CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
JOANNA
June 1973
By eight o’clock the meal was ready.
“I think outside, don’t you?” Paola said. “Since it is such a beautiful evening.”
So a table was laid with a white cloth out in the garden under the cherry tree. This time there were no simple ceramic beakers, but silverware and crystal. I took my place looking out away from the farmhouse. The sun was setting over the western hills, and bats flitted through the pink twilight. The air was scented with honeysuckle and jasmine. It was almost like being in a dream.
Angelina came to join us, bringing olive oil and a plate of olives. It turned out that Renzo had brought wine from his father’s vineyards. We started with a crisp white as Paola brought out the tray of crostini. I had to try one of each topping as I had done my first night in San Salvatore in the piazza. The asparagus wrapped in slivers of uncured ham and drizzled with truffle oil; the thin slices of fennel, which was another new flavour for me; the sharp sheep’s cheese served with fig jam. All of these tasted like little miracles and frankly would have been enough for a grand evening meal on their own.
But then we had Renzo’s risotto—creamy rice with mushrooms cooked in a rich broth. When Renzo saw my nod of appreciation he said, “In London I used to make this with seafood. You should try it. The fish broth and the mussels and shrimp are just perfect. It is too bad I can’t make a trip to the coast and bring back the right ingredients to cook for you.”
“I can’t imagine it would be much better than this,” I said. “I grew up being forced to eat rice pudding at school, and I’ve shied away from rice ever since.”
He laughed. “The English unfortunately don’t know what interesting things can be done with simple ingredients. Give them cabbage or Brussels sprouts and they boil them to death.”
“Maybe you can come back to England one day, open your own restaurant, and educate everyone,” I said.
I watched the joy drain from his face. “Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t see that day happening. My father’s health does not improve, and frankly he needs me here. Family comes first, does it not?”
I thought about this—a strange notion to me. I certainly had not put my father first in any of my decisions. Maybe I had failed him. I didn’t like to think about it, but I pictured his body lying cold in the grass. And now it was too late to say I was sorry.
“But we can fix these gloomy thoughts,” Renzo said, “with another good wine. This is the pride of our vineyard. In England the only Italian wine you know is the rough Chianti that comes in a straw bottle. But this is from our premium grapes, perfectly aged in oak barrels. You will taste the difference.”
The white wine was already having its effect, and I hesitated as I took a sip of the red. I don’t have far to walk home, I told myself. The first taste was smooth and rich, like drinking red velvet. “Oh,” I said, and Renzo smiled.
“Now you will go home and be a wine snob and say to your friends, ‘This is not like that cheap Chianti that they produce, the wine in the straw bottle,’” he said.
“I doubt that I could afford to buy this in England,” I said. “Wine is very expensive.”
“You are right, you couldn’t buy this in England,” he said. “We only produce a few cases of this wine, and it goes straight to our preferred customers in Rome and Milan. Film stars, racing car drivers, and millionaires.”
“Then I am indeed honoured.” My gaze met his and I felt a shiver go down my spine. I tried to make light of it. “But don’t top up my glass or I may not find my way home.”
“Don’t worry, Renzo will escort you,” Paola said.
That did bring me back to reality. Renzo walking me back to the little house, past the well into which Gianni had been stuffed head first—and the high probability that Renzo knew something about this. Had he been sent to get me drunk? To gain entrance to my room and find the envelope that Gianni had pushed through my window?
“What’s the matter?” Renzo asked me, as if reading my thoughts.
“Just that I am sad I will be leaving all this beauty tomorrow.”
“And I am sad that you are going,” he said. “Perhaps you can return in less worrying times.”
“I doubt that,” I said. “The inspector might invent new charges against me if I come back.”
He laughed, but I sensed that I wasn’t too far from the truth.
I got up to help Paola clear away the dishes, but she waved for me to stay seated. “Why else do I have a daughter?” she said. “You are the guest. Sit. Talk with Renzo.”
As they disappeared into the house, I grinned. “I’m afraid Paola is trying to do some matchmaking.”
“She has a good heart,” he replied. “And her judgment is not bad, either.”
I chuckled nervously because I was highly conscious of his presence across the table from me, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his unruly black curls, and his eyes that sparkled as if they were on fire. It must have been the wine, but I wanted him to take me in his arms and kiss me.
That ridiculous thought was banished by Paola coming back with the big dish of aubergine Parmesan. I didn’t think I had any room for another mouthful, but once I took my first bite I had to finish my plate. So rich, so creamy. And the aubergine tasted like a really good meat.
We finished the meal with the little dishes of panna cotta—smooth and white and slipping easily down the throat, and to accompany it a glass of limoncello, the local liqueur. A soft, velvety darkness had fallen over the land. The night air was full of the sound of crickets and frogs. Renzo stood up. “I should probably be getting home,” he said. “My father will wonder where I am.” He looked at me. “May I escort you to your room first?”
“Oh no,” I said, laughing. “I must help Paola and Angelina with the washing up. We must have made a lot of dishes dirty.”
“Of course you do not need to do this,” Paola said. “Let the young man escort you if he volunteers. I know if a handsome man offered to escort me to my room I would not say no. Unfortunately such offers do not come anymore.” And she laughed.
I had no choice. Renzo offered me his arm. I took it, giving him a nervous smile. “Honestly, Renzo, I can find my way to my room unaided,” I said. “And I’m sure Cosimo will be pacing the floor waiting for you to come home.”
“Let him pace,” Renzo said. “Did it not occur to you that I might want to spend some time alone with you?”
I looked up at him then. He was giving me a little half-smile. “I don’t know what it is about you,” he said. “I find myself strangely drawn to you. Maybe you remind me of the girl I once knew in London, the one I might have married if things had been different.” He turned to face me. “Do I not detect that you are also a little attracted to me?”
“Maybe a little,” I said, trying not to ignore the warning alarm going off in my head. Cosimo’s son, remember.
“Then perhaps it is in our shared history,” Renzo said. “Maybe it is the story of my mother and your father finally being completed. It is fate. Destiny. There is nothing we can do about it.”
“Do you think so?” I asked.
“How do I know?” he said, smiling at me. “I just know that at this moment I want to kiss you. Is that all right with you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He took me in his arms and his lips moved toward mine. I could feel my heart racing, the small frisson of danger mingling with my desire for him. I don’t know where it might have led, but suddenly the ground beneath our feet was moving. It only lasted for a few seconds, but Renzo held me tight until the rocking stopped.
“Was that another earthquake?” I asked.
“Just an aftershock,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
“Isn’t there a song that goes something like, ‘I felt the earth move under my feet’?” I laughed, a little shakily.
“Now you know it really happens,” he said.
“Joanna? Renzo? Is all well with you? It was only a small earthquake,” Paola called from the open door.
“All is well,” Renzo responded, releasing me. “I think I’d better go,” he said, “before the earth moves under our feet again.” He touched my cheek. “I will see you in the morning. Sleep well.”
And then he went. I let myself into the little room, locked my door, undressed, and lay on my bed staring at the ceiling. Was it possible, just possible, that Renzo really did have feelings for me?