by Amanda Usen
“Anna Maria, I’m a chef, not a teacher. I told you that.”
“You told me you would do anything necessary.”
“And you told me that you would handle the classes if I wrote the menus. I wrote the menus.”
“Which makes you the best person to teach them,” her mother said, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Olivia couldn’t prevent the small smile that quirked her lips. She met Alessandro’s eyes and was surprised to see he echoed her amusement. So he had a sense of humor, huh? He raised an imperious brow and tossed his head in her mother’s direction as if to say, “Impossible, that one.” Olivia gave a small shrug of agreement. Her mother laid down the law with impunity and complete comfort. Her arrogance was maddening and admirable at the same time. Alessandro turned on his heel and disappeared into the walk-in cooler. Olivia had used that trick too. She wondered if he would count to ten or twenty.
Her mother glanced up from the bigoli.
Olivia froze. She recognized that look.
Olivia shook her head. “Oh, no.” Her heart began to thump.
“Perfetto! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.” Her mother dusted the flour from her hands.
“Think of what?” Alessandro asked as he stepped out of the walk-in.
“Since Olivia failed to bring her grandmother home, she will take her place and teach the classes with you.”
Panic welled up hard in Olivia’s chest as she fought to think of words that would convince her mother not to make her do this. This is exactly what she had been trying to escape in New York, the pressure of people looking to her for guidance, for answers, asking her to tell them what to do. She didn’t want to be in charge, damn it. She wasn’t good at it.
“No.” Alessandro crossed his arms. “That isn’t necessary. I’m sure your daughter is a very good cook, but we just met. If I have to do this, I want to do it alone.”
His flat refusal should have made her thank her lucky stars but instead it made her hackles rise. Who the hell did he think he was, trying to keep her out of the kitchen? Her knife moved faster on the cutting board. Of course she could teach cooking classes. She might not be familiar with his recipes, but food was food and she could cook anything. She just didn’t want to.
Her mother made a sound of utter derision. “You forget your place, Alessandro Bellin. You may be the chef, but this is still my kitchen. My daughter will not be in your way. In fact, you’ll be lucky if you can keep up with her.”
Olivia caught her breath. No pressure there. She looked down at the herbs on her cutting board and saw they were bruised and black from too much chopping.
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Alessandro said, pointedly staring at the herbs. She pressed her lips together. God, how arrogant could you get? She hid the ruined basil with her hand, then wished she hadn’t as her motion drew her mother’s glance to her cutting board. She felt her cheeks redden.
“Olivia, what have you done to that poor basil?”
“I killed it, but don’t worry. I won’t massacre herbs in front of our students.”
Her mother smiled forgiveness. Oh God, she’d really done it now. The decision to help had clearly been made in some part of her brain that was only capable of action, not intelligent thought. Shit.
She looked over at Alessandro. If looks could kill, the one he was giving her would do the trick. For some reason that made her feel cheerful, and she smiled sweetly in return. Suffering through a cooking class would be worth showing her mother’s pet hotshot he wasn’t God’s gift to the kitchen.
Her mother wrapped the bigoli and put it in the freezer. “You will make a beautiful team. The first class is on Sunday,” she said, before she swept up the stairs and out of the kitchen.
Two days? Yikes. Olivia scraped the basil into a plastic container. It couldn’t be used for garnish anymore, but it could lend its flavor to something that didn’t have to be pretty. She tucked it into the reach-in nearest the stove, trying not to laugh at Alessandro’s expression. She’d had a lifetime to get used to her mother’s force of will, but poor Alessandro looked a little shell-shocked. She almost felt sorry for him.
Anna Maria Marconi was nearly impossible to thwart, not that Olivia had ever actually tried to go against her mother’s wishes. Just as she had told Sean earlier, she had gone to business school and culinary school on her mother’s say so. After graduation she had accepted the gift of Chameleon without protest. She had never thought about what to do with her life because her future had been mapped out for her. Well, she was thinking now. Soon, she would know what it was like to cross her mother too.
A sharp ringing broke the tense silence and Alessandro slid a cell phone out of his pocket. “Excuse me,” he said, striding toward the patio door.
Olivia watched him through the windows as he paced back and forth outside, frowning. Where was the too-charming chef who had welcomed her to the villa this afternoon? He’d certainly changed his approach when she had dared to enter his kitchen. Territorial chefs drove her nuts. In her recent experience, big egos disguised even bigger insecurities. Keith had been a prime example of that. He’d never wanted help, and she’d been too timid to force the issue, instead letting him destroy her restaurant.
Now she was stuck in the kitchen with a chef who appeared to be even more set in his ways. She glanced at her watch and wondered what Sean had been doing for the past hour. She hoped he’d found his way to the dining room and was enjoying a pre-dinner glass of wine. Even better, she hoped he had one ready for her. A little Dutch courage would mask her anxiety about the cooking classes. Faking it is what you do best. She sighed. Not anymore.
She heard the patio door swing open and looked up, expecting it to be Alessandro. It was her father. “In the kitchen again, cara? I had a feeling I would find you here. There must be wine in the dining room by now. Let’s have a glass and celebrate your homecoming.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Well, sort of. She wiped her knife and placed it back in the drawer, then picked up her cutting board, and dropped it into a dish rack. She followed her father up the stairs and through the door he held open for her.
In the dining room, her father lifted a bottle of sparkling wine out of an ice bucket on the sideboard. He wiped it off with a towel, then twisted the bottle. She heard a soft hiss as the cork let go.
When she’d left Norton, she’d been ready to explode but, like the cork her father had just popped, getting away from Chameleon had removed the pressure. Without the weight of her life in Norton dragging her down, she felt possibilities fizzing to her surface like the perlage of bubbles rising in the prosecco.
***
Giovanna took Sean into the villa through a side door. A short hall led them to the casual room he had glimpsed from the foyer when they arrived. There were several comfortable-looking couches, a big-screen TV, and lots of small coffee tables covered with food-related magazines. Bookshelves held cookbooks, and there was a bar along one wall.
He followed her through the room, across the foyer, and into the dining room, where the table was set with china and silver. He counted at least three wineglasses for every plate. Great, just what he needed—more wine. Olivia’s parents would be very impressed when he fell face-forward into his plate and began snoring. He spotted Olivia standing near the kitchen with an older man with black hair.
“Olivia!” Giovanna exclaimed and bounded across the dining room.
“Gia!” Olivia wrapped her arms around her cousin. “How are you? God, it’s so good to see you. Where have you been hiding since I got here?”
Giovanna laughed, returning the enthusiastic hug. He reached them in time to hear her whisper, “I stay out of the kitchen or your mother puts me to work.” Louder, she said, “I work in the tasting room in the afternoons. I can’t stay for dinner. I’ve got a date to
night, but we’ll have plenty of time to catch up tomorrow. Your man booked you into the spa.” She rubbed her hands together with a gleeful smile.
“He what?” Olivia wheeled around.
Sean shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.
Giovanna grasped Olivia’s hand and turned it over. “What have you been doing with your fingernails? Peeling potatoes bare-handed?”
Olivia snatched her fingers out of Gia’s grasp and hid them behind her back. “I work with my hands. They don’t have to be pretty to get the job done.”
“I work with my hands too, but mine don’t look like I’ve put them through a wood chipper.”
A low chuckle drew his gaze from the women.
The older man raised his chin. Sean identified him instantly as Olivia’s father. His features were harsh, where Olivia’s were delicate, but the clear, green eyes branded them both.
Sean held out his hand.
“Papà, this is—”
“I know who this is.” Mr. Marconi took his hand. The handshake was so brief as to be insulting. Sean looked to Olivia for a cue and found her glaring at her father. She shot an elbow into Mr. Marconi’s side. “Welcome to the villa,” he said grudgingly.
“Thank you,” Sean said with the same ironic intonation.
Olivia pressed a glass into his hand and he took a grateful sip. It bubbled and fizzed against his tongue. “Champagne?”
He heard a hiss from Mr. Marconi.
“Prosecco,” Olivia corrected.
“Right,” Sean said. “Italy. Must be the jet lag.”
The door to the kitchen swung open and Alessandro entered carrying a platter in each hand. He set them on the sideboard and silently returned to the kitchen.
Giovanna touched her uncle’s shoulder. “Zio, do you still have season tickets to the opera? The last performance of Roméo e Giulietta is tomorrow night. Don’t you think Olivia should go?”
“An excellent idea!” Mrs. Marconi proclaimed as she entered the room from the central hallway. “You have not seen Romeo and Juliet until you have seen it in the Arena, and I have a block of seats reserved for villa guests.”
Sean took Olivia’s hand. “Sound good?”
“Sure.” She smiled up at him, smelling like parsley and another herb he couldn’t identify, something that reminded him of black licorice. He leaned closer to see if he could get a better whiff of the elusive scent.
Mrs. Marconi cleared her throat loudly. “I’m sure Alessandro would be delighted to escort you. You can talk about the cooking classes.”
Olivia’s eyes snapped to her mother. “I’m going with Sean.”
“A foursome, then. Giovanna will be happy to go too.”
Sean looked at Giovanna. From the look on her face she would be anything but happy to join them, but she didn’t protest, at least not aloud. Her dark eyes shot a glare at the chef, though. Was he one of her bad boys? Or was that just wishful thinking because it might keep Bellin away from Olivia?
“That sounds like fun,” Sean said cautiously.
“Then it’s settled.” Mrs. Marconi nodded her head firmly. “Olivia, we have a full house this weekend. I’ll need your help in the kitchen during the day tomorrow.”
“Of course, Mamma, but—”
“Nonsense!” her father broke in. “She just got here. All work and no play, eh? Let Olivia settle in. Alessandro is capable of doing the work we hired him for, yes?” Sean noticed a subtle threat in his tone, as if the chef, or perhaps his wife, would be in trouble if Alessandro were not capable of accomplishing his tasks.
While Mr. and Mrs. Marconi continued their debate, Sean gave Alessandro the long look of warning that had been boiling inside him all afternoon. The chef shrugged, a faint smile tilting his lips before he turned and headed back to the kitchen.
Sean felt a hand on his arm and he automatically followed Olivia as she dragged him and Giovanna toward the buffet table.
“I’d only put up with that punk for you, cousin,” Gia muttered under her breath.
“You could have said no,” Olivia whispered furiously back.
“To your mother? Not worth it. I don’t have plans tomorrow night, and she knows it. Plus, I love the opera.”
Sean left them to argue and grabbed a plate. His mouth watered at the sight of the cured meats, cheeses, and marinated vegetables on the platters. Suddenly, he was starving. He filled a plate and stood back, resting his hip against a dining table chair, and chewed blissfully. Oh, perfection. The olive oil was unbelievable. Fruity. Light and rich at the same time. He paused between bites to clear his palate with a sip of bubbly wine. He reached for another roasted pepper, a slice of mortadella, then a slim wedge of hard cheese. He could make a meal of the offerings on this table.
Alessandro entered the dining room. “Il primo piatto is served.”
“Alessandro isn’t joining us?” Sean asked as the chef withdrew to the kitchen.
Mr. Marconi shook his head. “He prefers to serve.”
As the group began to settle around the dining room table, Giovanna hugged her cousin again. “I must go. I’m late for my date. See you tomorrow!” She grabbed an olive on her way out of the room.
“I can’t believe you booked me into the spa,” Olivia groused as she sat down in the chair he held out for her.
He sat beside her. “I thought you would love the idea.”
“You did not,” she retorted.
“I thought you might enjoy being out of the kitchen?” The plate in front of him held a small pile of round dumplings in a reddish-brown sauce. The scent rising from the plates was rich and meaty. His mouth began to water again. He looked around the table and picked up his fork, waiting for everyone to be seated before he took a bite.
Mrs. Marconi ignored her food and glared at her husband. “Olivia doesn’t have time for the spa. I need her help in the kitchen.”
Olivia gave him a look that said “See?” and picked up her fork.
“She didn’t come here to work, Anna Maria.” Her father’s voice was stern.
“Of course she did. What else is she going to do?” Mrs. Marconi’s confusion sounded sincere. Sean kept his head down and speared one of the little pillows on his plate. He popped it into his mouth. Delicious. He hadn’t been sure what to expect from the unprepossessing pile of rugged dumplings, but they were fantastic, lightly tossed with a tomato-based meat sauce that had an intriguing sweetness. “What is it?” he whispered to Olivia.
“Gnocchi,” Olivia said.
“A Veronese specialty,” Mrs. Marconi added.
“Fabulous,” Sean assured them both. If the rest of the food was this good, he was going to eat himself silly this week.
He took a sip of the red wine he found in his glass. When had that been poured? The light, peppery wine was a magnificent match for the rich gnocchi. He felt eyes on him and he looked up and shrugged. “It’s so simple, but it’s perfect.”
Olivia’s father nodded grudgingly from the other side of the table. He held up his glass. “Simplicity is the soul of Italian cooking. Flavor. Color. Texture. Some foods become something more when they are eaten together…and with the right wine…bliss.”
Sean nodded in wholehearted agreement. He felt like he already had one strike against him and he was glad they had found something to agree on. “Giovanna told me you are recreating a wine. How is it going?”
“Slowly.” Mr. Marconi’s brow became even more hooded over his sharp eyes. Make that two strikes, Sean thought philosophically, returning his attention to his food.
Olivia stepped into the breech. “I’m so happy she’s here. I’ve missed her.”
“She probably won’t stay long, but it’s nice to have her,” Mrs. Marconi said. “Spend the morning with your cousin, Olivia,” she relented. “You can help m
e in the afternoon.”
Sean sat back in his chair as Alessandro removed the plates from the table. He smiled at the chef, feeling magnanimous. “The gnocchi was excellent, Alessandro. What was in the sauce? Veal?”
The chef shook his head. “No. A Veronese delicacy.” He smiled and returned to the kitchen for the next course.
When Alessandro returned, he carried three plates stacked on his left arm and another in his right hand.
“Osso buco,” Olivia whispered. “Veal shank and polenta.”
The rich scent of buttery polenta rose from the plate. The meat fell apart at the touch of his fork and he took a bite. Even with the fresh herbs and lemon zest sprinkled around the edges of the plate, it was indecently rich. Suddenly, he was starving again.
He hated to admit that Bellin’s food was every bit as good as the meal he and Olivia had enjoyed in New York. Actually, it was better. For all the technical brilliance and artful elegance of the foams and spumes, Sean much preferred food grounded in simple tradition. He swirled the red wine in his glass and sniffed, anticipating the way it would wrap itself around the flavors already in his mouth. He took a sip and let the liquid flow over his tongue before he swallowed.
“How is Chameleon, Olivia?” Mrs. Marconi asked.
“Joe and Marlene have it covered. Those two are like lightning in the kitchen.” Olivia picked at her veal shank. She cleared her throat and set her fork down on her plate. “Mamma, I—”
The door to the kitchen flew open with a bang and Alessandro entered the dining room, carrying an open bottle of wine and a pitcher of water. Sean leaned aside to allow him to pour yet another glass. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel drunk, just very mellow. “Thank you,” he murmured, taking Olivia’s hand under the table. She didn’t pull away and that small victory filled him with pleasure. Her hand felt strong. Her fingers were long and delicately shaped. He rubbed the hollows between her knuckles and caressed the space between each finger. He rested his fingertips on the pulse in her wrist and felt it beat, slow and steady.