She seems amused. “Is that really different?”
“Oh, yes. One concerns the person, the other his attitude, his philosophy of life,” I say. “The fact that Marco and I disagree doesn’t mean that I don’t love him.”
“And what exactly is your philosophy of life?”
“Is this an interview? Do you need it for your new article?”
“Maybe.” She grins. I begin to relax. She has a way of making you talk. You reveal things you’d rather keep to yourself, without feeling uncomfortable. Besides, she’s not sulking anymore. I hate nothing more than a woman who never lets you forget what you did wrong. After a little pause, I look at her, determined not to let her green eyes affect me.
“My grandmother believed that a successful life isn’t measured by the amount of money you make. You just have to feel a connection to something to be happy.” I gesture from the hills to the sky. “For example, to this land.”
“Your grandmother was a wise woman.”
“And all her wisdom could really get on your nerves. Tre Camini meant everything in the world to her, even though she didn’t know anything about agriculture before she married. Olives or wine would be a more profitable business in this type of soil, but my family has always been obsessed with harvesting the best apricots in the area—the queen of fruits. My grandfather died in these fields. My father was broken here by his unfulfilled dream, to make our apricots known all over Europe. Nonna passed on this inheritance, and I . . .” I rummage in my jeans pockets until I remember that I smoked the last cigarette last night.
“And you?” Signora Philipp looks at me attentively.
“I can’t give it up,” I say, and the truth, unspoken until now, almost chokes me. “I can’t give it up even if I wanted to.”
I swallow hard and clear my throat so this woman doesn’t get the impression that I’m about to cry like a girl. “Which leads me to your question about the somewhat unfortunate situation you landed in. My grandmother’s last will—”
“Stipulates that you have to get married in order to inherit the estate,” she finishes. She looks at me with part amusement and part compassion. “Lucia told me.”
I shrug. “What can I say? Nonna was convinced that I need a woman at my side.”
She thinks for a moment. “Why don’t you ask your ex-girlfriend? She still seems to be into you.”
I feel my forehead wrinkle. “Sofia? Are you joking?”
“I’m not.”
The mere thought is absurd. Getting involved with Sofia a second time would be like getting back on a motorcycle after breaking both legs—and arms—in a high-speed accident. I might be a fool, but I’m not stupid. “I plan to get married but not stay married. Divorcing a woman from anywhere around Montesimo is unthinkable—family honor, purgatory, all that stuff.”
“I understand. So that’s why you thought of me,” she says with some heat. “I’m half-German and have no family or any of that other inconvenient stuff.”
“Well, you don’t seem to be a strict Catholic, and I mean that as a compliment.”
The corners of her mouth twitch. “What if I still say no?”
“You wanted to know what I’m going to do about the lawsuit against your magazine.” I push aside the feeling that I’m setting something in motion that will turn out badly for everyone involved. No matter how wrong my plan might be, I have no other choice. “I will withdraw the suit in exchange for a short-term marriage—a second business deal. After that, you’re free as a bird. An employed bird.”
“You can’t be serious! You have me work as a slave in your kitchen for two weeks, and now you’re trying to blackmail me again? Don’t you think that’s a little over-the-top?”
I’m glad that she’s mad as hell—it makes her predictable and lowers my body temperature by ten degrees. Raving women leave me absolutely cold.
“I’m Italian, Signora Philipp. An Italian never goes too far, only as far as it takes. Just look at it this way: I’ll pretend that the deal is a request, and we’ll forget that you have no choice.”
Signora Philipp doesn’t barrage me with insults and curses, like an Italian woman would. “I have no choice,” she repeats, looking out over the hills. Then she looks straight at me. “We finally seem to agree on something, Signor Camini.”
I can’t help feeling triumphant. “So we have a deal?” I stretch out my hand.
“Isn’t there something you forgot?” she says icily.
I drop my hand. It was too easy.
“It’s customary for a man to ask the bride formally.”
“Are you kidding? You want a formal marriage proposal?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Just look at it this way: I’ll pretend to do it out of my own free will, and we’ll forget that you don’t have a choice, either.”
At first I don’t know whether to be impressed or upset. She doesn’t look like she’s joking. I think of Tre Camini and my apricots; of Alberto, Paolo, and Rosa-Maria; of Nonna and Lucia. Remembering the look on Marco’s face does the rest. I’ll have to swallow my pride, even if the bitter pill is as big as the giant glass marbles Marco and I used to fight over. I sink down on a knee and take Signora Philipp’s hand. It rests limply in mine.
“Dear Signora Philipp, will you marry me?” I say. I just hope that none of the laborers witness this spectacle. She looks down at me silently.
“Not very convincing,” she says finally and withdraws her hand. After what seems like an eternity, she adds, “But I’ll look the other way.”
Relieved, I get up, wishing I could shake myself like a dog—and not because my pants are dusty.
“You’re doing me a big favor,” I say. It’s hard to sound grateful. I’d much rather wring her neck for humiliating me in front of the entire world, even if only a few rabbits saw me on my knees.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says. “I’m doing it for my job, which means at least as much to me as the apricots mean to you. And for Lucia, who liked your stupid idea because she believes in true love. I won’t be the one to tell her the truth.”
She’s right. Disappointing Lucia is like leaving a pizza in the oven too long. You burn your mouth and then do everything you can to never do it again.
“We’ll let Lucia believe her fairy tale until I have my fields and your boss has forgiven you. Then you’ll be out of here, and I’ll take care of everything else,” I say, as if everything else will be a breeze. Lucia isn’t going to speak to me for the next thirty years.
“And you’re sure you’re not in the Mafia and ‘out of here’ means I’ll find myself in some lake with my feet in concrete?” She rubs her arms as if she were cold. The gesture makes her seem stubborn and vulnerable at the same time, and I have to fight the urge to step closer to her.
“The Mafia is everywhere around here, Signora Philipp. But you don’t have to worry—there’s not a single lake.”
But she doesn’t seem to find me funny.
Her handshake is dry and firm, just like the way she speaks: short and resolute. Then she gathers the sandwich wrappings, neatly folding rather than crumpling the paper, and limps in her one slipper toward the truck. I bite my lip.
“Signora Philipp?”
“What?”
“I think it’s time we address each other less formally.”
Hanna
I prepared myself for all sorts of responses—anything from a one-minute laughing fit to a sermon. I even prepared myself for a torrent of French expletives. But I didn’t expect silence on the other end of the line.
“Claire, are you still there?” I whisper.
“Hm.”
“Is that all? You can’t come up with anything more than a lame ‘hm’?”
Silence again. In the background, I hear the sounds of a metropolis at night. How I’d love to be back in Berlin right now, sittin
g at my desk in the deserted office, listening to the clicking of my keyboard and the radio on low, while the muted sounds of cars and occasional honking come through the windows. A week ago, silly cow that I am, I had no idea that my life was so together.
“Oooh, I’m still sorting,” she finally says. An alarming word. She usually only says “sorting” when she’s talking about Jan’s socks.
“And how much longer do you need?” I ask.
“Hold on a moment. You don’t answer my calls for days. Then you call at one in the morning with a crazy love story and expect a coherent analysis from me? C’est impossible!” Claire starts laughing.
“What do you mean, ‘love story’?” I say, and she just laughs louder.
“First you have to toil in the kitchen so Fabrizio will take back his poor grandmother, who’s languishing in your underwear. Then he wants you to marry him so he’ll drop the suit. And now you—both of you—have to play the loving couple for his crazy family even though you aren’t in love. And on top of that, this Italian lord of the manor is not an obnoxious country boy, but an educated and extremely sexy man. So if you ask me, it definitely sounds like a love story. Actually, an amour fou, if you know what I mean—a tale of passion. Dime-novel writers would kill for that storyline.”
“But I don’t think Fabrizio is sexy at all.”
“Of course not,” Claire says. “Your nether regions have always been slower than your brain.”
I gasp. This conversation isn’t going the way I wanted it to. Whatever her reaction, I didn’t expect to be more confused after telling her everything.
“Claire, I know it’s a disaster. You don’t have to rub it in.”
“What do you want me to say?” Claire asks, and I can tell that she’s smiling. She drives me up the wall sometimes.
“What do you think? I want you to tell me how I can get out of this mess.”
“Pas du tout” is her prompt reply.
“What do you mean, ‘not at all’?”
“I mean absolutely not. There’s a reason you are where you are.” I can imagine her nonchalant shrug. “Make the best of it.”
Make the best of it? That’s easy for her to say. I close my eyes. “So you think I should actually marry him?” I say, even though the answer was obvious even before I called.
“What do you have to lose? Worst-case scenario, you can’t show your face in this Monte-whatever again. It seems like Signor Camini will keep his promise. And divorces can be arranged quickly—if you will still want one.”
“Of course I’ll want a divorce.”
“Then it’s all crystal clear,” Claire says gently, and I can tell she doesn’t believe a word I say. “But if you want my two cents’ worth: Find things to like at that place. I know you have to sweat it out in the kitchen, and this Rosa-Maria sounds scary, but hey, you’re at a romantic manor house in Tuscany with a gorgeously built . . .”
“Shut up, Claire.”
“I won’t say anything else. Just buckle down and enjoy beautiful Italy. Savoir vivre, remember?”
“I’ll try. I’m sorry for waking you.” I don’t want to hang up. I wish Claire could hug me right now. This Italian chaos is wreaking such havoc with me that I even want my mother.
“Pas de problème, that’s what friends are for. But Hanna?”
“Yes?”
“Just listen to your heart for a change.”
Chapter Nine
Hanna
“Hey, Signora Know-It-All! If you want to learn things about Italian food, you’ve got to watch.”
I’ve been trying—desperately—to see the sunny side of my Italian situation. The last three days, I’ve gotten up with Vittoria’s crowing, worn the apron and slippers, and finished Rosa-Maria’s slave labor without complaint. I’m even reading the awful dime novels to soften her up.
Fabrizio’s only shown up for meals—which he eats, like his brother, in silence—so my days are an herb-infused blur of Rosa-Maria’s commands, Lucia’s consolations, and the crushing realization that my article was completely off. Rosa-Maria guards the quality and freshness of her ingredients like a bloodhound.
“Terribile, absolutely awful!” Rosa-Maria stares at the content of my pot. I wanted to prove that even Germans can make a delicious Bolognese sauce, but she shakes her head. “The meat is dry and flavorless.” She throws the sauce into the sink.
“But you didn’t even try it,” I protest.
She shrugs. “If the aroma comes out instead of staying in the sauce, the ragù is only good for chickens.” The master cook pushes me aside and sets her own tomato sauce on the stove. She opens the freezer and takes out a brick-size package of ground meat.
“You can’t sauté the meat first. That destroys the flavor,” she tells me. I watch in disbelief as she plops the brick into the sauce. Luckily Lucia rushes into the kitchen right then, drowning out my “Yuck!”
“Does anyone know where I put the guest list?” She glances around the kitchen, lifts a cutting board, checks underneath it, and then drops it back on the counter.
“What guest list? Shouldn’t a wedding at city hall be over in half an hour?” I say suspiciously.
Lucia looks at me as if I’d lost my marbles. Rosa-Maria stirs her pot and chuckles quietly.
“Benvenuto in bella Italia,” she mumbles and exchanges a glance with Lucia.
“We have to move the ceremony to the community hall,” Lucia says.
“Why?”
“Well, there’s not enough room at city hall.”
“But this family isn’t that big.” Then I understand—although I’d prefer to not know the answer to my next question. “How many people are coming?”
“According to the mayor, our village has three hundred and fifty-six people, not counting children.”
I swallow. Three hundred fifty-six witnesses to the biggest lie of my life. Can it get any worse? I plop down on the bench next to Alberto. He’s staring at the television, and I suddenly wonder if he uses the TV as a cover for eavesdropping.
“But do we have to invite everyone? It’s not even a church wedding,” I say in a tiny voice.
“Fortunately, we don’t have to bother to invite anyone. Everyone in the village will show up anyway, if only for Rosa-Maria’s ribollita,” Lucia says. “Of course, they’ll also come because of you and Fabrizio. They just love your incredibly romantic story.”
“How nice.” Help!
“We’ll obviously have to hold a church wedding later—a grand one, with a wedding dress and a cake and all the works. Otherwise everyone will be insulted. I hope your relatives from Berlin will be able to come then, too. This is just a warm-up celebration.” Lucia beams.
Wedding dress and wedding cake. I’m about to throw up.
“All of this really sounds in-cred-ibly romantic,” says someone behind us. Marco is leaning against the door with arms folded. My cheeks heat up when I notice a crumpled edition of Genusto magazine under his arm. Didn’t I see Fabrizio stash the article in his desk drawer? I somehow manage to endure Marco’s piercing look and paste on a casual smile.
“Ciao, Marco. Would you like an espresso?” I say nonchalantly. It’s not that I don’t like Marco. I still feel the same way about him as on my first day, when we ran into each other in the hallway. But now I seem to run into him all the time. And he always looks at me as if he knows something is fishy. It makes me very uncomfortable.
He comes into the kitchen, kisses Lucia, and gently touches her nose. “Yes, I’d actually like an espresso. Maybe you could drink one with me, Hanna—in the office. There are a few things that we need to discuss about the wedding.”
“Oh, I’d love to, but”—I look at Rosa-Maria for help; she’s stirring the frozen ground beef to perfection—“Rosa-Maria needs me.”
“Nonsense. It would be nice to not have Hanna under my fe
et for a while,” she says. Well, it was worth a try.
I make a last, desperate attempt. “But we were going to talk about Prudence and Hugh. I’m just at the exciting part where she finds the MacKay coat of arms in her medallion and Hugh’s attitude suddenly changes.” I have successfully ingratiated myself to the cook through sharing thoughts about Propelled by Hope, and I have to admit that I’m now as hooked on each installment as she is. After spending two sleepless nights with the first three, I’m so caught up in this love story—no matter how horrible it is—that I can’t wait to read the next part that Rosa-Maria doles out to me. But Rosa-Maria is too stoic for my excuses.
“No, no, Signora Can’t-Wait-for-It. I’m not going to tell you what happens next. That’ll be the day.” She laughs and wiggles her raised finger. At least she has warmed toward me a little, ever since Prudence and the breathtaking Hugh remind me each night that it has been ages since a man was next to me, let alone on me.
Marco gives Lucia another kiss, strokes her belly, and whispers something in her ear that makes her shake a finger in jest. I clear my throat, embarrassed. He turns around with a smirk on his face.
“Well, then, Signora Philipp. Let’s leave these experts to their work and have a look at the papers.”
“All right,” I say and accept two cups of coffee from Lucia.
Her smile comes from the heart. “It isn’t right anyway that you still do hard kitchen duty, when you’re Fabrizio’s fiancée,” she says.
Oh, you clueless angel. If you only knew.
“That’s exactly why I want to help.” I hesitate for a moment—Marco probably notices. “After all, soon I’ll be part of the family.”
I’m sure the face that Marco makes, as if he just saw a rat scurry across the tiled floor, is not in my imagination.
Fabrizio
“Dio, Fabrizio. Why are you sitting here alone in the dark?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Can’t you do that in the daylight, like a normal person?”
I squint when Lucia pushes the button to open the distillery’s blinds, and dust particles shimmer in the morning sun.
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