Apricot Kisses (7 page)

Claire whispers in my head,
“Introduce yourself, hand him the urn, and apologize. How hard can that be?”

I smile again and hand him the mail, saying nothing. Something about this guy reminds me of . . . I think frantically. An actor? Maybe a singer? The man takes the letters with a frown. “I’m Fabrizio Camini. And you are?”

Claire giggles.
“Hanna Philipp, the woman who wrote a nasty article about your restaurant and then pilfered your granny.”

“Hanna,” I whisper, eyes dropping to the ground. My heart beats like crazy. So this is Fabrizio Camini.

“Ooh là là!”
Claire gushes.
“He’s good looking.”

Shut up, Madame Durant.

“You’re sopping wet,” Fabrizio says. “That’s all I need, you getting sick on your first day at work.”

“Did he say
work
?”
Claire screeches.

“Don’t look so scared. Come in. I’ll show you your room.” He doesn’t wait for an answer but picks up my suitcase and rolls—no, drags—it into the house. I stare after him, flabbergasted, my nose itching and body twitching.

“Achoo,”
I manage.

“Hanna,” he calls from inside. “Dinner is in an hour. If you’d like to take a shower first, you better get your ass in here.”

Above me, the clouds thunder their support. Studying the door, I race through all my options. A hot shower is tempting, even if Fabrizio is mistaking me for someone else. Can’t I always clear up the mistake later and then throw myself remorsefully into the mud? I take one step, then another . . . and then I’m in the dark hallway. It smells of chestnuts and lamp oil.

Fabrizio

She’s odd, this kitchen helper. Not as young as I thought at first—tiny wrinkles surround her childlike eyes. She’s probably in her late twenties, but I’m not good at guessing. To my pleasant surprise, she doesn’t seem to notice that her room is only seventy-five square feet, just barely enough space for a bed, a wardrobe, a small desk, and a chair.

“I know it’s small, but it has its own bathroom, and the kitchen is just down the stairs. Anyway, you’ll only be here to sleep.” I realize too late that I’m making it sound like she’ll be expected to work twenty-hour shifts. “Of course, the entire house is open to you . . . in your free time, and so . . .” I’m spluttering on, waving my hand. Lucia usually handles the staff, and now I know why—she’s better at it. But the woman doesn’t seem to hear me. When she looks at her suitcase, her jaw twitches.

“I must speak with you about something urgent, Signor Camini.” Her cool, proud voice doesn’t match her appearance at all, and her accent makes me curious. She’s German—that’s why she wants to discuss her employment contract right now. That’s how the Germans are. Without a contract and health insurance, they won’t touch a dishcloth.

“It doesn’t have to be right away, does it? We wouldn’t want raindrops on your contract.” I eye her with amusement. It’s touching how desperately she’s trying to appear dignified, even though she looks like a wet cat. Even the prettiest dress isn’t more than a wet rag after a downpour, and hers sticks to her body—a decidedly appealing body. She looks confused.

“I don’t understand—”

“You’re leaking.” I point to the carpet, which is spotted with wet patches. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to get my joke.

“I’m sorry. I will pay for the cleaning, of course.”

So here’s another unpredictable woman. For some strange reason, I’m disappointed. I thought she’d have a sense of humor.

“Don’t be silly,” I say, more brusquely than I intended. “Take your time cleaning up, and we can discuss your employment later. I’ll be in my office, one floor up, third door to the left.”

I nod briefly and leave the room without waiting for her answer. It’s best to take care of this quickly and then return to business as usual. Besides, she probably won’t be with us for long. Rosa-Maria is allergic to high heels and nail polish.

Hanna

This Fabrizio Camini is an unpleasant man. Really. I have an aversion to Italian macho men anyway, the types who undress every woman with their eyes, but on top of it, Fabrizio Camini has the charm of a log.
“You’re leaking.”
What man says something like that to a woman he doesn’t know?

Snorting, I glance into the mirror above the washbasin. It’s fogged from my shower, and it hangs at midget height. Because of my size, most people assume I’m German rather than Italian. Standing up straight, I can see only cleavage, which is as red from the hot shower as my face is.

I pad from the ten-square-foot bathroom into the bedroom and almost fall over my open suitcase. It takes up the entire space between the narrow bed and the wardrobe. It’s Cinderella’s quarters in here. I put on some jeans and a thin sweater, and then I look at my suitcase’s outside pocket. I’m proud I’ve come so far, but the hardest part is still ahead of me—or, rather, up the staircase.

That reminds me of the way Fabrizio turns down the corners of his mouth, of his gloomy, espresso-colored—and suddenly I remember: the Italian at the airport. How did I miss it? So that’s how the urn landed on the airport-restaurant windowsill. Sasha would call it a wicked coincidence. With a sigh, I lift the striped container from the side pocket, straighten, and breathe in deeply. Fabrizio Camini has obviously not recognized me, which might give me a tiny advantage.

“We’ll jog his memory, won’t we,” I say, pressing Giuseppa against my chest as if she were my ally. “Let’s hope he’s happy about your return.”

Fabrizio

Nonna was nineteen when she married Eduardo Camini, a coarse, taciturn man whom, if one believes Rosa-Maria, nobody dared address by his first name.

I study a framed picture of them. It’s the model for the large oil painting, now in the living room, that my grandfather commissioned shortly after their wedding. I’m sure the painting cost a bundle—proof of how much the old gent must have loved his wife, though I’m not so sure the feeling was ever mutual. What drove the educated daughter of a well-to-do Northern Italian family into the arms of a fruit farmer who wasn’t even particularly nice to her? Whatever it was that tied the sensitive Giuseppa to the sullen Eduardo—until the fatal combine accident that left her alone with her only son—Nonna never allowed any doubt that she had found in Eduardo exactly what she had been looking for.

My thoughts turn to Nonna’s letter again. It’s hidden under the desk pad because I could no longer stand to look at her handwriting. I consider Alberto and the all-too-obvious attraction between him and Nonna that no one in the family ever mentioned. Nonna was a strictly Catholic love expert; she took her marital vows so seriously that she didn’t allow another man under her sheets even after her husband’s death. Did she fool anyone else—or only herself? “You must have had a damn bad conscience, Nonna,” I mumble.

“Excuse me?” a clear voice replies.

Damn! I didn’t hear a knock on the door. The kitchen help gives me a confused look. Her short black hair is still damp, and her green child’s eyes haven’t changed, but now her face is made up and her lips painted bright red. Her mouth is too narrow to be sensual. She steps in hesitantly, but before I can take my eyes off her boyish figure, my eyes get stuck just underneath her breasts. My brain fills with air. The new kitchen help is holding Nonna in her arms.

“You . . . you have . . .” I watch helplessly as the woman comes closer, puts Nonna on my desk, and sits down in the extra chair on the other side of the desk. Her back doesn’t touch the back of the chair. She pauses before opening her red mouth. All I can think is that I preferred the wet-cat look.

“Signor Camini, I think this belongs to you.” When I don’t react—I’m unable to—she continues. “I am sorry that I didn’t contact you sooner. But I thought I should bring you your grandmother in person.”

“You aren’t a kitchen assistant,” I say stupidly. At least I can talk.

A narrow eyebrow shoots up. “My name is Hanna Philipp. You know me indirectly. I’m a food writer. I work for a gourmet magazine in Berlin that you are familiar with.” She pauses again, and her face reveals what, if her overall appearance wasn’t so damn composed, one might call a sliver of anxiety. “I wrote the article about your restaurant that made you sue us.”

“You did?”

“I can understand that you’re not pleased.”

Not pleased?
Not pleased!
Does this woman have a screw loose?

“How did you get my grandmother?”

“We were in the same restaurant at the airport,” she says. “In Berlin. You might not remember—I tripped over your briefcase.”

“And?” I don’t let on that I remember the haughty lady in the suit, the one who brushed me off like an insect, very well.

“The urn was on the windowsill,” she says, as if this explains everything.

“And that gave you the right to take it?”

Finally her face gives away something approaching a guilty conscience. “I know it was wrong. It was . . . a spur-of-the-moment . . . a rash reaction.”

“Just so I understand you correctly: you stole a four-pound porcelain container from a windowsill and claim it was an accident. Do you think I’m stupid?”

While she doesn’t look at me, I still see no sign of remorse or dismay. “Signor Camini, I did bring it back to you. Don’t you think you should at least show some gratitude?” she says aloofly.

I’m not quite sure what’s happening. Fact is, she’s said the worst thing she could possibly say. And then something comes out of my mouth that I never imagined saying.

Hanna

My heart thuds in my mouth when Fabrizio Camini leans back into his chair. This conversation is a nightmare. I hate Claire with all my heart for talking me into coming here. If only I had just written a letter.

“Keep the urn.”

“Excuse me?” I stare at him in surprise, but there’s no humor in his eyes.

“Keep it. I don’t need it anymore.” He crosses his arms and rocks his chair back and forth.

“Are you crazy? What am I supposed to do with a grandma who isn’t even mine?”

“Not my problem.” He grabs a pencil from his desk organizer and plays with it.

“That’s not . . .” My voice fails me. “Signor Camini, I understand that you’re mad as hell at me. But you shouldn’t let your grandmother pay for it.”

“Oh, I’m not letting my grandmother pay for it. You’re paying for it.”

The pencil snaps in half.

“Do I need to be Italian to get that?”

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

I breathe deeply. What an arrogant twerp. I have more than enough heart. Would I be here if I didn’t? “Well, since you apparently believe I have none, could you at least give me a hint?” I say coldly, and I reach for the pencil half that rolled to my side of the desk. He puckers his lips, so well shaped that a woman might envy them.

“The fact of the matter is that you, not I, owe my grandmother something. After all, Nonna’s condition had something to do with your ridiculous article, so it’s not good enough to just bring her ashes home.”

“It wasn’t a ridiculous article. Some things might have been phrased somewhat harshly, and I’m sorry about that. But the article doesn’t say anything that isn’t true. With all due respect, Signor Camini, the food that day was more than underwhelming—to put it mildly.”

“It was an accident.”

“Oh,” I say. “An
accident
.”

“My cook was sick that night and the trattoria was supposed to be closed.”

“But it just so happened that it wasn’t.”

“Right. Still, your article doesn’t give an honest picture of our kitchen. I don’t need you to tell me that my friend Carlo is an abominable cook.”

“Your friend Carlo cooked? The village policeman?”

“You know him?” Fabrizio says.

“No, I—does it matter? What does any of this have to do with your grandmother?”

“I think you’re deep in debt to her, and I’m generously offering you the opportunity to pay it off. I’ll only take the urn after you’ve seen our business in a fair light, up close.”

“You want me to eat at your trattoria again?” I ask.

“I want you to work for us, in the kitchen, for one month—without pay, obviously. Free room and board.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I can’t just not show up at my job for a month.”

“You’re a journalist. You can write anywhere, and we even have Internet access.”

“How impressive. What if I still say no?”

“Do you have a fireplace at home?”

“Excuse me?” I say.

“The urn will look good on your mantelpiece. By the way, my grandmother loved Berlin.” A cruel smile plays on his face, showing me that in the course of this absurd conversation I’ve lost whatever surprise advantage I had. He’s on top, and I don’t like it at all.

“What kind of person are you? Inside”—I point at the urn but then pull my finger back because it’s trembling—“is your flesh and blood. I always thought family meant everything to Italians.”

“Oh, I have plenty of feelings for my family,” Fabrizio says. “But Nonna is already gone, according to all the ceremony and stuff. So the topic is officially over. Your article, however, endangers our family business. We live off tourists—including German ones. I’m sure you can imagine that I’m more interested in clearing our name than putting my grandmother’s ashes where they belong.”

An ominous silence settles on the room. The bad thing is that I kind of understand Signor Camini. What’s worse is the realization that I ran into a trap.

“Just to play devil’s advocate,” I say slowly, “if I should decide to accept this horse trade and write another article about your restaurant, what happens if your kitchen still doesn’t impress me?”

“That’s the way it is. My bad luck.”

“And you drop the charges against my magazine?”

“First things first. The urn, and then I’ll consider your second request.” He makes a dismissive gesture, as if the discussion is over. My fist wraps around the pencil stub.