Margherita's Notebook (23 page)

When she got to the villa in the afternoon, the cleaning lady was there to open the door.

“Mr. Ravelli told me to wait for you because there's no one here,” she said, smiling. “I'm finished, so if you don't need me, I'll be off.”

Margherita thanked her and headed toward the kitchen.

But before she could get there, she felt an irresistible urge to take a look around and explore the huge house, which she was still unfamiliar with. It's the details that tell you what a person is like, and she, despite what she'd said to Nicola, was still curious about him: she wanted to get to know him, go beyond the facade. She headed into the master bedroom. It was large, spacious, and uncluttered, with furniture that consisted of an antique wrought-iron bed and two walnut bedside tables. There was no closet, only a threadbare armchair close to the window. On the
seat was a book. Margherita walked over to it and picked it up: Kafka,
Letter to His Father.
She was taken aback. The book was about the difficult relationship between the writer and his father. How strange. There seemed to be lots of things she didn't know about Nicola Ravelli. Was he really the cynical, detached man he wanted others to believe he was? She would have liked to find out. She kept looking around but couldn't find anything revealing. In the large, luminous bathroom, the colognes, aftershave, and a few medicine bottles were all arranged precisely. She was drawn to a perfume bottle. Artisanally made, in a workshop in Capri. She unscrewed the cap and smelled a musty, masculine scent.
His
scent. She closed her eyes and sniffed again. It reminded her of how she'd felt in his arms. She wished he were there, holding her tight, searching for her lips, caressing her, telling her he needed her . . .

The thought broke the spell her own imagination had created. Nicola did need her. But as a chef.

As a chef, Margy. And try not to forget it.

She left the room and went back to the kitchen.

Just like Cinderella.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you're pathetic.

She'd better get started making dinner. The dishes she'd chosen called for the utmost concentration.

She spent the whole afternoon cooking, and each time the thought of Nicola's mysterious guest tried to get the upper hand she'd start scrubbing the pots and pans, polishing surfaces that already shined, or else she'd focus on the complex preparation of the lacquered duck, basting the meat, chopping the spring onions, reducing the stock, mixing chile pepper and ginger, and painstakingly lacquering
the bird with maltose. Around the time that she noticed the light in the large kitchen growing dimmer, and sunset reflections tingeing the windows, she heard the door to the villa open. Nicola was back. She instinctively tried to fix her hair, take off her apron, make sure she didn't have any smudges on her face.

Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.

“May I come in?”

The door opened and Nicola smiled at her. Good-looking, impeccable, as always. No doubt the woman she'd spent the afternoon slaving over a hot stove for would be the same.

“Ciao.”

He probed her with his gaze from head to toe. Slowly. It made her feel like she was in the hot seat, a modern version of Cinderella, but without the fairy godmother, mice, and glass slipper to help her out.

“Is everything all right?”

Since when does he care how I feel?

“Fine, thanks.”

“You look tired,” he continued. “You should probably go, I can take it from here.”

Margherita looked at him, surprised.

“Why? I've always done the serving. You might mess something up and the menu would be ruined.”

“I'll take that risk,” he replied.

She was about to say something else, but managed to stop herself.

How could she be so thick? Nicola didn't want any interlopers at his romantic soirée. The message was as clear and as bright as the North Star, as the Big Dipper, even.

“As you wish,” she replied, hoping to sound detached
and dignified. She gathered up her things, trying to ignore his eyes that seemed to be glued to her like honey that dripped slowly—eucalyptus honey: strong, pungent, penetrating—and headed for the door as fast as she could.

Instead of moving to the side to let her pass, Nicola stood motionless. She was just a few inches from that body, those hands, those lips . . . They looked into each other's eyes for what seemed like a long time. Margherita couldn't move. She could barely breathe. She felt like she was about to turn into a statue—not an insensitive, remote statue made of salt, but a statue made of almond paste. Sweet, tender, pliable, melt-in-your-mouth . . . She was about to close her eyes and abandon herself to that impulse that pushed her toward him, toward his mouth that—she could feel it—she wanted to taste, savor, bite, fill . . . but her gaze fell upon the glazed duck sitting proudly on the serving platter, a sumptuous, enticing dish ready to be served to his latest flame. Something inside her rebelled. She took a step backward, keeping her eye on her masterpiece, and said firmly, “May I get past?”

Nicola hesitated a moment, then stepped aside without a word. Margherita moved past him quickly, careful not to let even a single molecule of her body touch his.

“Have a good evening,” was all she managed to add, before heading straight for the main door.

“You too.”

She tried to ignore the hint of irony in that velvety voice, determined not to succumb to his provocation. She couldn't allow him to go beyond the safety distance. And, most important, she had to ward off any forays into her imagination. Culinary or otherwise.

When she was finally in the car, she breathed in and out
slowly until her pulse and heartbeat were back to normal. She had almost fallen for him again. She had to be careful, fight off that magnetic effect he had on her, avoid entering his field of attraction. Whenever that happened, and it had happened more than once, she was drawn to him like a magnet, with no way out. And however much just the thought—
damn it!
—caused mayhem with her hormones—
because it really is only a question of hormones, Margy!
—she had no intention of being just another number in Nicola Ravelli's long list of conquests.

And yet, once she'd gotten past the gate, she was struck by an insane curiosity to see just who tonight's guest at the villa was. Although the voice of reason was doing everything it possibly could to put her off the idea, Margherita gave in.

She parked her car on a grassy clearing along a side path. Then she walked back. She obviously couldn't stand out there in front of the gate, so all she could do was go into
Pink Panther
mode. Stifling her sense of self-ridicule, which was usually rather developed, she picked out some shrubbery and crouched behind it. Soon she heard a car approaching. Margherita made sure no one could see her behind the leaves. If she were discovered, no distance between herself and Nicola would have been sufficient to hide her shame. The car turned quickly at the curve and then braked suddenly before the gate. Shiny and sleek—much like the woman who a moment later got out of it, revealing milky legs and tiny feet in dazzling sandals with silver stilettos, and a very short, tight-fitting sheath dress. Her hair, like black silk, reflected the very last rays of sunlight. When she turned so that Margherita could see her—fortunately without being seen!—as she searched for the button on the
intercom, Margherita noticed that she had almond-shaped eyes and a perfectly oval face, a tiny nose and red lips that could easily have attracted the gaze of every single guy within a one-mile radius.

Sexy. Lacquered. Exotic. She.

Silly Cinderella. Me.

A
triumph of the senses”: these were the words a local reporter would use the following day to describe the impression he'd had of Roccafitta's main square that bright sunny Sunday, on the occasion of the feast organized by the local culture and tourism association to promote the produce of the new farming business, Terre Nostre. “Such a combination of aromas, colors, flavors seemed to have been created specifically to reawaken the flesh, restore lust for life, seduce the senses . . .”

Margherita had offered to help Giulia arrange the products on the stands. She felt a new energy inside her, one she'd never experienced before, that wanted to come out and embrace this newly rediscovered world of hers, and that had to be kept as far away as possible from anything that had to do with Nicola Ravelli. Although Margherita was also aware of the fact that, in some respects, he had actually been the one to catalyze that energy, to—unwittingly—help her discover
it, bring it all out. She tried to describe that new and unknown feeling to Giulia, as her hands skillfully assembled vaguely phallic pyramids of fruit, as they created colorful arrangements of brightly hued vegetables in voluptuous designs, sprayed peaches and apricots with tiny dewdrops to make them look ripe and inviting, arranged blackberries and wild strawberries on a bed of tender leaves and moss in a surprisingly provocative combination, sliced open pomegranates to shamelessly expose their red, sensuous flesh . . . Giulia watched her, intrigued. It was Margherita's gestures that struck her especially, and those unquestionably erotic compositions that emerged almost spontaneously from her hands. Margherita seemed like another person. Her eyes and hair shone more, her lips were fleshier, the tight blouse she wore emphasized her breasts. All unequivocal symptoms, Giulia recognized.

“Have you ever felt this way?” Margherita asked her point-blank.

Giulia smiled. She thought back to the fast drive to the shores of the Feniglia, to Armando's hands, to the desire that had washed over both of them like a wave . . . But she couldn't tell her about that. All Giulia could do was nod and smile. The arrival of the group from the culture and tourism association, headed by Bacci—accomplished trumpet player as well as director of the Roccafitta band that had been hired for the occasion—distracted her from asking any further questions. Everyone expressed satisfaction about how eye-catching the stands were. Giovanni and Maria, who had arrived all the way from Florence for the occasion, proudly took over the stand where a sign made out of radishes and string beans said
TERRE NOSTRE
. Since Armando wasn't around, Salvatore offered to help Giulia set up the apple
stand, but Margherita stepped in to say she would take care of it herself. She and Giulia exchanged a knowing smile, and then Margherita headed toward the Hechura beekeeping gazebo. On the table she laid a bright orange tablecloth, which she decorated with garlands made of ferns and vine shoots alternated with wildflowers, then carefully arranged the honey pots. In a corner, she set up a portable electric oven in which to toast the bread rounds. These were to be topped with a locally produced cheese that released the most mouthwatering aroma when it melted. To accentuate its flavor, chestnut or acacia honey gave it a finishing touch.

The tourists were starting to crowd around the gazebo. Since Giulia, like Armando, was now nowhere to be seen, Matteo had wasted no time rushing over to see if he could give Margy a hand. But mostly he just ended up getting in the way, distracted, as he was, by the way her simple lace blouse emphasized her shapely figure. Margherita was so busy with everything she hadn't noticed that the village elders, including Baldini, Italo, and Gualtiero, were agitated. When she finally did look up, she saw they were all pointing at something. She followed the direction of their gazes—at first, her heart seemed to slow down, but then it quickly leaped into a frenetic dance. On the other side of the piazza, wearing jeans and a smart-casual shirt, approaching at a slow, leisurely pace, was Nicola. Carla walked alongside him rather stiffly, totally out of place in her tight-fitting suit and five-inch stilettos, which at each step risked getting stuck in the cobblestones that paved the piazza.

“Here comes our future Overlord and Her Ladyship the Marquise!” said Italo.

“It's thanks to people like him that our town is struggling,” Gualtiero echoed.

“He just buys and buys and doesn't give a shit about anything else. He hires agronomists from outside, as if we didn't have enough experience,” Baldini added in support.

“He doesn't create work for us,” Gualtiero said, rubbing it in. “He doesn't hire people from around here. They're all outsiders. And just look at
her.
How can anyone go out dressed like that?”

They all laughed as they stared at Carla, who was busy refusing a sample of local produce, an expression of suspicion on her face.

Margherita was agitated. A part of her wanted to defend Nicola. But her Roccafittian side agreed with the village elders. She felt like she was involved in a game of tug-of-war, except that she was the rope.

But suddenly, Bacci's hoarse voice drew everyone's attention to the stage, announcing the event's big surprise. Instantly, the lights went down and the notes of “Roxanne,” in the sultry tango version from
Moulin Rouge
, filled the piazza. From the darkness emerged Armando and Giulia, he dressed as a
tanguero
, she wrapped in a long red silk dress. Holding each other tight, they started to dance a heartrending tango, which Bacci's voice accompanied as if by magic. There was harmony in their dance, and sensuality, and desperation.

Silence fell. Poor Salvatore. At the sight of the two dancers, he almost choked on a bruschetta. Unable to take his eyes off the couple's twirling bodies in the middle of the piazza, he ran his fingers through his thick head of hair. The thought of that silly bet he'd made in a moment of rage tormented him. He regretted it bitterly: he knew that competing with Armando was a battle lost from the outset.

“They're incredible,” Nicola let slip.