Apricot Kisses (11 page)

I catch Carlo’s smirk out of the corner of my eye. He’s playing cards at one of the tables with Father Lorenzo and Stefano Gosetti, our car mechanic.

“You’re so fast at making kids that we stopped counting, Bertani,” Carlo shouts, using the butt of his service-revolver pistol to drum a rimshot on the table. Stefano giggles, red faced, and the padre crosses himself. I briefly wonder if my friend will ever shoot his own balls by mistake.

Salvi gawks at us, his mouth open. I stir my cappuccino and begin to count silently. When I reach nine, he shuts his mouth; at twelve, he laughs, now feeling flattered, and lifts five fingers into the air—one for each of his brats. I sip my coffee, almost relieved that some things never change.

Unfortunately, Inspector Carlo Fescale now focuses on his next victim. “Hey, Fabrizio! Did you ever find the pretty signora that you lost?”

Of course. I should have guessed. Now that Montesimo has gone modern, everyone—even our mayor—knows how to spread gossip online. I hold it against Ernesto, however, that he chose Carlo as his tabloid. Carlo loves nothing more than making fun of other people—especially those he calls his friends.

“I didn’t lose her,” I say, trying to look bored. “She probably got lost.”

“I bet she ran away from you.” Carlo winks at the other players. “A woman who doesn’t run away from him has yet to be created.”

Stefano joins Carlo’s laughter with a bobbing Adam’s apple. Padre Lorenzo keeps on crossing himself as if to apologize for the fun his companions are having at my expense.

“Don’t insult my friend or I won’t let you play here anymore,” Salvi says—a courageous attempt, but Carlo just laughs. I hate it when he wears his uniform and transforms into a testosterone-drunk loudmouth. Salvi gives the trio a scolding look and draws his hand across his throat. Suddenly he lowers his bearded walrus face to only inches from mine.

“Honestly, did you really already find a wife? That fast? The will was just read yesterday.” His breath reeks of peanuts and cigarettes. My bar stool wobbles and creaks as I try to turn away from him.

“I’m not looking for a wife, Salvi,” I say patiently. “My new kitchen help wanted to go to the village, and she’s been gone for a while. I thought I’d check to see if she came by here.”

Salvi wets his lips. He looks around as if just realizing that there might be guests needing his service. A lone couple—tourists, around fifty—sits near the corner window, next to the blinking pinball machine. While the woman tries to translate the menu with a dictionary, the man attempts to stabilize the table with some coasters. Salvi ignores them. “But you need to find a wife . . . because of the estate,” he whispers, and pauses to ponder. “Is your kitchen help pretty? Does she have good-looking . . . ?” He covertly spreads his hands in front of his chest.

“Who’d want to know something like that?” I snap. “Have I ever asked you your cleaning woman’s bra size?”

“Of course not! She’s over seventy.”

“Can’t you just answer a simple question? Did you run across an unknown woman today? And yes, she has boobs. Besides that, she’s an unbearable bitch.”

Salvi stares at me, mouth ajar. “You like her!”

I roll my eyes, but Salvi has swallowed the bait. His bulbous nose comes dangerously close when he leans over the counter. “Did you quarrel? If you had a fight, that’s good. She has fire in her . . .” He points to his behind.

“I barely know her. And unless you’re hiding her in your broom closet, that’s the way it’ll be. She probably split.” With my grandmother. That’s something I’ll have to get used to. I slide off the stool with a sigh and slap some coins on the counter.

“Don’t be sad. We’ll find you a pretty wife who’ll take good care of you,” Salvi says, and glances at Carlo and his pals. Carlo is staring at his cards, but I know from the way he tilts his head that he’s listening.

“Don’t you dare do anything you might regret later,” I threaten him. Not a muscle in his face moving, my friend pushes his pile of coins into the middle of the table.

“All in. The winner gets all.”

Something tells me that Carlo is not talking about the card game.

My suspicion is confirmed when I cross the Piazza del Teatro ten minutes later to get my truck, which I parked in a no-parking zone. At first, nothing seems out of the ordinary.

It’s market day in Montesimo, and as usual the town square reverberates with a shrill urgency that reaches even into the otherwise-quiet side streets of yellow-stone houses. Marketeers sort their wares and gossip with each other, loud enough to drown out the honking horns. Women with shopping baskets haggle for oranges, beans, and melons while men play dice on overturned fruit crates, chatting and drinking espresso. Tourists wander around searching for regional souvenirs, but they bypass Bruno’s homemade limoncello and reach for the cheap lemon liqueur from up north. I make my way through groups of children, barefoot and grimy, who play catch among the stalls, and I nod to Lucrezia Gosetti, who’s sitting in the sun in front of her newspaper stand and staring my way like a vigilant crow.

By the time I reach the middle of the square, I realize that I’m being watched attentively. A few women stop, nudging each other and putting their heads together, as I pass. A few steps later I’m confronted by a flirtatious smile from the baker’s daughter, who has ignored me for the last fifteen years. The fat owner of Fonte di Tufi, the bed-and-breakfast, abruptly changes her course and hurries after me.

Suddenly I’m greeted left and right.

“Ciao, Fabrizio!”

“Fabrizio, how are you?”

“
Buon giorno
, Signor Camini
.
Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“We’re coming to the trattoria today, Signor Camini.”

I hurry to my truck. A traffic ticket is wedged between the windshield and wiper. Typical Carlo! Pretends to go take a leak and sneaks outside to put one over on his best friend. I climb in, add the ticket to the stack on the center console, and turn the key in the ignition. But I haven’t reckoned with Signora Gosetti.

A pair of jet-black eyes appears at my window. I can’t see much more of the old woman besides her countless hairpins, which glitter in the sun. She always reminds me of a burned matchstick because of her stoop and her black apron dresses and stockings. Cursing Nonna for my good manners, I roll down the window.

“Buon giorno,
Signora Gosetti
.”

Signora Gosetti furls her thick black brows, takes a drag of her cigarette, and blows smoke through her hairy nostrils. I hold my breath as the stench of unfiltered Gitanes fills my car.

“Have you found a woman to marry yet?” she rasps without greeting me. One of the advantages of getting old seems to be that you can get right to the crux of the matter.

“Do you plan to be one of the candidates, Signora Gosetti?” I say, and instantly regret the joke. The old woman puckers her lips, actually seeming to consider my offer.

“No, thank you,” she answers finally, not very nicely, and inhales through her discolored cigarette holder again. She doesn’t take her eyes off the noisy bunch of children that now circles the pickup. Oh, to be a kid. Nobody pesters them with questions like these. “So do you have a bride or not?”

“I’m working on it,” I lie, glancing at the bakery. I see Alberto’s old bike leaning against its wall. He rides there every morning for an espresso and a few secret biscotti. If Lucia found out . . .

A yellowed finger drills into my arm. “Hurry up with your search. I want to have a feast. A huge celebration.”

“You want a feast?”

“A wedding, you dumbbell. What else? It might be the last wedding I attend.” She coughs, her eyes bulging with the effort as if her last hour has actually arrived.

“I’ll do my best, Signora Gosetti.” I beat back a laugh. Despite her forty-a-day habit, Signora Gosetti is as healthy as a horse and determined to outlive her son Stefano, so he doesn’t get the idea that he can have a life of his own. Someone bumps against the back of the truck, and a kid yelps. It seems the gang caught their victim. Something scrapes along the side of the truck. Oh, to be a kid again . . .

“And don’t forget about the panini, Fabrizio!” Lucrezia says. I stare; she clicks her tongue. “The little ones, the ones with sesame. I want to see them at your wedding buffet. And Rosa-Maria’s ribollita, too, lots of it.” She raises her bony finger in warning. I wonder how in the world Stefano can stand it—he still lives at home.

“All right,” I say obediently. I learned long ago not to contradict Signora Gosetti. “But now you have to let me go. I’ve got to run a few errands.”

“Go, go . . .” She waves her hand and then slaps one of the redheaded Bertani boys who just narrowly avoided running into her. “But don’t drive too fast. Don’t you dare rob me of my last wedding.”

I leave the town square at three miles an hour, wondering if this was all just a bizarre nightmare.

Hanna

Lucia said nothing when I showed up with my suitcase and a guilty face at the back door. She hugged me, led me to my little room—where a flowered apron was spread out on the bed—and quietly asked my shoe size. The slippers she brought me are definitely not hip, but they fit comfortably.

Rosa-Maria isn’t back from the market yet—and I’m grateful, because I couldn’t take her intensity right now. Lucia and I have been peeling onions at the kitchen table for the past half hour. Even though I don’t exactly have the hang of it, and the onion fumes sting my eyes like hell, it’s actually not that bad. It’s fun watching Lucia work. She deftly peels and quarters the red bulbs with the expression of a lab worker handling highly explosive devices.

So far we haven’t talked much. It’s not necessary. When I finish an onion, I wipe the tears from my eyes with a kitchen towel and Lucia silently hands me another bulb. Finally the bucket is empty, and I utter,
“There!”
feeling like I’ve just typed the last word of a difficult article. So what if it was just some stupid onions. Lucia smiles.

“The potatoes are next. After all, we’re making ribollita, not onion soup.”

I groan.

“Your mother didn’t cook with you very often, did she?” Lucia says with a pitying look, and I feel the smile crumble from my mouth.

“Forgive me,” she says quickly. “It’s none of my business. No need to answer my stupid questions.” Her slippers make a shuffling sound as she goes to the sink to wash her hands.

“I don’t mind.” What am I saying? I have no idea why that just came out of my mouth. Lucia looks out at the yard, meticulously lathering her hands while the water trickles into the stone basin.

“My mother was a very good cook,” I hear myself say quietly. “Soups were actually her specialty. But then she stopped. It was easier to pick up some Chinese food on her way home from work.”

“But that wasn’t the same.”

“It got monotonous after a while.” My throat constricts. Lucia dries her hands and returns with two bowls and a basket full of potatoes. Her face is soft when she hands me the peeling knife.

“It’s never too late to start something that feels like home,” she says, and her voice touches me like warm sunshine. She looks out the window again. “Would you do me a favor, Hanna?”

“Of course.”

“Fabrizio is back from town. He’s probably in the distillery over there, across the yard.” She pulls a small item out of her apron pocket. “Would you mind giving him this key? He was looking for it this morning.”

I cross the yard with a queasy feeling in my stomach. It’s obvious that Lucia wants me to clear things up with Fabrizio. I make a note to myself to never underestimate harmless-looking Italian women. I give a wide berth to a flock of brown chickens, and my heart stops for a moment when I spot the horrible white hen among them. I quickly step under the distillery’s overhanging roof and stop in front of the enormous wooden door.

In my head, Claire says,
“Sometimes it’s better to confront one’s ghosts than run away from them.”

I’m not going to run away anymore,
I tell her. I learned my lesson. Besides, this Italian is no ghost. I’ve written about his kind in hundreds of articles. Claire’s laughter mixes with the swooshing of blood in my ears. Fine, laugh! I resolutely turn the doorknob and enter quickly, before I can change my mind.

The barn, nondescript from the outside, consists of one single room that is flooded with light streaming through floor-to-rafters windows. A table in the middle of the room could easily seat twenty, and huge copper vats with attached thermostats and pipes line one wall. The odors of damp soil and fermented fruit are overwhelming. Fabrizio Camini is kneeling in front of ceiling-high shelves filled with glass carboys and bottles. I grip the little key tighter.

“So you’re still here,” he says without looking up, dousing my conciliatory mood. He sounds like he hadn’t expected anything else.

“Certainly not because of your efforts,” I say with a thin-lipped smile. I step toward him. “Lucia asked me to give you this.”

He reaches out for the key, not bothering to get up. His expression doesn’t change as he stows it in the pocket of his overalls. He turns his attention to the jugs again.

“Lucia has always been more skillful at handling employees,” he says. “I should have asked her this morning to show you the ropes. I see”—he looks from my slippers to the flowered apron—“that she was more successful.”

“Telling someone what’s expected of her in a friendly way isn’t rocket science,” I say.

“It isn’t?” His arrogance is infuriating.

“Actually, all you need is a little bit of heart.”

His eyes widen when he recognizes his own words. Got him! I feel myself grin. Unfortunately, he seems to think my attack is more amusing than provocative. In the silence, all the other sounds in this high-ceilinged room are excessively loud: the sucking noise from the copper vats, the beeping of something digital, even the creaking of the beams above. With a frown, Fabrizio checks the bottling hoses.

“Is that a distillery machine over there?” I ask when I can’t stand the oppressive silence any more.