Margherita's Notebook (16 page)

Margherita detested playing the part of the police officer, but she knew for a fact that if her father had mortgaged the restaurant, there could be only one reason: he'd started gambling again. He was addicted to the lottery. Years ago, he'd lost thousands of euros because he had insisted on playing a number on the Palermo lottery, despite being late for it.

“Don't worry,” he'd said, “it's a win for sure. Each time I bet twice as much as before, so I can't lose.”

But he'd used up all his money, and the number had never come up.

Furious, Margherita searched everywhere for proof to confront Armando with. She was sure that somewhere in the house she'd find new lottery receipts. As she rummaged through every drawer in the house, she thought back to that phone call she'd received from him three years earlier.

“Kid, I know this will break your heart, but I have to close the restaurant.”

Margherita had jumped in the car and raced to Roccafitta. But by the time she'd gotten there, the damage had been done. Because of that damned number that hadn't come up in months, Armando had ended up in the hands of some loan sharks, and he'd been forced to sell the business to pay off his debt.

“It just wasn't the same without Erica,” had been her father's excuse, and maybe he'd had a point, but for Margherita it had still been very painful. Her mother had renovated the place with passion and hard work, and that tiny
restaurant with a view of the sea in the distance had always been her refuge. Back then, Armando had sworn to her that he would never gamble again, and Margy had believed him. And in any case, she never seemed to be able to stay mad at her father for long. Of course, in hindsight, she should have wondered how he still managed to support himself after the new business had been shut down, too. But he had told her more than once that he'd put some money aside, and she hadn't given it a second thought. Savings, my ass! He was still going at it, the idiot, and this time, if he didn't pay off his debts, he risked them losing the restaurant for good.

It was while she was leafing through some old bills that she found the evidence she was looking for. There, right before her eyes were lottery receipts for hundreds and hundreds of euros. Margherita paled. The situation was much worse than she could have possibly imagined. For a moment, she thought it might all be Nicola Ravelli's fault, with all the negative energy he'd poured over her. But she quickly pushed that ridiculous idea out of her mind.

Obviously, a solution had to be found, and the first thing she had to do was face her father. She took the receipts and headed into the kitchen. She needed to calm down, and there was only one way she knew how. She glanced at the basil plant growing on the windowsill and instantly saw the solution, however temporary it might be. She threw open the window and started plucking leaves off the plant one by one. She rinsed them in cold water and set them on a kitchen cloth to dry, while she put two garlic cloves in the mortar.

“Remember, the proportions you use are part of the ritual,” her mother always told her. “For every thirty leaves, one garlic clove, but it has to be mild. You want to know it's there, but without it overwhelming everything else.”

Margherita crushed the ingredients in the mortar with all her strength.

“No excuses this time. You need help!” I'll say to him.

She added a few grains of coarse salt.

I won't let you fool me ever again!

To incorporate the basil leaves, she gently rotated the wooden pestle. When the paste had turned a nice bright green, she added a handful of pine nuts, six tablespoons of Parmigiano, two of pecorino, and some oil. She put a finger in the sauce and brought it to her lips. Delicate yet strong. Yes, that's how she would behave with her father. Understanding—gambling is an addiction, after all—but determined.

Sometime later, Artusi's festive howling told her that her father was home.

“Margy, already in the kitchen, are you?” were her father's words as he entered the room. It took only one look for him to realize that something was wrong. “What is it?”

Margherita waved the receipts under his nose.

“Maybe
you
should tell
me.
”

“I didn't want you to worry,” her father began cautiously after a moment.

“You swore you'd never even go
near
a betting shop again!” she shouted.

Armando lowered his eyes sheepishly. “How did you find out?”

“I talked to the bank manager.”

She had him over a barrel. The best thing to do was make a counterattack. With a melancholy air, he confessed. “You're right, but I swear, I'm getting help. I'm seeing a psychologist—”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Margherita interrupted him.

“I didn't want to disappoint you. I wanted to make it on my own. The psychologist says there's hope, I'm doing much better now, even though now and then I slip . . .” A true actor, Armando put on his most despondent look. “You've got to believe me, I'm doing everything I can. I'll make it.”

And Margherita, moved by his little act, fell for it.

“We'll get through this together, Papa, don't worry.” As Margherita hugged her father, an expression of relief crossed his face. “All we have to do now is find the money to pay back what you owe the bank; we can't let them take the restaurant away from us.”

Armando smiled reassuringly. “I've already taken care of everything. A friend of mine says he can loan me a small amount of money.”

Margherita looked at him askance. “But Papa, we've been through this before!”

He wouldn't let her finish. This time it was an agency that loaned money legally, he assured her. They weren't going to end up in the hands of the loan sharks ever again.

In Roccafitta in the summertime, there was an evening ritual. People would meet in the piazza, get an ice cream at Lilly's, take a walk to the belvedere, and, depending on the company, either stop to chat, or make out in the moonlight. So Matteo, after buying Margherita an ice cream, was headed toward the belvedere hoping in his heart of hearts that the second possibility would take place, even though his friend's mood wasn't at all promising.

“. . . And so I discovered that the restaurant has been mortgaged, which means I can say good-bye to all my plans.
And on top of that, I'm worried about my father,” she said as she finished telling Matteo about her terrible day.

Matteo put his arm around her shoulder affectionately.

“He told you he's getting help, so you have to trust him,” he reassured her. “As for the restaurant, it just means postponing your dream . . .”

Margherita stopped and looked at him skeptically.

“I don't see many other solutions, and I also have to find the money to pay off the loans. Otherwise they'll repossess it, and I can't let that happen!”

Matteo nodded.

“Maybe you should reconsider going to work for Ravelli. He pays well and maybe, seeing that he doesn't want anyone else for the job, we can even raise the fee.”

“Forget it! After what I told him, he won't ever want to see me again.”

Matteo stopped and looked her in the eyes. He took both her hands in his and squeezed them. “So you don't trust me . . .”

Simple words that meant so much more. Margherita instinctively pulled back and started walking again.

“Don't worry about me. I'll find something else.”

“Let me at least try,” Matteo insisted.

And of course Margherita gave in, telling herself that she was doing it only because she needed the money, either that or she'd lose the restaurant and not be able to help Armando . . . But all her rational thoughts couldn't drown out a tiny voice that was whispering inside, telling her that what she really wanted was to see Mr. Frozen Foods again.

N
icola was carefully examining the land registry charts, checking all the lots that still needed to be purchased, when Carla barged into the room with a look of triumph on her face.

“You owe me a dinner!”

He looked up, an inquiring expression on his face.

“Did Giovanale call about selling?” he asked.

Carla sat down in front of him, crossing her long legs deliberately to make sure he looked at them.

“Now you're asking too much of me,” she answered. “However, I did manage to persuade the cook to return . . . and believe me, it wasn't easy.”

A feeling of inexplicable disappointment came over Nicola. For a moment, he'd thought she might really be different from all the others. Carla caught that moment's hesitation.

“I thought that was what you wanted . . .”

“It was.” He pulled himself together. “Giovanale made it clear that he wanted to meet at the villa, and I didn't want to let him down.” Then, losing all interest in her, he turned back to his papers.

Carla was dissatisfied. She knew how important it was for Nicola to make a good impression on the old winemaker, and she'd imagined a more enthusiastic reaction. She didn't expect Nicola to lay out the red carpet for her every time she walked in, but she did expect a bit more warmth. When all was said and done, he had no way of knowing that the agency had simply returned her call to confirm the request. She was about to leave the room when he called her back: “Ah, Carla . . .” She turned around, smiling. “How did you manage it?”

“Everyone has a price; you just have to know how to bargain. You're the one who taught me that.”

Nicola nodded. In spite of all her talk about principles, even Margherita hadn't resisted the lure of money. It was just further proof of his belief that you can have whatever you want for the right price. It was too bad that just this once he would have liked to be proved wrong.

This time, as soon as Margherita got to the villa, the huge gate sprang open. She drove slowly up the drive to the house, overcome by an odd feeling of expectancy that she couldn't quite explain. It wasn't just that she'd had to reverse her decision, which put her in an awkward position. It was the idea of being alone with him again that caused her to feel all those side effects described in the information leaflets that come with a bottle of aspirin: “sweats, heart palpitations, stomach cramps.” She only hoped that how she felt inside wasn't visible on the outside. She parked her car at the rear of the villa, took a deep breath, and got out.

Silence reigned everywhere. Margherita looked around, but no one seemed to have noticed she was there. She took the bags of food and was about to head toward the main entrance to ring the front doorbell when she heard splashing water followed by another sound, this one rhythmical and constant: someone was swimming in the pool. Curious to see who it was, Margherita approached it. At first, all she could see was the shape of a man's body breaking the surface of the water with strong, regular strokes. Then, after he finished a final lap, the man used his arms to pull himself up out of the pool. Margherita found herself face-to-face with Nicola, his wet hair clinging to his sensuous face, and drops of water covering his perfect body, just like in her dream. Margherita looked away. Damn it, she had to admit that body made her shiver all over.

“Good morning!” he greeted her, a faint smile of amusement crossing his lips.

“Good morning,” she replied, attempting to display a nonchalance that she didn't feel.

Nicola slowly picked up a towel from one of the deck chairs and, without taking his eyes off her, he started to rub his hair, and then all the rest, inch by inch.

He's doing that on purpose! He's trying to embarrass me, but I won't let him!

In her attempt to find any excuse not to stare, Margherita bent over the stuffed grocery bags and pretended to straighten them out. Before she could stop it, an eggplant fell out and rolled all the way to where Nicola was standing. He picked it up and slowly handed it to Margherita. She blushed.

“Only fresh seasonal products, of course!” Nicola remarked sardonically. “May I ask what made you change your mind?
Last time we met, I seem to remember you saying you'd never work for me again, not even if I was . . .” He looked at her, feigning innocence. “Not even if I was what?”

Before his tantalizing question, Margherita set aside all her resolutions. Her impulsive nature once again got the better of her. If he thought she'd come on bended knee to ask forgiveness, well, then, he had another thing coming to him!

“I don't think my reasons for coming here are any of your business,” she answered belligerently. “Maybe we should talk about my terms instead.”

An expression of both surprise and mockery crossed Nicola's face. “
Your
terms?”

“Yes, that's right.” She knew she couldn't afford to go overboard, but this man knew exactly what to do to bring out the worst in her. “First of all, I choose the menu, and I buy what's necessary. And there's another thing,” she said, looking at him daringly. “I have to have carte blanche in the kitchen. I don't like to be watched over for any reason whatsoever.”