Apricot Kisses (9 page)

A new plate appears in front of me, this one the main course, and Rosa-Maria puts the roasting pan on the table. The aromas of meat, wine, and apricots overwhelm me. Tre Camini must have a special relationship with the fruit—and if I disappear now, I won’t find out what it is. I peek at the clock on the wall and then at the window. It’s pitch-black outside. And I’ve definitely had one too many.

I reach for my fork. The meat practically falls off the bone when I lightly poke it. I try to resist, but my mouth starts to water. This dish is miles away from what I ate at the trattoria. Was Fabrizio really telling me the truth about this Carlo?

“I hope you like rabbit,” Fabrizio says.

“Of course. I mean, I love it,” I add when I see Fabrizio’s forehead wrinkle. My god, this man is like a powder keg with four fuses. Looking at him defiantly, I bring the fork to my mouth . . . and my eyes widen in surprise.

“Not bad, is it?” Fabrizio says innocently. His eyes bore into me while I take a second bite, and then a third, just to let him hang. The food journalist in me notes that the sweetness harmonizes exactly with the rabbit, as it would with chicken, and that the method of braising the meat with spices on minimal heat for hours perfectly marries the flavors. It’s incredibly delicious. I have to fight the desire to imitate Alberto, who’s sucking the marrow from a rabbit bone with abandon. I set my fork and knife next to my plate very properly.

“Do you slaughter them yourself?” I ask to win time. Alberto stops with his bone, and Paolo almost chokes on his drink. He quickly puts the wineglass back on the table. They exchange a glance.

“Why else would we breed rabbits?” Alberto says to Paolo, who nods.

“Well, it’s outstanding.” I’m smiling at everyone, including Fabrizio, slightly defiantly. He’s rocking in his chair, his legs apart, obviously satisfied.

“It’s one of Nonna’s old family recipes,” Lucia says quietly and pats Rosa-Maria’s back. Fabrizio’s chair legs crash down on the tiles.

“As always, nothing but the best for our guests.” The word “guests” rolls over his tongue like the bitter pit of a cherry. It’s obvious that he enjoys my presence here about as much as I do.

“Hanna?”

I stop, one hand on the railing for support. Shortly after the espresso, Paolo and Rosa-Maria said good-bye and left for the village. Fabrizio took advantage of the bustle of their departure to beat it out, too, and Alberto followed him like a shadow. Then I sneaked out of the kitchen after two huge, exaggerated yawns and a stammered “I’m dead tired . . . Thank you so much for dinner.” But now the whisper in the dim staircase destroys my hope of an elegant escape. I turn around slowly. Lucia stands at the foot of the stairs, looking at me with sparkling eyes.

“Yes?”

She flies upstairs and grabs my hand. I fight the urge to withdraw it. Lucia has been very nice to me, and I’ve been impolite enough for one evening.

“Please promise me something.”

I look into her rosy face. This doesn’t bode well. “I’m sorry if I was impolite to Fabrizio . . .”

“No, you were absolutely wonderful!” Lucia’s voice trembles. “It was great how you defended me. You know—in this house . . . well, the Caminis are a little old fashioned.”

As if I hadn’t noticed that. The word “pigheaded” would be more fitting for Fabrizio.

“I just wanted to thank you and . . .” Lucia stops and hugs me. Her cheeks are damp, as if she’d been crying. “We’re going through a hard time right now. Our Nonna died recently, and she . . . we . . . we’re all out of balance. Not quite ourselves.”

Out of balance—an understatement. Luckily, since she’s still hugging me, Lucia doesn’t see my eye roll. I gently disentangle myself.

“That’s all right,” I say. Now she’s actually crying. “What do you want me to promise?”

“That you’ll stay.”

Shoot! “I—”

“No, don’t say anything. Tonight wasn’t normal. Usually we treat each other very lovingly. Give us another chance.”

Now what am I supposed to say?

“I just have this feeling about you,” Lucia says. “I think you’d be good for us. And right now, we really could use someone who’s good for us.”

Damn. This isn’t fair. I’m drunk, about to start my period, and unable to keep a thought in my head longer than a nanosecond.

In my head, I hear Claire whisper,
“Of course you’ll stay.”

“Hanna?” Lucia says.

“Did you practice that look in front of a mirror?” The words escape my mouth—I can’t help it.

“Each and every day,” she says with a smile. It’s strange how it feels as if I’d known her forever, not just for a few hours.

So, fine. Two weeks of kitchen duty.

With any luck, I’ll then be able to get rid of the miserable urn and save my job at the same time. After that, I’m out of here. I take a deep breath and cross my fingers behind my back.

“Of course I’ll stay. As long as it’s . . . necessary.”

In my opinion, life’s a bitch.

Chapter Five

Fabrizio

When the sun rises over Montesimo, it stands for a moment above the hill like an overripe apricot and casts a lilac hue on the morning mist. The sun hangs there for minutes on end, as if contemplating whether or not to actually rise that day. This daily spectacle would blow away nature lovers, but I ignore it out of habit. Instead, I survey the young trees, which, after their May bloom, are carrying their first fruits: reddish-yellow apricots, deliciously sweet smelling, that give when you lightly press them with your thumb. They’re ready for harvest.

Straightening, I squint. Paolo is already out here with the tractor. If I had to describe our foreman in one sentence, I would say he lives to take care of the fields. He’s not interested in what income they generate. It’s the view of arrow-straight rows of trees and furrows that makes him happy.

In the outer orchard, I see men carrying huge baskets on their backs. They are Polish fruit pickers, super punctual and as sturdy as our mules. There’s no better harvest help available in all of Italy, and for sure not in Montesimo.

I was eight years old when my father first sent for Polish helpers—despite strong resistance from his family and the villagers. But Frederico Camini’s stubbornness, equal to his father Eduardo’s, paid off. The workers were decent and hardworking, and they loved Italian food. So even Nonna buried her prejudices and asked them to stay for espresso after they devoured Rosa-Maria’s pasta. Ever since then, the foreign language and coarse laughter have filled our orchards every early summer until the fruit is harvested and the days are hot and dry.

Today the earth is spongy under my feet when I enter the orchard. Crouching, I pick up a clump of soil. It smells peaty and feels soft and damp, exactly as it should.
“Like a rotund woman, ready for love”
—that’s what Carlo would say. What an idiot. I smile, but it doesn’t reach my heart. Everything points to a good harvest, but then again, you never know.

A figure in a jogging suit, head lowered, approaches fast. He puffs like an ambitious locomotive. I have no idea why he’s running through the hills rather than helping Paolo or using his energy for other estate work. I see him long before he notices me, and when Marco finally lifts his head, it’s too late to change direction.

“Good morning, Fabrizio,” he gasps, jumping up and down. Sweat glistens along his receding hairline. I can’t hide my annoyance, even though I promised myself only a few days ago to be more tolerant toward my little brother. I search for something friendly to say.

“You look like your mother-in-law is chasing you. Is there something you’re trying to prove with your constant running around?” Honestly, I meant it to sound nicer than it came out. Marco scowls. He’s never had a sense of humor and definitely could never laugh at himself, which made him an easy target during recess, no matter how often I defended him with my fists.

He hops up and down again, higher this time. “It’s called exercise. People do it to become fit and relaxed. And so it’s not obvious how much they like to eat.” He checks out my belly.

“Harvesting apricots accomplishes the same thing—with additional results,” I say, pulling in my stomach. Marco frowns but at least slows his jumping.

“Did you read the midyear report I wrote?” Typical Marco—he changes the subject as soon as he feels threatened.

“What midyear report?”

“So you did read it?”

There is strength in silence. Marco raises an eyebrow.

“That’s all you have to say?” he says.

I have a lot to say. But most of all, I want to wring his neck like I did with the soup chicken the day before yesterday, so he’ll stop pushing his calculator down my throat.

“There’s nothing to say,” I reply.

“So you want to continue supporting the unprofitable farm with the meager profits from our hotel and restaurant business? It’s not a viable solution.”

“What are you talking about? We rent out a few rooms—it’s definitely not a hotel.”

“No, Fabrizio. You’re the one who’s clueless. Economically, the only decision—”

“You’re not the one making decisions here,” I say. “Father would never have allowed us to get rid of the apricot orchards—and neither would your grandmother, by the way.”

“You conveniently forget that father saw your beloved apricots for the last time twenty years ago—just before he abandoned us,” Marco snaps. “And Nonna is dead.”

“We are not selling any land, not to the golf club and not to your real-estate shark—not even if they triple the offer. Tre Camini is an agricultural enterprise, and I have no plans to turn it into a tourist trap.”

“You’d rather dream about making an international killing with your wrinkly organic apricots. Oh yeah, brother, it’s clear who wants to prove what to who,” Marco says with suppressed anger in his voice. “Just continue with business as usual and drag your family into the abyss with you because you can’t abandon the ideas of our crazy father who never got over the death of his wife. But thanks to Nonna, if we’re lucky, things will change soon. In twelve months, to be exact, when I’ll be making the decisions around here.”

“Watch what you say,” I whisper. A smile plays around Marco’s lips while I clench my fists in my pants pockets and fight the temptation to beat him black and blue. No one else can make my blood boil as he does.

Marco starts to jog in place again. He turns his back to me, but then dances a few steps toward me. “Mother, Father, Nonna—I keep the dead out of it. That’s why I’m so good at what I do. That reminds me: Isn’t it time you looked for a wife?”

I’m not sure if it’s what Marco said or what he didn’t say, but my last string of restraint snaps with a zing, and I pounce on him, snarling like a wild animal.

Hanna

I can’t remember ever seeing a more beautiful lilac-colored sunrise. Honestly, I don’t remember ever seeing the sun rise at all. I’m not a morning person—not a night owl, either. I need ten hours of sleep—preferably from ten at night until eight in the morning. I stuck to this schedule even while I was a student, in sharp contrast to the trend of tipsily emerging at dawn from one Berlin bar or another and then consuming gallons of coffee during lectures. I didn’t make many friends with my attitude, but my final grades were superb. Friends are overrated, anyway. If you want to advance in life, rely on yourself.

I rub my eyes, which are struggling with the unusual hour as much as the rest of my body is. I see people outside, but it wasn’t their voices or the tractor that woke me.

The window latch is stuck and takes some work before it opens with a squeak. Cool, dewy air blows into my face when I lean out, searching for the ugly noise that woke me and is still destroying the morning symphony of birds like an out-of-tune instrument.

I can’t detect a rattling motorbike or a squealing pulley in the yard, but I do see a white rooster standing on the stone trough in front of the barn and trumpeting loudly at his image in the water.

“Life in the countryside,” I mumble. I see no reason to imitate the villagers, so I grab my cell phone and then dive under the covers again. Two missed calls from Claire. She’ll be happy that I fixed the situation. I call her back with a grim smile.

“Buon giorno,
signora
!”

Startled, I almost drop the phone as the door bangs open and Rosa-Maria’s chubby face appears above a tray of coffee. She manages to shut the door with a kick hidden by her dress and not spill a drop.

“Morning,” I stammer. I sit up and kill the phone call with shaky fingers. Rosa-Maria puts the tray on the bed and puts her hands on her hips.

“You’re up. Bravo!” She sounds friendly but so energetic that I say good-bye to the outrageous idea of sleeping in.

“How couldn’t I be up?” I grin and hope I don’t sound tense. “I had no choice with the rooster down there.”

“A rooster?” Rosa-Maria looks at the window.

“Yes, the white rooster—down in the yard,” I say, since I’m suddenly not sure if my Italian isn’t a bit rusty. Rosa-Maria snorts and waves a hand.

“Oh. Vittoria. She isn’t a rooster. She’s a hen.”

“But he—she crows. I didn’t know hens do that.”

“Believe me, you don’t have to be a rooster to behave like one,” Rosa-Maria says, tapping her forehead and smiling mysteriously. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I smile back. I catch a whiff of the coffee and glance at the porcelain mug—then immediately feel uncomfortable. The pattern matches the ashtray I swiped the last time I was here.

“That’s very pretty china.”

“The tourists think so, too, and pilfer whatever they get their hands on,” Rosa-Maria says. She removes the pillow from behind my back and fluffs it up.

“It’s really nice of you to bring me coffee,” I say.

“You’ll get served coffee in bed as long you’re considered a guest. When I stop bringing it, you’ll know you’ve passed your probation period. So don’t get used to it.” She starts to fold the blanket. Now I’m sitting in front of her in my skimpy nightgown.

“You don’t have to do that,” I protest, pulling at the few inches of material that barely stretch to my knees. Rosa-Maria eyes my plunging neckline, and then points with pursed lips toward the bathroom.

I jump out of bed, grab my jeans from the back of the chair, and hurry into the tiny bathroom, glancing at my suitcase on the way and hoping Signora Camini forgives me for stashing her with my underwear. But as long as Rosa-Maria waltzes in and out of my room as she pleases, I think it’s safer to keep the urn hidden.

The staircase looks much friendlier in the daylight. Morning sun shines through a stained-glass window in the dormer, creating rainbow drops on my hand as I hold on to the railing. My knees are wobbly—the result of either yesterday’s alcohol or the unfamiliar time of day. Fortunately, no Italian woman with smoldering eyes waits for me at the bottom to make me agree to things I don’t want to do.

Instead, I see a man sitting on the wooden bench next to the wall, huffing and puffing and lacing his jogging shoes. His fingers tremble, and the dark sweat stain on his bent back tells of a strenuous final spurt.

“Buon giorno,”
I call out, and I startle when the greeting echoes loudly through the annex. The man looks up.

“Buon giorno,
Hanna
.”

So my presence is known around here. That’s disconcerting. I hate it when strangers know my name.

He inspects me. “You’re up early for a city girl.” His narrow mouth turns up into a smile, but it immediately disappears as he dabs his lower lip, which I now see is cut open.

“Did you fall?” As I come down the stairs, the last step reacts with an ugly creak. “Are you hurt?”

“Don’t worry about it. Did you sleep well?”

“Before I answer such a question, shouldn’t you introduce yourself?” I say politely.

“How inconsiderate of me.” He smiles wryly. “Marco Camini, black sheep of the family and husband of the wonderful, though chatty, Lucia. She couldn’t stop singing your praises.” He offers his hand, and I take it hesitantly. It’s cool and sweaty.

“You’re Marco? I thought—”

“What did you think?” His square face is wary now.

“Nothing,” I say, smiling. “We missed you last night—at dinner, I mean.”

With a scornful laugh, Marco presses the sleeve of his jacket to his lip. “You don’t know my brother yet. Believe me, he didn’t miss me.”

“Fabrizio is your brother?”

“You’re surprised?”

“You don’t resemble each other,” I say, embarrassed, and look away. Marco’s eyes are light brown, almost like copper, and much warmer than his brother’s inscrutable and nearly black eyes.

“Our differences go deeper than that. But let’s talk about you. You don’t look like kitchen help, either.”

Grateful for the change of subject, I match his teasing tone. “You don’t think?”

“Your hands are too soft, and besides, you’re too pretty,” he says with a wink. I really can’t see a resemblance to Fabrizio at all. Honestly, I’m relieved that Lucia is married to Marco and not Fabrizio—such a lovely, warm woman would wither by his side. I’m sure of that.

“You got me,” I say. Lowering my voice, I add, “Please don’t give me away. I actually work for German foreign intelligence and I’m on the run.”

Marco nods. “That’s what I thought. You look as if you’re on the lam, or at least on a secret mission.”

“Really?” I force a laugh. “Then I’ll have to work on my undercover skills.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” Raising three fingers, he adds, “Scout’s honor!”

“I’m relieved, Signor Camini. And as an insider, you can probably tell me where I can dig up a croissant before starting kitchen duty.”

With a conspiratorial grin, Marco says, “A clever plan, Signora Secret Agent. You’ll need sustenance. Just a bit of advice”—he nods in the direction of the kitchen—“don’t ever call our cornetti ‘croissants’ in there, or Rosa-Maria will bite your head off. It would be a pity.”

By now I’m confident of one thing: Marco and Fabrizio have absolutely nothing in common.

My amused smile lasts all the way to the kitchen door, where it collapses in a fraction of a second. Steam floods the room, and, as I go inside, I step on an open cookbook, one of many strewn across the stone tiles. Notebooks and loose leaves of paper, kitchen utensils, dirty dishes, and leftovers pile on the counters. White footprints lead from a spilled bag of flour all the way to the stove, where four pots bubble menacingly. Fabrizio Camini is sitting cross-legged next to an open cupboard, leafing through a leather-covered notebook.

“Look where you’re going.” He snaps the notebook shut, tosses it into a corner, and opens another. I carefully navigate through the chaos and manage to reach the stove undamaged. There, I push away a loose piece of paper before it can catch fire. I squint at the well-formed handwriting. It’s a recipe for a Ligurian eggplant pâté.

“What in the world are you doing? Is this the new way to cook Italian? Where’s Rosa-Maria?”

“In the village. Went shopping.” Fabrizio looks up but hardly notices me. His three-day-old beard covers a third of his face already, and it looks as if a sleepless night has pressed his espresso-colored eyes even deeper into his skull. One eye is bloodshot and swollen. When I realize I’m staring, I face the stove and turn off all the knobs. I drag away the pot of boiling water, scattering dancing drops across the range.