Apricot Kisses (12 page)

“You are inside a distillery, Signora Philipp.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Why do I make alcohol?

“No, I mean why are you so unpleasant?”

His cheeks twitch. He seems about to answer but then changes his mind. He stands up stiffly, and suddenly his face is only inches from mine.

“You’re right,” he says slowly. I hold my breath. For a tiny moment, vulnerability replaces the gloom in his eyes. Something stirs in me, something very different from my feelings of only seconds ago. Fabrizio turns away. He pulls a narrow bottle from the middle shelf and another, almost identical, from the shelf below. “Follow me. I’ll show you something.”

At the huge table, he pulls out a chair for me.

“Are we going to smoke a peace pipe now?” I try to joke as he sets several cordial glasses on the waxed wooden table.

“Sort of.” A fleeting smile dimples his cheeks. He has a charming smile. He uncorks the first bottle and fills one of the glasses. He fills another glass from the second bottle. I point to the remaining glasses.

“We need two more to make peace.”

“I don’t drink high-proof alcohol.”

“You make it but don’t drink it? That’s—”

“Strange?” He tilts his head. “I don’t have to drink to make alcohol. I’m interested in your opinion about this liqueur—your expert opinion.”

“You can’t let it go, can you?” I say.

“I don’t understand.”

“Your nasty intonation of ‘expert.’”

“You know what the problem with women is? They think too much. Forget about my words. Don’t analyze what I might have meant. Try them—employer’s order.”

I take a careful sip from the first glass and allow the sweet flavor to develop on my tongue. “Apricot liqueur—very fruity, with a hint of rosemary. Interesting.”

He nods and points to the second glass. I obediently lift it to my lips but look up in surprise when I catch the beguiling aroma.

“Drink,” Fabrizio orders.

“Will I wake up naked on the floor if I do?”

Oh my god! I’m flirting with him. Am I?

“I’ll make sure you’re not on the floor,” he says. My cheeks burn and I hear Claire giggling in my head. How embarrassing. I take a long sip, and the taste glues the glass to my lips as a firework of sweetness and fruit shoots to every cell of my body.

“God, this is fantastic. What is it?”

“Apricot liqueur.”

“But the taste is totally different. The other liqueur is good, definitely, but this one . . .” I glance at the handwritten label.
Liquore di Albicocche della Nonna.
“This is unique. Are you going to tell me what’s in it?”

“I have no idea.” He drops into the chair next to mine and looks at his hands—a pianist’s hands, long and square, with dirt rimming his short-cut nails. I force myself to look at his face.

“Am I supposed to understand?”

“It’s my grandmother’s apricot liqueur.”

“But then you must know what’s in it.”

“The ingredients are our apricot schnapps—apricots and sugar—and the rest is top secret. My family passed the recipe to daughters only, and my grandmother, unfortunately, was a stickler for tradition. Since I know you’ll ask, yes, it’s written down, but the notebook disappeared before I could see what’s inside.”

“But that means—”

“It means that this bottle is one of the hundred and fifty left. Take it—it’s a present. Is that enough of a peace pipe?” The ironic tone again, but I hear the deep frustration below it. I just stare at him.

“I don’t think you should do that.”

“What? Give you the bottle?”

“You can’t just give up. This liqueur could be very successful—and not just in Italy.”

“And this is from the woman who slams the door at the tiniest little problem?” His laugh is bitter. “With a product like this, the smallest variation in the ratio of ingredients matters. More or less alcohol, an ounce less of this or half of that—and the flavor changes completely. There’s a reason it took decades to develop the recipe. Unfortunately, I don’t have that much time. And I can’t ask Nonna.”

His unintended jab hits its target. I read rage in his eyes—but more than that, pain, which really makes me feel rotten. If I hadn’t written the article, maybe Giuseppa could still give Fabrizio the treasured liqueur recipe.

“I didn’t mean to offend,” I say formally. “I’m sorry, especially about your grandmother. Unfortunately, I can’t undo what I did.”

“My grandmother was ill, Signora Philipp. I resent what you wrote in the article, but I do not blame you for her death.” Fabrizio gets up, and the legs of his chair screech on the stone floor. He recorks the bottles without looking at me and gathers up the glasses. “You should go back. Rosa-Maria needs you in the kitchen. The restaurant will be full tonight.”

This man is an enigma. But I’m not angry when I leave the distillery with Fabrizio’s reconciliation gift. For the first time since I met him, I’m not so sure that I read him right. I’m not sure that I read his trattoria right, either.

Chapter Seven

Hanna

A few days ago I would have made fun of anyone who claimed I would ever be grateful for a pair of threadbare slippers. Well, today is different.

Groaning, I plop down on the bench. My legs hurt like crazy, and my hands . . . No, let’s not talk about my hands. I examine my scrubbed-red fingers and broken nails. My beautician would be appalled. Leafing through one of the dime novels that are always within Rosa-Maria’s reach, I watch the cook out the corner of my eye. She’s been moving around the little kitchen like a whirling dervish for two hours, stirring pots, draining pasta, turning meat in pans, and plating meals—and she still has energy enough to shoo Lucia and the other servers from one end of the trattoria to the other.

“Fettuccine ai funghi porcini, table three,” she barks. An anxious little face appears in the service hatch a moment later.

“Table three? They’re still working on the antipasti,” the server says timidly.

“Then tell your guests they have to eat faster. The pasta doesn’t wait. Just take away their plates. Move it!”

I grin. A serious mistake in hindsight, but how was I supposed to know that Rosa-Maria has eyes in the back of her head? She whirls around, stares at the tattered booklet in my hand, and snaps, “Signorina I’m-Too-Good-for-This! Where are the dessert bowls, eh? We only take breaks with Lady Prudence when all the work’s done.”

I toss the dime novel on the bench, groan in exaggerated pain, and point to my feet. “But I can’t anymore.”

Rosa-Maria waddles over and inspects my swollen toes. “They’re not bleeding.”

They’re not bleeding?
I look up in disbelief. She scrutinizes me, her hands on her hips.

“As long as they’re not bleeding, there’s no reason to waste time watching the lemons grow. Get over to the sink. I need little bowls for the panna cotta.”

For a second I’m tempted to shoot back a stubborn but truly fitting reply. Fortunately, Lucia slips into the kitchen right then.

“Don’t be so strict with Hanna, Rosa-Maria,” she shouts. Cheeks red, she balances three artistically plated dishes in the crook of her arm and dashes back out, but not before tossing an “Everything tastes wonderful” to the kitchen commander and a warm smile to me. That woman really is an angel.

Rosa-Maria notices too late that I’m watching her. Sheepishly, she turns the corners of her mouth—which for a moment pointed up—down again. She grumbles as she opens the oven door, and the sauna-like temperature in the kitchen skyrockets with a gust of thyme-infused heat. Her face crimson, she sets an earthen pot on the stove. It could easily accommodate a piglet. An expression of blissful contentment spreads on her chubby cheeks when she removes the lid. I manage to get a glimpse of the roasted lamb’s dark-brown crust before her enormous behind blocks my view. Annoyed, I push off to the sink.

“Tomorrow you’re going to help me with the cooking, Signora It’s-All-Too-Hard-for-Me. That’ll teach you what work is.”

“I can’t wait, Signora Master Sergeant,” I say, which makes the dragon gape at me and then laugh hoarsely.

“Master Sergeant? Not bad. I like that. But don’t think for a moment that compliments will get you anywhere in my kitchen.”

Two hours and a truckload of dirty dishes later, just as I’m contemplating an agonizing suicide in the sudsy water, Lucia comes in with the last dirty plates and removes her serving apron.

“They’re all gone. Closing time, my dears!”

Rosa-Maria crosses herself, and I can’t hold back an “Amen.” By now my hands are so shriveled by the soapy water that they could be a horror-show attraction.

“The nails grow back,” Lucia says, and conjures up an emery board from a drawer.

“I hope not,” Rosa-Maria mumbles. I shoot her a murderous look and eye the bottle of prosecco Lucia takes out of the fridge. Alcohol is exactly what I need right now.

“Is there something to celebrate?”

“Of course. You’re still here, and you survived your fiery baptism.”

That is definitely reason to celebrate, although it was actually a more conventional baptism by water. I feel like I’ve just washed the entire inventory of a giant porcelain factory. From now on, if I ever enter a restaurant through the front door again, I’ll leave a generous tip for the dishwasher. I swear.

The cork pops, and a moment later, pale-yellow bubbly flows into long-stemmed glasses.

“Actually, I’d prefer some hard liquor now, served with a tiny umbrella,” I sigh after we clink our glasses.

“An umbrella?” Lucia says, amused.

I nod. “I just love those little umbrellas.”

Rosa-Maria frowns. “We only have umbrellas outside, on the terrace.”

Lucia rubs Rosa-Maria’s back. I can’t understand her display of affection for that monster. My ears are still ringing with her commands.

“I think Hanna is talking about something else,” Lucia says. “I have to say, Rosa-Maria, you were wonderful tonight. Everyone loved the food, and you know how those ladies can be.”

“Ladies?” I grin. “You sound as if you served only women tonight.” The two exchange a meaningful glance, and my laugh sticks in my throat. “Honestly? Were there really only women in the restaurant?”

Lucia giggles. “And I’m afraid they went home disappointed, despite the great food.”

“Why?” I look from Lucia to Rosa-Maria, who studies her untouched glass of prosecco with puckered lips.

“I’m sure they hoped to see Fabrizio.”

“Fabrizio?”

“It’s a long story. But you know what?” Lucia empties her glass and gets up. “I’ll tell you the story on our way to your little umbrellas.”

“What? Now?”

“Even Montesimo has a bar that serves cocktails after eleven. Come on, Hanna. Put on your pretty heels. I haven’t been out on the town in ages.”

Fabrizio

The yard is completely dark except for the porch light outside the trattoria. As I peek out, the last car drives away, and I sigh with relief. I actually planned to go in hours ago and help Lucia serve, but when I noticed the onslaught of femininity, I retreated to the distillery—fast. Now my conscience is giving me trouble, but at least my soul is saved. I sigh. I feel like a stag during hunting season—and every woman carries a rifle.

I’m squinting at the little window next to the kitchen door when I hear steps and whispering. Shit. So that wasn’t the last car? A twig snaps. Someone swears.

“Fabrizio.” The voice is right next to me. Too late to slip away. Giggles. A very deep voice giggles drunkenly.

“Carlo? What the heck are you doing here? Why are you sneaking around like a burglar?” I snap into the darkness.

“Pssst. Be quiet!” Laughter again, and I see two shadows against the wall.

“Stefano? What’s going on?”

“Eh, Fabrizio!
Amico!
My gooood friend.”

I turn away in disgust. Carlo’s breath alone could make me drunk. Stefano giggles, and his small, skinny body sways dangerously.

“Wan . . . Wanna pick y’up,” Stefano slurs. He points at the sky. Carlo punches him.

“Padre Lorenzo’s waiting over
there
, you idiot,” Carlo says, and Stefano’s finger careens in the direction of the driveway.

“Sssure. He’s sitting over there.”

“You must be crazy,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Nope.”

“No.”

“Well, it’s late enough for the two of you.”

More silly giggling. The trattoria’s lights go out.

“Come on, Fabrizio,” Carlo says. “For old time’s sake.”

That’s what Carlo always does. When he has no logical argument, he pulls out the old times. I shake my head and eye the main house. I do want to avoid Lucia right now—and our new kitchen help. I’m still embarrassed that I spread out my troubles like a sentimental fool in front of her—especially since she caused some of them.

“In your condition,” I say, “you better stagger home. Otherwise you’ll hear it from your mamma, Stefano, a whole aria.”

“My mamma ca-can’t even sing.”

“Even worse. I hope the padre is sober enough to drive, regardless.”

Carlo beats his chest. “Ha, ha . . . I don’t think the
carabinieri
will arrest us. Because I’m it. I’m the only policeman.”

What can I do? I laugh.

“So cooome along,” Carlo continues. “Let’s get a good drop of wine at Salvi’s. Just the three—the four of us.” He links arms with me and drags me across the yard, whether I’m willing or not. The diesel engine roars to life; the gears grind. The padre never learned how to drive. I bend down to the window, where a fearful, bespectacled face peers out at me.

“Slide over, Lorenzo. I’ll drive,” I say, and Father Lorenzo climbs into the passenger seat—awkwardly because of his cassock, which he wears even after-hours. Carlo and Stefano hoot loudly and high-five each other—though Stefano misses Carlo’s hand by an inch. “One glass, and no more. I’m harvesting tomorrow,” I say, trying to curb their exuberance, but Carlo has started to sing Gli Azzurri’s hymn. Since Stefano doesn’t remember the words of the soccer song, he just goes “na-na-na” and Lorenzo quietly beats the time on the dashboard. He has no sense of rhythm. Ohmigod. What have I gotten myself into?

Hanna

“Fabrizio has to get married to inherit the estate?”

I lean back in the plastic chair. I have to let this settle for a while.

The fat man—who gushingly introduced himself as Salvatore and almost dislocated my arm with his handshake—places two flutes full of strawberry-colored liquid on the small table, which is rickety, despite several coasters under its legs. The little umbrella in my glass is torn and obviously reused, but it’s an umbrella.

“Thank you, Salvi.” Lucia smiles at the fat guy, who seems to be planted at our table and looks me over with curiosity.

“It’s my Concetta’s secret recipe. There’re strawberries in it. That’s all I’m allowed to say.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, hopefully with enough of a hint to make him leave. I’m dying to hear more about the crazy story of Giuseppa Camini’s testament. Salvi bites his lips, which are childlike and too small for his large, round face. He can’t take his eyes off my chest. Lucia clears her throat—several times.

“Salvatore, the ladies at the corner table would like to order something.”

Salvatore nods without taking his watery eyes from my neckline. I start laughing. The bar is packed and he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You’re Fabrizio’s Aaanna, aren’t you?” he says.

“Fabrizio’s? No. I mean, yes. I am Hanna, but not Fabrizio’s Hanna,” I answer, confused, and Lucia seems puzzled, too.

“I knew it.” Salvi nods seriously and I nod back—equally seriously but clueless.

“Is there something you want to tell us, Salvatore?” Lucia gives me a sidelong glance. I raise my palms and shake my head.

“One hears things.” Salvi puts on a deliberately harmless expression, looks left and right, and bends down to me. “You shouldn’t be so strict with him, Signora Aaanna.” He whispers so loudly that the ladies at the next table can understand each word. “Fabrizio is a great guy. I know it. I’ve known him my entire life—maybe two lifetimes, but don’t tell Concetta. She’s very Catholic and doesn’t believe in reincarnation.”

I smile. “Thanks for the advice, Salvi. I’ll think about it next time Signor Camini annoys me again.”

Lucia chuckles and quickly puts her nose into her cocktail.

“Maybe the opportunity will come faster than you think. Please try. I really like you.” Salvi pats my shoulder and leaves.

I follow him with my eyes. “What was that all about?”

“That’s Salvi for you.” Lucia guffaws. “He’s in a category of his own.” She wipes tears of laughter from her cheeks and rocks in her chair so violently that I’m afraid she might tip over. Her laughter is infectious.

“You Italians are completely crazy,” I pant, which makes Lucia squeal again. She rummages in her handbag for a tissue. Two young women passing our table exchange glances, and one of them taps her forehead. When I look over at the bar where Salvi is pouring drinks below a mounted boar’s head, it suddenly hits me. I can name the funny feeling I had when we entered the Amalfi bar. “Lucia?”

“
Oh dio!
I can’t stop laughing.”

“Lucia, where are the men?”

“What men?”

“There are only women in this bar, not counting Salvi and the boys at the pinball machine.”

Lucia stops laughing. Her pretty eyes widen and she slowly turns around. Someone has turned on the disco system and cranked up the music. Rainbow-colored lights dance to the beat of a schmaltzy Italian pop tune, up and down skirts and stocking-covered legs.

“It can’t be,” she whispers.

“It’s eerie,” I whisper back.

“I’ll find out.” Lucia gets up and goes over to a tiny woman three tables away. Air kisses, hand gestures, head shakes, and shrugs. Lucia returns and plops down in her chair with a satisfied smile. She takes a large sip of her cocktail.

“
Mamma mia
, that’s delicious. I’ve got to get the recipe from Concetta.”

“Strawberries, sugar, Aperol, and possibly prosecco,” I say without thinking. Lucia looks at me in surprise.

“Well, you seem to know your cocktails.”

I want to bite my tongue. “I just have sharp taste buds,” I say quickly. New topic. I point to the other table. “Did you find out what this gathering of women is all about?”

My diversion tactic works. Lucia grins and leans toward me, her breath tickling my ear. “Genova says that her cousin heard from a girlfriend in the next village that Fabrizio is going to select a wife here tonight.”

I laugh. Where are we? In Cinderella land?

“You mean—Genova means—he’ll be looking for a bride publicly? Is that how it’s done around here?”

“Of course not!” Lucia frowns, eyebrows touching comically. “Genova has no idea who started the rumor, but I bet it’s that stupid Carlo. It would never be Fabrizio—he’ll be furious when he hears about it. But he isn’t here, so it’ll all come to nothing anyway.”

I hear loud welcomes at the entrance and crane my neck. I see a black-haired, bearded man, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Robin Hood’s Sheriff of Nottingham, enter the bar with a thin little man sporting a blond goatee. Both of them seem quite drunk. Next, a priest in a black cassock and a man who bears some resemblance to—I sink deeper into my chair, even though I doubt Fabrizio will spot us in this crowded bar.