Margherita's Notebook (8 page)

“Why don't you stay for lunch,” was her reply, without answering his question, letting it linger in the air and blend in with the fragrance of the spices coming from the pot simmering on the stove.

Matteo lifted the lids with the familiarity of someone who felt very much at home.

“Mmm . . . who can possibly say no to squid-and-eggplant rolls?”

“Then set another place at the table!” Margherita said.

Matteo knew in exactly which cupboard he'd find the plates and glasses, exchanging another glance with Armando.

Margherita turned around and caught the worried look on her friend's face.

“Margy . . .” Matteo stroked her arm gently. “Why don't you tell me what's going on? Why are you here by yourself, with your menagerie? Italo says your husband stayed in Rome . . .”

“Can't Italo mind his business for once?” she said curtly.

Matteo stopped short, still holding the forks and knives. “So, it's true.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement. “Francesco didn't come with you.”

“Francesco jerk cheater!” Valastro screeched.

Margherita rolled her eyes and sighed in resignation. “Hasn't anyone ever heard of privacy around here?”

“Privacy in Roccafitta? You must be kidding?” There was an expression of disgust on Armando's face. “Even I've never been able to avoid Italo's radar.”

“To be honest, it seems to me that the real informer here comes from the city,” Matteo replied, nodding toward Valastro who, from his perch, let out an earshattering whistle.

Margherita looked at the mynah, then at Matteo, and her face was overcome with an indecipherable expression somewhere between laughter and dismay. In the end she chose to smile.

Matteo smiled, too, rather relieved. Then, as Margherita gently turned the fish-and-vegetable rolls in the pan, he started in again.

“So are you going to tell me what happened?”

Margherita looked him straight in the eye, though her hands didn't stop moving over the stove.

“Do you really want to know?”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders tenderly. “Am I or am I not your best friend?”

She turned off the heat, and as she served cream of broad beans and radicchio, ricotta fritters, and fusilli with black cabbage, all the dishes she'd made to accompany the fish rolls, she started to explain. “All right, then, you win. This is how it went. Did I tell you about the debt collection call center where I started working at the beginning of the year?”

“Yes, of course you did, and I didn't think it was the right job for you.”

“You're right, it wasn't,” Margherita said. “After just two months' time, first I was outsourced—”

“What does that mean?” Armando broke in.

“It means, Dad, that they send you to one of their branches, they give you what's called a co.co.co.”

“A coco
what
?”

“A contract for coordinated and continuing collaboration,” Matteo explained.

“Yes,
but now they call it a co.co.pro, which means contract for doing project work—”

“Fine,” Armando interrupted with frustration in his voice, “I get it. Actually, I don't get it at all, but let's leave all the acronyms to the birds!”

“What it means is that they can fire you whenever they choose to, and my boss obviously couldn't wait . . . he couldn't stand me. So I ended up jobless. I tried everything, but because of the recession I was getting nowhere. Then Francesco asked his boss if he could give me a hand, so I was interviewed for a job as promoter.”

It was obvious from the expression on his face that Armando was getting more and more confused. Margherita explained, “A promoter is someone who promotes a product in supermarkets.”

“Well, it beats debt collection,” Matteo remarked.

“Too bad they didn't even give me a chance to try it, and you know why? Just because I wanted know more about the mozzarella I was supposed to promote!”

Matteo looked at her in disbelief. “So what does this have to do with your coming here?”

“Francesco got mad at me because his boss had gotten me the interview, and because we needed the money. He accused me of being incapable of holding down a job. Then we got the eviction notice, and right after that Meg showed up—”

“Who's Meg?” Matteo asked, even more confused.

“Meg is Francesco's English teacher.”

Matteo raised his arms in the air. “I give up!”

“I mean, I
thought
she was his English teacher,” Margherita continued calmly. “The truth is, she's his mistress, and she came to see me to tell me she couldn't live without him anymore, that Francesco didn't have the guts to tell me, so
she decided to do it for him. So I made him some prune-and-bacon rolls, risotto with asparagus, Neapolitan
pizzelle
, and his favorite dessert, pineapple cream pie. Then I wrote him a nice long letter, loaded the pets into the car . . . and here I am.” As she finished, Margherita put the very last leaf of lettuce in place.

Matteo looked at Armando, who raised his arms as if to say, “What can you say? That's Margherita for you!” Then he hugged his friend.

“Well, don't you worry, we're here and we love you . . . especially as long as you keep cooking like this!” It was clear from the way he was looking at her that Matteo's enthusiasm wasn't only about the food.

She hugged him back.

“I know . . .” In her voice and in her eyes was a gentle blend of affection and deep feeling.

Later, at the table, Matteo was in heaven as he tasted the squid-and-eggplant rolls.

“Mmm . . . delicious . . . and so tender . . .”

“The secret is to put a cork in the cooking liquid while the squid boils—that way it stays soft and melts in your mouth,” Margherita confided.

“Superb,” he responded. Then he looked at her with a serious expression. “I knew that day, many years ago, I should have dragged you to the beach instead of leaving you at the restaurant to help your mother. If I'd insisted, if you'd come with us, you would never have met him!”

Margherita smiled sadly. “Real life is not like
Sliding Doors
, Matteo. You can't go back. It's not a film you can just rewind whenever you want to.”

Margherita was unaware of the effect those words were having on Armando. For a few seconds, a veil of sadness
came over her father's jovial expression. It lasted an instant, and not even Matteo, who was too interested in trying to read Margherita's expressions, was aware of it. Then Armando turned away. Matteo took Margherita's hand in his.

“
I
would have come forward. I had decided to tell you that day”—he lowered his voice—“that I'd fallen in love with you.”

For a second, Margherita appeared to be dazed, then she burst out laughing.

“Cut it out! You don't need to say things like that just to console me. I'll get over it, you'll see, I promise!”

Matteo was quiet. He looked like he was about to say something, but he thought better of it and instead asked, “What'll you do now?”

Margherita was quiet a moment, then smiled, and began singing “
Que sera, sera . . .
”

“
It's a deal then, Mr. Huang . . . Yes, I'm looking forward to seeing you in England . . .
”

Nicola, who was sitting at the desk in his office, put the receiver down and, with an air of contentment, looked up at the woman who, until that moment, had been caressing him with her gaze: his young, self-assured assistant, Carla, who quickly went back to a more professional expression.

“Our agreement with the Chinese is just a question of time. In a few days we'll close the deal.” He smiled.

Carla was surprised to find herself hoping that, for once, the smile on the face of that controlled, detached, and guarded man might be sincere, and that she might be its recipient. Then she came back to earth. There were other priorities in her relationship with Nicola Ravelli.

“Congratulations, Nicola,” she answered. “Of course, I never had any doubts. I know you pretty well by now—you're infallible!”

The truth was, she didn't know him at all. At times he'd surprise her with his distant gaze, lost in impenetrable thoughts, his dark eyes suddenly becoming dull and stormy. But it never lasted long.

Nicola walked past the large wall-to-wall window in the room that had only a few pieces of expensive furniture in it, and stopped at the large wood-and-crystal table. Spread out over the top was a topographical map with a scale of one to one hundred thousand that showed several pieces of land of various dimensions. Some of them were marked with a red X.

“After we sign the contract with the Chinese, production will have to be stepped up. I need you to get me all the figures for this year's harvest. If we want to be 100 percent sure about everything, we need those, too.” Nicola used a felt-tip marker to circle some of the lots, one of which was particularly large.

Carla made a note and then nodded.

“If everything goes according to plan, it won't take long,” she remarked confidently.

Nicola's lips twisted into an ironic smile, and for a second Carla's only desire was to feel that sensuous mouth on her own and cast everything else aside . . . She forced herself to come back to her senses when Nicola began talking again. “The recession is helping me out. Some of them see me as their savior.”

“I wouldn't underestimate your skills of persuasion.”

“That comes in handy, too. Especially when they ask me what I plan to do with the vineyards. They talk about them
as though they were their very own children!” he added with a note of annoyance in his voice.

“And I'll bet you don't tell them the truth.” Carla grinned craftily.

“What good would it do? I tell them what they want to hear.”

“Which is?”

“That I will continue producing wine.”

“But not the wine they have in mind.”

The expression on Nicola's face stiffened.

“Why nitpick? It's just business. A question of demand and supply. The Asian market calls for table wine and I produce it.”

Nicola's gaze went back to the map.

“With these new acquisitions we can increase exports to Asia. The Chinese are wild about ‘Made in Italy.' ”

And I'm wild about you, Nicola Ravelli.
Carla made sure he couldn't see how she felt. “To everything there is a season.” The nuns at school often quoted these words from Ecclesiastes to her. She'd treasured them. And she certainly had no intention of spoiling everything.

“What I like about you is your farsightedness,” she said, opting for something more neutral, more impersonal.

“It's a gift of nature. I'm just trying to make the most of it.”

“The results are clear to see.”

“Speaking of results. I think we need to start thinking about the dinners and luncheons we might want to have at the villa. The renovation work is finished, and serving food is an excellent way to increase business.”

“How long do you think we'll be in Roccafitta?”

“I don't know. There's a lot to do. First we have to get the
acquisitions finalized, then we need to ramp up production. It takes time to organize everything, and I'll be the one to deal with that side of it. That's why I bought the villa in the first place: it'll be an excellent calling card.” He looked at her. “And I need you to take care of hiring the staff. Anyone will do, as long as they're efficient and discreet. I don't want anyone getting in my way.”

A confident smile crossed Carla's lips. “Consider it done.”

It had been easy to settle back into the peaceful pace of Roccafitta. Margherita felt pampered and spoiled. Matteo often came by to see her, and Armando, in spite of all his activities—dance school, the local culture and tourism association, card games with his friends—always found time to take a stroll in the fields with his daughter and Artusi. But Margherita wasn't the sort of person who liked to while away her time, and the situation was starting to worry her: if she planned to stay, then she was going to have to find a job that would allow her to support herself. The more she thought about it, the more her worries grew.