Margherita's Notebook (11 page)

Salvatore looked him up and down. Both men had been born in 1952, but Armando looked at least ten years younger.

“You're just envious,” Salvatore replied. “I feel sorry for you, but Giulia is not some hunting preserve!”

Armando laughed derisively.

“I am just trying to help you, Salvo. You could end up looking ridiculous. The art of loving is really just not your thing.”

“You let Giulia decide!” the other man blurted out impulsively. “Actually, you know what I say? We'll see who has the last laugh . . .”

“Are you telling me that you really think you have a chance with her?”

Before Armando's incredulous expression, Salvatore felt like a bull confronted with a red cape, and he reacted without thinking: “Of course I do! And I'm ready to bet whatever you want, because this time I'm going to win!”

The idea of an easy win piqued Armando's interest, and he couldn't help taking up the challenge. He held out his hand and, looking at the other man with amusement, he said, “What are we playing for, Red?”

Salvatore figured that there was little chance of his winning if Armando put his mind to it, so he quickly added, “No money. It wouldn't be appropriate since we're talking about a lady.”

Armando nodded in agreement. Then, while looking at Salvatore who, with a nervous gesture, kept running his fingers through his hair, he had an idea.

“The loser has to shave all the hair off his head!” he suggested mischievously, well aware of Salvatore's weakness for his own head of hair.

Salvatore instinctively brought his hand up to his hair again. A look of panic came over his face. He was proud of his hair, especially now that he'd decided to have it dyed. Armando couldn't really be asking him to do such a thing!

Seeing that he wasn't making up his mind, Armando piled it on. “Well, if you don't feel like it . . .” He left the sentence hanging, waiting for the fish to bite the bait.

“You bet I feel like it!” replied the other man, who didn't want to lose face, and held his hand out proudly to shake.

“If I were you, I'd start by getting a haircut, that way you'll get used to the idea,” Salvatore added, sounding full of himself, although he was really just putting on a show.

By way of response, as Armando walked away smiling, he hummed the old Beatles song, “
When I get older, losing my hair . . .
”

H
ere you go. The plumpest one for you,” said Bacci as he wrapped the pigeon. “So what's on the menu?”

“I was thinking of making tortellini en croûte with pigeon ragout,” Margherita replied, examining the cuts of meat and searching for an inspiration for the second course.

“Everyone else stuffs them, at most they roast them with a little bacon . . . but it takes a connoisseur like you to think of using ragout.”

“My mother taught me that pigeon meat is tender and delicate and that it doesn't crowd the other flavors if you add some truffle to it,” Margherita explained, smiling, but she was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. “Just a second . . . I'll take those pork chops, too.” She pointed to two thick ones. On her cell phone screen she read
FRANCESCO
. She stopped smiling. After a moment's hesitation, she rejected the call.

“Something wrong?” Bacci asked her, noticing her change in mood.

“Nothing important,” she answered vaguely. She thanked him, paid, and left the store with her packages. For the menu she had in mind, all she needed now were some dried prunes and fennel. Just one quick stop at the greengrocer's and she was done shopping. With determination, she pushed the thought of Francesco out of her mind. That day she didn't want any disruptions.

The sun was long past its zenith when Margherita's station wagon headed along an unpaved road that ended at a large wrought iron gate. She tooted the horn gently a couple of times, but nothing happened. There was no one in sight. The only sounds were the rustling of the huge chestnut trees, the chirping of the birds, and the buzzing of the bees amid the clusters of flowers of the gorgeous bougainvillea that draped over part of the gate. She was beginning to feel anxious. Could this be a sign? Perhaps she shouldn't have come. Why had she let Matteo convince her? Why had she given in to his insistence?

“Please, Margy, you have to help me out. I wouldn't ask you if it weren't an emergency,” he'd said to her. “If I don't find a chef by tomorrow, I can say good-bye to this job.”

As always, in the end Margherita had given in. “Just this once,” she'd said to him. But right now, as the seconds ticked by, she felt strongly tempted to turn the car around.

She was about to make a decision as to what to do when, slowly and silently, the gate began to open. Rather reluctantly, Margherita drove through the entrance to the property. As she advanced at a crawl up the tree-lined drive, she felt as though she were entering some unknown territory,
one whose apparent splendor concealed many perils. She couldn't shake off a feeling of apprehension mixed with expectation that she felt growing inside.

The splendid villa that stood out against the sky, rivaling the trees with its beauty, looked like a fairy-tale castle. Completely refurbished, the original structure had been carefully preserved and accentuated by the glass-and-steel fixtures that blended in with the sandstone and the immense, antique chestnut wood beams. Large arched windows decorated with beautiful friezes shone in the golden-hued walls. The patio was paved with Impruneta terra-cotta tiles, which also encircled the large swimming pool filled with rippling water. All around the pool were off-white beach umbrellas and deck chairs, and luxuriant flowering plants. Margherita was overwhelmed by it all. She hadn't expected it to be so beautiful, so charming, almost enchanted. But any enchantment she may have been feeling was abruptly broken by a voice that addressed her in a tone that wasn't exactly kind: “Who are you? Where is the chef?”

Before her stood a blond woman wearing a tight but elegant suit and five-inch stiletto heels that gave Margherita vertigo just looking at them. The blonde stared at her with open hostility. If this was the fairy-tale castle, then this must be the Wicked Queen . . .

Carla kept looking her up and down suspiciously. This woman was too young, too pretty, “too much” of everything for her taste.

Margy forced herself to smile. “Well, actually, I
am
the chef . . .”

Carla shook her head, displeased.

“This is unacceptable! I asked for a
chef
! A
male
chef,” she emphasized.

Margherita had to muster all the patience she could to keep from turning around and leaving. This blonde with the haughty air was getting on her nerves.

“I was sent by the agency, but if you don't need me . . .”

Carla raised her eyebrows with a look of exasperation.

“We do need a chef. And everyone knows that the best chefs are men!”

Upon hearing these words, Margherita could feel the anger surging within her.

“I'm surprised to hear a woman say so!” she replied, piqued. “Cooking has always been a woman's job. It's just that men have snatched it away from us—”

Carla interrupted her. “You can think what you want, but I want a man for this job! I'll call your agency right away. You wait here,” she ordered, and proceeded to charge back into the villa.

Margherita, by way of a response, headed straight for her car. As far as she was concerned, the woman could make her own dinner!

Ignorant, rude, and, yes, definitely a real bitch!

How dare she treat her that way? She should never have let Matteo convince her to come. The whole thing had been a mistake from the start.

Meanwhile, over the phone, Matteo was trying to reason with Carla, who was completely hysterical.

“I know, you asked me for a male chef . . . But you also asked me for someone who could surprise your guests, and Ms. Carletti is the right person for the job . . . No . . . there's no one else I can send you . . . at least, not today . . .”

Carla refused to give up. In the end, exasperated, Matteo offered her a 50 percent discount if the dinner wasn't to her liking, and Carla, resigned, accepted. Not so much because
the guy from the agency had convinced her—no, not at all! But because the idea of having to improvise a power dinner herself was simply out of the question. Cooking was not her forte. Accustomed to eating diet snacks and low-calorie drinks, she had no intention of incurring Nicola's rage. So, desperate times call for desperate measures, she told herself. Just this once they'd let that woman cook for them, but it would be the first and last time!

When Carla went back outside, however, the “chef” and her car had vanished. Where in the world had she gotten to?

Margherita had driven as far as the gate, but it was still closed. She felt trapped.

Now how am I supposed to get out of here?

She couldn't stand the idea of going back up to the villa and facing the blond woman, so she got out of the car and started scouting around for a button of some kind to open the gate, hoping that it was hidden somewhere nearby. But to no avail. She got back into the car, hoping that someone would decide to open the gate. But the minutes passed and nothing happened. Margherita was beginning to have second thoughts.

What if they really did fire Matteo? With the recession and all he'll never find another job and it will be all my fault . . .

Perhaps I should go back . . . Apologize?

Apologize for what? Am I out of my mind? No, no way am I going to apologize! I'll simply tell Matteo what happened and he'll understand.

The same voice from before tore her from her thoughts: “What exactly are you doing?”

She turned around and saw Carla staring at her questioningly.

“Shall we get started?” she invited her. “Are you thinking about the menu?”

Hateful, hateful bitch!

“No, I'm waiting for someone to open this damned gate!” she answered on impulse. “I want to leave. As you can see, I'm not a man, so if you don't mind . . .”

Carla put on her most radiant smile.

“There's nothing to worry about, I've straightened everything out with the agency. Please, follow me,” she said as if nothing had happened. She hopped back inside her bloodred smart—what else would the Wicked Queen drive?—and indicated to Margherita, who was speechless, to follow her. “You can park your car at the rear, near the staff entrance.”

She left, without waiting for Margherita to answer.

Margherita was torn between wanting to leave, telling that arrogant lady to buzz off, and helping Matteo hold on to his job. In the end, this was what convinced her. With a huge sigh, she turned on the engine and followed the smart, preparing to sacrifice herself for the cause.

“This is the kitchen, you should be able to find everything you need,” said Carla in a highly professional tone, after they'd entered the villa, showing Margherita the way through the huge, perfectly equipped room. The shiny stainless steel fixtures created a pleasant contrast with the brick walls, and rising up at the center of everything was an antique fireplace and, opposite, a large glass door leading into the garden. Whoever had designed the room had made sure it was practical and, at the same time, had tried to give it a warm atmosphere by choosing antique furniture that made it look comfortable and familiar, too.

Margherita placed her bags full of food on the counter.

“If you need anything, just give me a ring,” said Carla.

Margherita breathed a sigh of relief.

At least I won't have to cook with her watching over me!

“No need to worry, I can manage on my own.”

Carla again looked at her skeptically.

“I suppose we shall see,” she remarked, and then left, adding nothing further.

“I suppose we shall see,” Margherita repeated, making a face. She would gladly have served her bread laced with hemlock, but the decision had been made, and she couldn't make Matteo look bad. So she got down to work. She'd show the blond lady that women could teach men a trick or two . . . especially when it comes to cooking! On the counter she laid out the equipment she'd brought with her for the job: saucepans, ramekins, rolling pins, spices, and all the ingredients. Then she propped up a small blackboard on the table. On it, with a piece of chalk, she wrote the menu:

APPETIZER

Polenta tarts with goat cheese and olive croquettes

FIRST COURSE

Tortellini en croûte with pigeon ragout

SECOND COURSE

Stuffed pork chops with dried fruit

Parmigiano pudding

DESSERT