you?”

She couldn't lie to her father.

“I have to decide what I want to be when I grow up,” she answered bluntly. “If I want to stay in Roccafitta, I'm going to have to find a job.”

“Why don't you try talking to Giulia? She runs her own farmhouse business. Who knows, maybe she needs help for the tourist season. She's all by herself and it might be useful for her to have a helping hand,” Armando suggested, thinking that this would also give him an excuse to see his lovely Argentinean friend more often.

Margherita smiled.

“It's worth a try. Why not?” As she said this, Margherita took the small saucepan where she'd cooked the diced pears, added them to the filling, and then put everything in the refrigerator until the cake was ready.

“I'm here because I was told that this employment agency is the only one in the area that comes close to the standards we demand.”

Matteo observed the blond woman sitting in front of him as she rattled off these words. Dark gray suit, white blouse, pearl necklace, designer handbag. Perhaps a bit overdressed for an early summer day in a city like Grosseto, where the thermometer could easily hit the nineties. She was a classic example of those women who lived in refurbished Tuscan farmhouses from early summer to the first days of fall, after which they would go back to the smog and the chaos of the city.

“. . . what I'm looking for is a chef who can fulfill our needs, someone who can make brunch for twenty as easily as he can prepare an elegant dinner for a cozy group. A chef who can surprise our guests with unique dishes, with ideas that—”

Matteo interrupted her: “You chose the right place; I have just the right person for you. I just need to find out what this person's schedule is these days.”

Carla smiled, satisfied.

“Perfect. We'll arrange a test dinner and see what's what. We're willing to offer a four-month contract at a flat rate, plus extras for each lunch or dinner depending on the amount of work that goes into it.”

File under “pragmatic and efficient,” Matteo thought. Margherita was definitely going to blow this woman away her with her menus, and a steady job would at least keep her in Roccafitta through the summer . . .

“I assume you'll need plates and glassware,” he added. “To personalize a dinner and make it special, the table setting is very important. Sometimes all it takes is a particular
type of glass, a dish that's just slightly oval, a centerpiece . . .”

The woman mulled this over.

“We'll decide case by case,” she answered at last. Then she got up and held out her hand. “I look forward to hearing from you, I know you won't let me down,” were the last words she said as she gave him a seductive smile.

Matteo promised he'd send her all the details as soon as possible and watched as she walked out of the agency with a determined step. She was the kind of woman—unnatural, arrogant—he found hard to like. And he couldn't help comparing her with Margherita, who was so simple, natural, straightforward. However, the woman's application had come at just the right moment. All he had to do now was use all his powers of persuasion to convince his friend!

Giulia, paintbrush in hand, was just finishing painting her beehives. It was a nice sunny day and the worker bees were buzzing back and forth tirelessly. After one last brushstroke, she stood back and took a look, congratulating herself on her work. She was proud that she had managed to start a business on the side, and in no time at all, word was getting around about the honey produced at Hechura, her farmhouse business. She packed up her paintbrushes and headed toward the farmhouse, out of which blasted the cheerful notes of Andrés Calamaro, one of her favorite rock singers. Yes, she was rather content. She was thinking about how she was going to enjoy making strawberry tree honey, and that maybe next fall, if business was good, she could make her dream come true: move her bees to Sardinia so she could diversify her product. Of course, to do that, she was
going to need a lot of money, but Giulia preferred to see the glass half full. She was heading toward the toolshed when Gualtiero's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Good morning, Giulia, look at what I brought for you . . .” He came toward her holding a crate filled with anchovies. “They're very fresh, I've already cleaned them.”

Giulia smiled. Enough to feed an army!

“I don't know how to thank you, but they really are too many,” she objected. She was used to receiving payments in kind, and between Gualtiero and Salvatore it had turned into a sort of competition. Because she didn't want to seem rude, Giulia always accepted, although the situation was starting to get out of hand.

“You can never have enough fish,” Gualtiero insisted. “You can marinate them, fry them, and they're delicious grilled, too.”

Giulia rolled her eyes. It was no use insisting.

“I'll turn into an anchovy myself,” she joked, and as she did, Gualtiero couldn't help glancing at his friend's shapely figure.

“No, please! I don't want to be responsible for that happening! Beauty lies in all this goodness that you carry around with you!”

Giulia's cheerful laughter made both of them laugh even more.

“Hey, what are you two chuckling about?”

They both turned around to see Salvatore, who was coming in through the gate with a large bottle of olive oil. Gualtiero shot him a dirty look. Why was the idiot always butting in?

Giulia pointed to the crate of sardines.

“We were just talking about fish . . .”

“That's
all
you can talk about with him!” Salvatore answered back.

“Fish contains phosphorus, which is good for your brain, but it seems you don't eat enough of it,” Gualtiero retorted.

“Will the two of you please stop?” Giulia interrupted, but the two men kept bickering anyway.

That was when Margherita arrived, with a package covered in red tissue paper.

“I guess I caught you at a bad time,” she said, smiling.

Giulia hugged her warmly. “What a nice surprise! Quite the contrary, you got here just when you're needed!” she replied, as she glanced at Gualtiero and Salvatore with amusement in her eyes.

“This is for you, I hope you like it.” Margherita handed her the package. “It's something new: Amalfitana cake with ricotta and pears.”

“I'm beginning to think you're all trying to fatten me up like poor Lolita!” Giulia remarked jokingly, as she pointed at a nice fat goose that was strutting about in the garden.

“That's what Armando says, too,” Margherita agreed. “I've been cooking for days now and he's already threatened me—he doesn't want to ruin his playboy physique.”

“Ah, men! They're so vain!” Giulia winked at her, and then added, “I guess it means we'll both get fat. Come on in, let me make you a cup of coffee while I try this small masterpiece,” she concluded, showing her the way into the house.

Margherita followed her and was immediately struck by how warm and welcoming it was there. Every detail seemed to say something about Giulia, from the composition of dried flowers on a table, to the colorful embroidered cushions on the sofa near the fireplace, to the horseshoes
and watercolors hanging on the walls. Margherita stopped to look at one in particular, which depicted the landscape of the pampas, the yellow land in sharp contrast to the tall mountains on the horizon.

“How lovely, did you paint this?”

Giulia nodded as she came closer. And Margy continued, “It all looks so . . . so . . . wild and uncultivated.”

“It is,” Giulia replied, looking at the painting. “I painted this from my bedroom window.”

“And where is it?”

“In Patagonia. That mountain down there is San Valentin, the tallest peak in the Patagonian Andes,” she explained, with a hint of sadness in her voice.

Margherita looked at her. “Do you miss your country?”

“A little bit,” answered Giulia, “but I've turned over a new leaf, I'm here now.”

“I thought you came from Buenos Aires . . .”

“Armando probably told you that I moved there because I had fallen in love. I left everything, my husband, my home, my friends, to follow Camilo. It was beautiful for a while, but like all beautiful stories it had to end . . . He had a wife and had never intended to choose between us. So I made a choice instead of him, and left. I traveled everywhere, to America, France, but in the end, I decided to come back here, to the town my parents came from.”

“And do you like it here?”

“I do,” Giulia concluded. “But that's enough of memories. Come with me to the kitchen, I'll make you a cup of coffee. If I'm not mistaken, you take it with a bit of spice, right? Now tell me all about you, I'm very curious, Armando talks about his Margherita all the time.”

Margy nodded and followed her. She began from the
first time she met Francesco, and then went on to describe her life in the city, and she ended with the part where he had cheated on her and her ensuing sense of freedom. Giulia was easy to talk to. Although she didn't really know her, Margherita felt like she was talking to an old friend.

“. . . so here I am, but now I need to find a job,” she concluded. “Armando said that you might need someone to give you a helping hand.”