Margherita's Notebook (22 page)

Armando respected her silence, convinced that Francesco and her short-lived marriage were the reason she was so upset. At times, after making sure she couldn't hear him, he'd mention it to Matteo.

“I'm worried,” he'd say. “I wish my daughter could go back to being her old self again.”

And Matteo would reassure him: it was just a passing phase, and it would be over sooner or later. Her relationship with Francesco had been a mistake from the beginning, he wasn't the right man for Margherita and she'd finally realized it, she just needed some time for the wounds to heal. Neither of them had an inkling that Margherita's state had entirely different causes.

For her part, now whenever she took Artusi for his walk, Margherita avoided the street where Nicola's office was, aware that meeting him would only make things worse.

One evening, on her way back from one such walk, Margherita met Giovanni, Gualtiero's son. He told her excitedly that he'd found a new job: a group of young entrepreneurs had opened a new farming business and they'd hired him temporarily, although he hoped that sooner or later it would become a steady job.

“They're fine people,” he told her. “It's a small company, but its policy is local. They're only recruiting young people from the area. If things work out, next year I'll be able to marry Maria. It's hard work, but I love the land. And I don't want to end up selling fish like my father.”

Margherita wished him good luck and promised she'd go see him and that she'd spread the word.

The road back circled around the Fontanone, one of the most exclusive restaurants in the area. For a second, Margherita's heart plunged when, from a distance, she saw Nicola getting out of his car, followed by three men in suits. He was even more handsome than she remembered. He was wearing dark blue trousers and, unlike his guests, he wasn't wearing a jacket, just a light blue shirt that accentuated his tan.

If I hadn't stopped him, I'd be preparing their dinner, and now the two of us . . .

She tried to drive the thought from her mind. There wasn't going to be any “and” or, more important, any “us.”

Artusi tugged at the leash and she hastened her steps toward home.

She'd decided that that chapter of her life, the one starring Nicola Ravelli, had ended.

However, the next day, it was Matteo who reminded her of it when he came to see her bright and early.

“Your first paycheck,” he said, waving it in the air. “You should be proud of yourself!”

It took Margherita a few seconds to understand where the money had come from. She looked at the check, then handed it back to Matteo, telling him to return it to the person who had sent it.

“I can't accept the money, he never called me back,” she said resolutely, avoiding any further explanation.

But Matteo would hear nothing of it. “Ravelli wanted the best chef in the area at his beck and call, and that has a price,” he said categorically.

Margherita decided not to insist. She had no intention
of getting Matteo involved, telling him what had happened between her and Nicola. That was something she had to work out on her own.

She knew exactly what she had to do. So as soon as Matteo left, without giving it a second thought, she slipped the check into an envelope, to which she added a quick note, and left the house for what was now her ex-boss's office. “Ex” seemed to be the key word during this period in her life: ex-job, ex-husband, ex-boss, as well as ex–potential lover. Although as far as the latter was concerned, it had been her own fault. She was sure about what she'd said to him—“I'm not like this”—but she also couldn't shake off a gnawing feeling of regret. The best thing would be to lock up that feeling twice, three times, somewhere inside her, and instead focus on Nicola's coldheartedness—
but his lips were so warm
—arrogance—
but he was concerned when he saw me in need of help
—and insensitivity—
but the touch of his hand when he took me up to the hills . . .

She stopped to take a deep breath.
Let's try to analyze the problem.

Chemistry. Giulia had mentioned chemistry. There was no denying it. That would be like trying to say that day doesn't come after night, that Earth isn't round, that light doesn't travel faster than sound. Fine, that they definitely shared a certain amount of chemistry—
to put it mildly
—was a fact. But another fact—an absolutely incontrovertible one—was that he was interested in only one thing:
sex.
She, on the other hand, had no time for a fling, however exciting, stimulating, and fantastic it might be. So there. Things were a bit clearer in her mind. Now she felt calmer. The important thing now was to keep a safe distance. Besides, she thought as she reached the building
where the Vini del Sole consortium was located, even their work relationship was over, and this definitely made things easier. She silenced that small but nagging voice of regret and headed straight for the mailbox. She'd leave the check, along with a note telling him she couldn't accept money that she hadn't earned, with the rest of his mail. Detached and professional. Exactly what was needed for someone like Nicola.

Although he was anything but detached when he was kissing me, touching me, while he was . . . oh, enough of that!

Her plan, however, turned out to be more complicated than she'd imagined. First, the mailboxes were located behind a locked glass door. And when Margherita finally did manage to get inside, thanks to some people who were on their way out, she discovered that there were no names on them, only numbers. And not a concierge in sight.
Damn!
She was still holding the envelope and trying to figure out what to do—walk up each floor to try to find out which number corresponded to Vini del Sole—when she heard someone coming down the stairs.

“. . . I don't care. They want Italian wine and that's what I'm going to give them.”

Margherita didn't have enough time to find an escape route, and suddenly there he was, Nicola himself, standing right before her.

Shit shit shit! Why don't I ever have a plan B?

Under his intense gaze, she felt like a deer caught in a car's headlights. She stood motionless, holding the envelope, while a part of her cursed herself for being such a fool.

“What a surprise.” He approached her, immediately interrupting the conversation he was having on the phone. “Were you looking for me?”

“No.
I was looking for your mailbox.”

Nicola was dumbfounded. “And what did you need it for?”

She handed him the envelope, careful not to touch him.

“I wanted to leave this.”

Nicola took the envelope, pulled out the check, and read the note. Then he looked at Margherita.

“Frankly, I don't see what the problem is.”

Margherita tried not to lower her eyes. Then she started giving the little speech she'd prepared just in case. “If I'm not working, then I don't want your money. I'm an honest person; you hired me to cook for your guests, but if you don't intend to use my services, then the contract is null and void.”

A look of amusement crossed Nicola's face.

“I have no intention of terminating our contract,” he answered, looking at her with a gaze so warm, so enveloping, that for a moment Margherita felt naked.

All her anger fizzled out, collapsing like a poorly made soufflé.

“You never called me back.” There, it had slipped out.

“This doesn't mean I'm not going to use your . . . services.” His ironic tone made her blush. “Though in some cases, a chance you don't take is lost forever,” he continued. “I think that certain things can and should be savored slowly.”

While she tried to think of an appropriate answer, Nicola handed back the check. “Take it. There's no reason for you not to have a clear conscience. If you hadn't come here, I would have called you. I need you again tonight.”

Upon hearing those words, Margherita's heart—
foolish, uncontrollable muscle!
—began pounding furiously. The little
voice that was supposed to be under lock and key made itself heard again:
he needs me . . . he needs me . . .

“And your fantastic cooking.”

Of course. What did she expect? Her heart skipped a few beats.

Such a foolish muscle.

He must have read something in her expression because he added, “Or maybe the check was just an excuse to see me again?”

Now she'd done it. She'd come here to put an end to their “nonaffair” and he'd caught her red-handed. And he, he had the gall to resume their relationship as if nothing had happened. And so she resumed the hostilities.

“I don't play those kinds of tricks!” she retorted, perhaps a bit too emphatically.

The way Nicola smiled at her made her feel like wringing his neck . . . but it also made her feel like kissing him, right this instant, without ever stopping.

“All right, fine. Well, then. Don't you want to know how many guests I'm having?” he asked, businesslike.

Control yourself, Margy. It's now or never.

“I was waiting for you to tell me,” she replied, smiling back at him and hoping he wouldn't notice how hard this all was for her.

“Two.”

Nicola peered at her, but she wasn't going to reveal to him any more than she had done already, so she remained silent, waiting for him to go on.

“Business dinner.”

“Man or woman?”

That arrogant smile crossed his face again. “Woman,” he answered, adding no more than that.

How did I know?

“I'm not sure what you expect,” she said, stalling.

“She's a tough cookie. I'd like to amaze her, convince her that I'm the best she'll ever find.”

Not one to mince words.

“Maybe one of the trendy restaurants would be better . . .”

A man simply can't ask a woman he's courted to cook for another woman with whom he wants to go to bed!

“It depends. There are certain things I prefer not to discuss in public. But if it's a problem . . .” He deliberately left his sentence hanging in midair.

Margherita mustered all her self-control, forcing herself to appear professional and detached.

“No problem at all . . . but at least give me something to work with. What's she like?”

Why don't you just shoot yourself in the foot?

“Sophisticated . . .”

I knew it!

“Exotic . . .” he continued, with an arrogant look on his face, “feisty . . .”

In other words, all the things I'll never be. I deserve it!

“The kind you might serve a filet mignon in wine sauce or perhaps
canard à l'orange
?”

Canard à l'orange: the perfect description for yet another shallow, superficial . . .

“Or perhaps instead of
canard à l'orange
,” Nicola added after a moment's thought, “lacquered duck.”

A duck is a duck, whatever you want to call it.

“Floating island or Sacher torte?” Margherita raised the stakes.

He looked at her inquisitively. “What do you mean by that?”

“Soft and velvety, or strong and outgoing?” she answered, watching his expression.

Nicola played along, enjoying Margherita's reactions to his answers and her unique way of describing people.

“A strong flavor, but one that's enveloping, dense . . .”

Margherita absorbed the shock. That was enough. She felt like curdled cream, and if there was anyone to blame for this disaster, it was her own self. Maybe it would help her to get Nicola out of her head for good.

“I think that should be enough to work with.”

And before he could say anything else, with the excuse that she had to go shopping and get organized, she took off in such a rush that, she had to admit, she might even have come across as downright rude.