Apricot Kisses (28 page)

Hanna

“You managed to surprise us—in a very good way,” Hellwig says with his toothpaste-ad smile. He folds his arms behind his neck and rocks back and forth on his ergonomic chair.

I feel myself blushing. The boss has ordered me to his attic office several times during the last few months, but mostly to give me a piece of his mind. I haven’t heard such praise from him since the day I showed him my master’s thesis.

Fortunately he doesn’t seem to expect a reaction, but gets up and goes to his electric kettle and the collection of colorful cups on the sideboard.

“Will you join me for a cup of tea?” he asks in a tone that makes it clear that he wouldn’t accept a no. So I answer yes and watch him go to the roof terrace, where he picks some green stems from various pots with great care.

“I had no idea that you grew your own tea,” I say, just to say something.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Hellwig laughs quietly, and I suddenly remember that he’s quite attractive. He has some other good traits, too—he left the large, airy rooms for his staff and volunteered to take the attic office, even though it’s so small that his desk fills a third of the room. On the other hand, the roof terrace definitely adds to the attraction of this Cinderella cubbyhole . . . My chest spasms familiarly. The prince takes home the wrong bride, no matter how much blood there is in the shoe. But Cinderella is just a story, anyway.

“I assume that’s mutual, Frau Philipp. Or may I call you Hanna?”

I look up, startled, since my thoughts have been completely elsewhere, and look directly into Hellwig’s ice-gray eyes. The rose-patterned cup he puts in front of me gives off the scent of mint chewing gum. Then he returns to his chair, walking around his desk slightly bent over to avoid hitting the slanted roof.

“Sorry? . . . Um . . . yes. Of course you may call me that . . . Sebastian . . .” I stutter. After the evening with my mother, I thought I wouldn’t be baffled by anything ever again. He is still smiling—definitely a record, since I’ve been in his office for half an hour.

“We—I mean the board and I—really didn’t think you could settle the Camini matter. But the fact that Herr Camini not only withdrew the suit but also agreed to pay our attorney fees shows how convincing you were.”

“He did . . . what?” I whisper, and my pulse hits the roof. Hellwig’s smile widens.

“They didn’t even care about your scathing review anymore. Camini’s attorney said his client wanted to have the matter over with as soon as possible. So you actually could have toned down your rave review quite a bit.”

I don’t feel any tears, but I do feel as if Fabrizio just threw a brick at me—and hit me all the way from Italy. He wants to forget the matter as soon as possible. And I had still hoped on the plane that he would sing.

Hellwig studies me, and suddenly understanding flashes across his face. “I guess you didn’t want to write the article any other way, did you?”

I nod with a lump in my throat. Hellwig looks at the ceiling beams. For a tiny moment he seems disappointed, but then he leans across his desk and pushes a piece of paper toward me. “The board needs to fill an editor-in-chief position. I think you’re the right person for the job.”

I’m speechless. “But you—”

“We’re talking about the Vienna office. The mess there needs to be cleaned up by a capable person. You have three years to turn the pigsty around. Otherwise there won’t be an Austrian edition of
Genusto
anymore. Think you can do it?”

“But why me?” I shake my head and count on my fingers: “I’m the black sheep that causes trouble all the time. My harsh critiques have cost five-digit lawyers’ fees. Restaurateurs hate me so much that some write me threatening letters. I’m up here once a month to confess my latest transgression, and besides”—my hands form fists and I take a deep breath—“I don’t want to write restaurant reviews any more. I want to report.”

There, I finally said it.

“That’s exactly why you’re the right person for Vienna, Hanna.” Hellwig starts to laugh. “You’re a fighter. You don’t care what others think about you, and if you screw up, you have the courage to face the consequences. You say what you want and what you don’t want, and stop at nothing to achieve your goals. That’s exactly the kind of editor in chief the board wants for Vienna. Besides, in such a position you can write poetry on the side, if that’s what you want.”

I want to argue that I’m not sure I’m still the woman he describes, but Hellwig doesn’t let me interrupt. “As for the consequences of your reviews, it’s a pure cost-benefit calculation for the publisher. Your critical reviews have won us thirty thousand new readers and fifteen thousand new subscribers—most of them restaurateurs. They might not love you, but they value your judgment as much as they fear it. So believe me, the income you generated for
Genusto
offset lawyers’ fees—and more.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say, silently annoyed about all of Hellwig’s past dressing-downs. But somehow I also understand him. Too much praise makes you complacent, and I might have grown bored and tired of my job. I breathe in and out deeply while he scrutinizes me with his usual emotionless gaze that makes me feel like a nobody.

“You can take three days to decide. After that, I’ll offer the job to Frau Durant.”

Claire. I swallow. Of course, she started at
Genusto
only two months after me and is as qualified as I am. Whatever I decide, I’ll lose my only friend. I get up slowly, and then Sasha’s face flashes through my mind, and the article that I put in my drawer without reading. “Could I ask you a favor . . . Sebastian?”

“If it’s a raise, you can forget it. That only happens if you accept the Vienna job.”

“Sasha Senge. She’s our intern—very sassy, very involved, and very reliable. She’s almost done with the internship.”

“What about her?”

“She wrote an article on a topic you’re interested in.”

“Is she any good?”

“She’s very good,” I say, even though I’ve never read a word she’s written. But I’ve learned by now to listen to my feelings, and something tells me Sasha needs to be given the same chance that I was given, not so long ago, by a benevolent editor named Sebastian Hellwig. And if she writes the way she talks, she might turn out to be the new face for my column.

“Then why is her article not on my desk yet? Send the girl up to me now.”

“I’ll do it right away . . . and boss?

“What else?”

“Don’t scare her off.”

Fabrizio

The door is just closing behind Lucia when I reach for the apricot-colored piece of paper. I study the list of ingredients, which I only scanned earlier and stop at the next-to-last item. My stomach feels funny. Can it be that simple? Damn it. Why didn’t I figure it out myself?

The butterflies in my stomach multiply, and I drum on the desk with my fingers. For a moment I consider shredding the page right now. But my hand won’t do it. I cross the room in four steps and fling open the door, almost running over Lucia, who is leaning against the railing, grinning at me triumphantly.

“Not one word,” I grumble and am off, running down the staircase.

I only stop after the door of the distillery building slams shut behind me. I turn the key twice and lean my head against the rough wooden door.

Then I turn around and head for the storage room, where we keep Nonna’s canned jam and preserved apricots, bottles of Rosa-Maria’s tomato puree, and Lucia’s much-loved tomato juice. There’s also a shelf of square jars exclusively reserved for Alberto’s apricot-blossom honey. When Nonna was alive, the shelf was usually half-empty. But since her death, the square glasses have accumulated, and Alberto has even had to pack them into cardboard boxes and store them in the barn. How strange that I never questioned where all the honey ended up when Nonna was alive.

I grab three jars of honey and line them up on the desk. I should have guessed from just looking at Nonna’s hand-drawn bee on the labels. She always insisted that the farm’s products have handwritten labels, but she added her drawings to only two of them: Alberto’s apricot-blossom honey and the apricot liqueur.

I unscrew one of the lids. The honey doesn’t smell like conventional honey—there’s no waxy, unpleasant aftertaste. Instead it is fragrant with vanilla and the faint reminiscence of apricots. My senses react immediately—I don’t even have to experiment to know that this is the missing ingredient. I laugh out loud when I realize what it all means: Alberto’s honey and Nonna’s apricots, joined in a lifetime achievement. Hell, Nonna created a monument of her love for Alberto with this liqueur.

Hanna

I watch Sasha start up to the attic. White as a ghost, she presses her portfolio to her chest. I finally allow myself a satisfied smile. Claire hands me a cup of coffee and looks at me, her head tilted.

“You put in a good word for her with the boss,” she says in a flat voice.

“That’s possible.” I grin.

“And you’re reading dime novels.”

“I . . . what?”

“You . . . read . . . pulp fiction. Do you want me to spell it?”

“First, you should stop snooping through other people’s handbags,” I shoot back. Claire’s not impressed; she plucks at her lower lip.

“Are you all right?” she says at last, hesitantly.

“It’s not a crime to read romance novels. Besides, I got it for the special price of ninety-nine cents and just couldn’t resist the hero’s rippling abs,” I joke, but Claire will have none of it.

“You know that I’m always here for you if you want to talk.”

A wave of fondness overcomes me when I look at her crinkled, freckled nose and her furrowed forehead—Claire’s typical I’m-worried-about-you expression. What a pity that I’m just now realizing how valuable she is. Once I’m in Vienna, I won’t have a chance to get to know her better.

“I’m fine,” I say, taking her hand. “And I’ll take you up on your offer soon. But first I have to take care of one last important thing.”

Claire snaps her fingers. “In that case, Madame Philipp, chop chop! And when you’re done with the dirty dime novel, put it into my mailbox, OK?”

Chop chop. I’m still grinning when I pick up the receiver and dial the number I dug out from an old file this morning. Volker Saalfranck—a terrible cook with a penchant for alcoholic ingredients, who probably wishes I were dead. But he has the connections in the liquor industry—so he’s the only one who can help with the apricot liqueur. My pulse races when the phone starts to ring, and I force myself to breathe calmly.
“Give it your best shot,
carissima
,”
Mamma would say.

“Saalfranck.”

“Good morning, Herr Saalfranck. This is Hanna Philipp from
Genusto
magazine. We met two years ago when—”

“You actually have the guts to call me? And on my private cell phone. Who gave you this number?”

“You gave it to me.”

“Was I drunk?”

“Listen, Herr Saalfranck—”

“To the left, I said! Not that one, the one on the left. Damn it!”

“Excuse me?”

“Women shouldn’t be behind the wheel. They shouldn’t do anything they know nothing about—like writing restaurant reviews, if you know what I mean, haha.”

“I’m sorry if I—”

“You do realize that I had to close the bistro two years ago because of you. No. Don’t say anything. I still tear up when I think about how much time I wasted tossing frozen schnitzels into the deep fryer. Now I’m at least doing what I should have done all along. I hope you aren’t calling because you want me to pay you a commission, are you?”

“I don’t understand—”

“The alcoholic-beverage business, young woman! I’m talking about the little shop with shelves full of colorful bottles. You liked that, as opposed to the bistro. We’re a hit all over Germany now, if I may say so myself. I have two huge warehouses and a chain of fifteen shops, and I’m opening four more this month.”

“Hold on—so you’re telling me you’re grateful, in hindsight, for my bad review?”

“Grateful? I kiss the floor you walk on! What can I do for you? From what I know about you, you wouldn’t call for no reason. Are you writing an article about Germany’s most successful spirits distributor? I’m at your service.”

“I actually only wanted your expert opinion, Herr Saalfranck, but since you ask . . . I think I might have something that could turn into the deal of a lifetime.”

“Are you talking about moonshine? Did you slam another poor hobby chef, and he bequeathed you his copper kettle in return? Haha.”

“It’s something much better than that, and if you want—would you mind having a drink with me . . . now?”

“It sounds like you really hit the jackpot.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“Oh, I’ve had no regrets these past two years. Can you be in my office in an hour? Schadowstrasse 6. By then my wife will have found the gas pedal, I hope.”

“I’m on my way.”

Fabrizio

I find our estate manager in the chicken coop, repairing an incubator. Even though he notices me, Alberto keeps working, hitting nail after nail into the wooden frame. With fluffed-up feathers, Vittoria watches his every move from a roost above. When I see how difficult it is for him to bend down, I pick up the cardboard box and hand him the next nail. I stare at his back for a while, wondering how to begin.

“What did Nonna have to do with that Isabella?”

The hammer hangs in midair for a second before slamming down on the nail. I put another in Alberto’s hand. When he finishes, he straightens up.

“I told you already that I have nothing more to say on the matter. Find out for yourself.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? Nonna is dead and Hanna is gone.”

His reply is hoarse laughter. “Sometimes you have to go on a trip to get answers. Besides, it’s high time you brought Giuseppa home.”

“You know about . . . the urn?” I’m stunned.

“I spent my entire life at your grandmother’s side, Fabrizio. It might sound funny, but I can feel that she isn’t here,” he says quietly. “Just as I can tell when things aren’t complete. Giuseppa, Isabella, Hanna, even Marco, Lucia, Tre Camini, and you—it’s all one whole. And since your grandmother can’t do it anymore, it’s now your job to bring together what belongs together.”