“Why are you sitting on the dirty floor?” she asks, both hands on her hips.
“You sound like Nonna,” I say, amused, but add, “This is a distillery, dear sister-in-law, not a hotel lobby.”
“This is a dirty shed, dear brother-in-law, not a distillery,” Lucia replies. She wrinkles her nose and gestures to stacked fruit crates in the middle of the room, broken glass in front of the shelves, and garbage bags piled at the door. Her public-health inspection makes me realize that I’ve worn the same stained work pants for an entire week.
“That’s no way to interact with customers,” she says.
“What customers?”
“Exactly. If I were a customer, I wouldn’t come here, either—no matter how good the liqueur is. We have to change that.”
She grabs a crate, turns it upside down, and sits on it, pressing her knees together. “So?” she says gently and puts her hands in her lap. I eye her suspiciously. Women who suddenly transform from lionesses to kittens have to be approached with caution.
“What do you mean?” Answering a question with a question is a safe approach for a man—most of the time, at least.
“You have to ask?”
“Lucia, help me out here. I’m a man. I have no idea what you women think. Why can’t you just ask a straightforward question?”
“Did you find Nonna’s recipe notebook?”
“No.”
“That’s not good, is it?”
“It’s a tragedy, at least for me. Marco will be delighted. It gives him one more argument for selling the fields.”
“You’re wrong about Marco, Fabrizio.”
“Maybe, but he hasn’t convinced me otherwise,” I say. I play with the knob of the thermostat. Maybe the liqueur isn’t right because I had it on too high and the water evaporated too quickly.
Without looking at me, Lucia says, “I thought you’d be happy, now that you found Hanna.”
“I am.”
“So why don’t I ever see you together?”
I sidestep her question. “She’s here. Isn’t that enough?”
“Enough?” She laughs. “You men are strange creatures. Of course it’s not enough! You should show her our neighborhood, take her out, introduce her to our friends . . . Show up in the village together. People are already talking.”
“Are they? What are they saying?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Lucia, if you bring up a subject, you have to make your point. So they’re gossiping about me and Hanna in the village,” I say, trying not to sound annoyed. I can easily imagine the tongues wagging, led by the old nag Gosetti, and the baker’s daughter—who feels cheated out of the title “lady of the manor”—and the lovely mayor’s wife.
“A few people claim you’re only doing it because of Nonna’s inheritance,” Lucia blurts out. I feel my cheeks heat up. Some people are actually smarter than I anticipated. “Is that true? Do you only want to marry Hanna because of the estate?”
“Do you think I’m capable of such a thing?”
Lucia hesitates, and then shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I just don’t want to be the target of all this speculation. We’re part of a village and have to play by the rules if we want to fit in. Lately Rosa-Maria keeps finding excuses for not going shopping so she can avoid the nasty gossip, and Alberto has been too afraid to go to the bakery for his sweets for the last three days.”
“You know about that?”
“You must all think I’m clueless. Obviously Alberto doesn’t drive to the village every day to get the mail,” she snorts with a tiny smile. “But I don’t have to take away all his fun, do I?”
“Have I ever told you that you’re a wonderful woman, Lucia?”
“If that’s your opinion, you should make sure I don’t turn into a cranky nervous wreck. Planning your wedding is all I can handle at the moment.”
“And I thought you volunteered for the job,” I grin, and duck—Lucia is winding up to hit me. “So you think I don’t pay enough attention to Hanna. All right, I can change that. I couldn’t care less about the village gossip, but we’ll take a few strolls across the town square holding hands, just for you. And we’ll go to that stupid dinner at Ernesto’s. Are you satisfied?”
“It’s not a stupid dinner. I think it’s a beautiful tradition that the mayor invites the couple to a dinner at city hall before their marriage,” Lucia says. It seems as if she wants to add something, but my warning glance makes her stop. I push aside the ugly thought that I once left Ernesto’s private residence slamming the doors and haven’t returned since. Today isn’t then, and even in small villages the dust eventually settles over scratches and wounds.
“All right, Lucia. We’ll have dinner there.”
“Good. Now go and shower and put on some clean clothes. If you stink like a donkey, you don’t have a chance—even with your fiancée.”
I offer an innocent smile. “Believe me, Lucia, Hanna accepts me in practically any condition.”
Hanna
It’s strange. I’m sitting in the same room, on the same chair that I sat in one week ago across from Fabrizio, and I feel more confused and insecure than ever. I didn’t realize that Fabrizio’s office is also Marco’s, which explains how he got hold of the article that he’s now smoothed and placed in the middle of the desk.
I give Marco a sideways glance. He leans back in Fabrizio’s chair, arms crossed, and watches a fly climbing along the window. Maybe I feel so uneasy because he doesn’t seem to belong in this room. Fabrizio filled it by his mere presence, but Marco looks like a misplaced puzzle piece behind this desk—somehow part of the picture, but trying too hard to fill a gap that he isn’t meant for. I’m slowly beginning to understand what Fabrizio said on Rabbit Hill. I startle when Marco suddenly addresses me, still watching the unfortunate fly.
“Did you know that Tre Camini is close to bankruptcy?”
I clear my throat. “No.”
He laughs as if my embarrassment delights him. “The advantage numbers have over people is that they can’t be misread. They prove where one really is in life.”
I fidget in my chair. “What exactly do you want from me, Signor Camini?”
“Call me Marco. After all, we’ll be family soon, as you said so beautifully.”
My throat constricts. His eyes are too knowing for me to brush away how uneasy I feel. He’s guessed that something isn’t right with the engagement, and part of the reason lies in front of us. He follows my look and points to the magazine. “Nice article, though somewhat destructive, I’d say,” he says. “You didn’t tell us that you’re a restaurant reviewer.”
“And I didn’t know that you spoke German,” I say.
He just smiles. “There are excellent translators available on the Internet, and they deliver within a few hours.”
I exhale. “The article was a mistake, and I’m here to write a retraction—among other things.”
“The secret mission, hm?” Marco reaches for a green notebook with a red bookmark and uses it to fan himself. “Drink your espresso. It’s getting cold,” he says without much interest, deepening my confusion. I follow the dangling bookmark with my eyes. This man is like a slippery eel—if you do manage to catch him, he shocks you. I pick up my cup, but my hand is shaking so much that I have to put it down. That makes me defiant.
“The article is none of your business, and I can’t think what we need to discuss about the wedding. So why are we sitting here?”
“I knew you were smart right away.”
“Get to the point, Marco. There’s work waiting for me,” I say coolly, not returning his smile. It promptly collapses. The change in his face is almost eerie, and I wonder how I could have been so wrong about him. His graciousness and good nature evaporate. He slams the notebook down and scrutinizes me like a mongo
ose stares down a rattlesnake.
“I want to discuss numbers with you—specifically, how much it will cost me for you and your wheeled suitcase to disappear. Whatever Fabrizio offered you to marry him, I’ll pay more.”
I let his words just sit there. They affect me more than I expected, and my confusion turns into rage within a few beats. The sneaky bastard.
“What makes you think that I can be bought?” I say with ice in my voice, noticing only then that I’m standing, not sitting, both of my hands on the desk. I lean forward, close to Marco’s smug grin. “Maybe you’re so grief-stricken over your grandmother’s death that you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lower my voice, even though I feel like screaming at him. “But don’t you dare ever treat me like a floozy again. I am your brother’s fiancée, and you will show me that respect. There’s only one reason I’m marrying Fabrizio: I love him. I’ve loved him from the first moment I met him, and nothing is going to change that, not a bankrupt estate and not a bag of bribe money. So shove your numbers and your Mafioso attitude where the sun don’t shine, brother-in-law.”
The silence lasts forever and my heart throbs hard. “Mon dieu,” Claire whispers in my head. “That was good enough for a movie—you sounded like you meant everything you said.”
But Marco’s face shows no emotion at all, not awe or anything else. Finally he shakes his head and bends down. He turns on the shredder under the desk.
“How very tragic. Such true love! And so one sided.” He picks up the notebook and holds it in his palm for a while. When I don’t answer—partly because of the enormity of what I just said and partly because his own damning words are just starting to make sense—he opens his eyes wide in mock horror: “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.” In one smooth movement, without looking down, he shoves the notebook into the shredder.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, voice raised to compete with the shredder, my arms crossed in front of my chest. This scene has the feel of a dark comedy—and I’m in the tragic main role. The play is Fabrizio’s, however, and I promised to be part of it.
After Marco turns off the shredder, he comes around to my side of the desk. I automatically shrink back. I’m taller than he, but still, alarm bells go off in my head. But Marco stops at an appropriate distance and leans against the desk.
“Our dear Fabrizio gave his heart to someone else long ago, Hanna, and you’re out of your league in that competition. Nothing to be ashamed of, but even a supermodel has no chance against Sofia. He’s using you, and he’ll get rid of you as soon as he has secured the inheritance. Everyone knows that, even the people in town.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re wrong,” I lie, cringing on the inside. Sofia. Actually, the signs have all been there. Marco inspects his fingernails with a smile. They’re short and neat, and his hands are probably soft as a baby’s.
“I hope for your sake that I am wrong,” he says. “Because if this marriage actually isn’t just a business deal, you’ll soon find out that you bet on the wrong horse. I only mean well.”
“Thank you for your concern. But I’m used to taking care of myself.”
To my relief, Marco doesn’t stop me from walking out. But I pause at the door. Damn my curiosity. “Why do you want to prevent this marriage so badly, Marco?”
He looks at me strangely. His chest rises and falls, and I suddenly realize that his cold and calculating behavior is only a facade. “I protect what I love, starting with my wife, all the way to this estate. Lucia has earned a comfortable life in a place where she feels at home. If my brother takes over Tre Camini and keeps dreaming of international success for his apricots, our business will have to declare bankruptcy within a few years. The restaurant and hotel won’t be able to offset the deficits in the long run. I cannot allow that.”
“I understand.” I can’t help feeling sorry for Marco. He’s in the same hopeless situation as his brother—both are afraid to lose what they love most. Sad, but none of my business. I straighten up and try to stay on script. “I’m going to marry Fabrizio, though. And you won’t be able to prevent it.”
“We’ll see. No hard feelings,” he says condescendingly.
I nod and turn to leave.
“One more thing, sister-in-law. Lucia hates to be lied to, especially by people she loves. If there’s any truth in my assumptions, you better tell her soon.” Pointing to the magazine, he says, “Before someone else decides to tell her.”
I’m too agitated to go back to the kitchen and pretend I had a nice little chat with Marco. So I grab the basket Lucia keeps in the hallway for collecting eggs and go to the chicken coop, a decision I regret the very moment I enter. A dozen eyes stare at me. Like the distillery next door, the shed is larger than it looks from outside. A wire cage takes up half the room, and the space smells strongly of straw and bird droppings. Three hens with fluffed feathers sit on metal roosts on one wall. Little wooden houses—for nesting, I assume—are lined up along the cage like a miniature village. There’s clucking and cackling inside. I look at the basket in my hand, not sure what to do. It would be embarrassing to leave without eggs. I put the basket down, drop onto a bale of straw, and bury my chin in my hands. The steady cackling is calming, even though I still feel a little nervous to be near the chickens.
I watch a speckled brown hen scratch in the straw and then I get up slowly, slide back the cage’s metal bolt, which feels oily against my fingertips, and push open the little door. The hen pauses and then continues scratching. OK. Let’s say that was an invitation. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and step inside the cage.
For quite a while I’m unable to move, more out of disbelief than fear. Nothing actually happens. The brown hen shows no intention of attacking me, but struts slowly away. The hens on the roost don’t seem to notice the intruder. I tiptoe to the nearest nesting house, while an army of fists drums against the inside of my chest. One egg. I’d like to leave with at least one egg. I carefully remove the nearest lid, and a deep, throaty sound greets me—not much different from a growl. I freeze and almost cry out. A familiar face stares at me: Vittoria.
Fabrizio
At first, Rosa-Maria doesn’t notice me. Elbows on the counter, she’s buried in one of her beloved trashy novels. Her mouth is half open, her face distorted like she’s about to sob and laugh all at once. The book looks old and tattered. She’s probably read it a hundred times. When I lightly knock on the doorframe, she gives a start and puts aside the booklet immediately.
“I don’t mean to disturb you, Rosa-Maria. Have you seen Hanna, by any chance?”
“The signora went to the chicken shed,” she says. She seems surprised that I don’t add one of my usual biting comments about her taste in reading material. She reaches for a wooden spoon and weighs it in her hand as if contemplating what to do with it. Then she starts to stir the large sauce pot energetically.
I cross the yard feeling guilty. It’s wrong to make Rosa-Maria feel bad about doing something she likes. I decide to keep my opinion about her books to myself from now on—she’s her own person, after all. I have no idea what makes me change my mind about this.
Hanna isn’t in the chicken coop or the distillery. Strong cigarette smoke wafts toward me from the woodshed, and I see Alberto and Paolo sitting on the wooden bench in front of it, deep in a conversation that mostly consists of expansive gestures and laughter. They stop immediately when they see me.
“Signora Philipp?” I say curtly, ignoring the bag of cookies that Alberto hides behind his back. He smiles and points right, while Paolo points left. Then they look at each other and laugh that hoarse, old-man laughter that sounds like the decrepit starter of a two-cycle engine. I keep walking.
I find Hanna where I least expected to—behind the shed in Lucia’s herb garden. It belonged to Nonna until she had to admit she had no green thumb. Then Nonna tried her luck with A
lberto’s bees, and, luckily for everyone, that was a success. Lucia has grown everything a cook’s heart desires in that garden ever since: wild thyme, garlic, rosemary, and edible wildflowers that Rosa-Maria uses to decorate dessert plates.
I stop in front of the crumbling stone wall that shows signs of losing its battle against the roots of a huge lavender bush. Hanna is huddled against the shed, her hands wrapped around her knees. She is looking at the horizon, where cypresses reach toward the sky like the tips of spears. She sits perfectly still, her graceful posture contrasting strangely with Lucia’s washed-out apron dress, which has slid up almost to her thighs. I suddenly remember something Salvi said: “I always thought that my Concetta’s legs were pretty, but now I adore them.” There’s much to adore about Signora Philipp’s legs.
A bee interrupts Hanna’s stillness. She gently brushes the pesky insect from her arm. Suddenly I feel like an intruder and quietly step back—not silently enough.
“It’s all right, Fabrizio. You can sit down.”
I’m unsure. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You didn’t?” She mocks me without turning her head.
“Whatever Lucia might say, I actually can sense when people want to be left alone,” I say. My voice betrays my hurt feelings, which upsets me even more. Hanna just smiles and motions with her chin for me to sit down next to her.
We sit silently for a while, but, unlike the last few times we’ve been alone, it’s not an uncomfortable silence. I look at the little basket at her feet and the single brown egg inside.
“Is that today’s entire yield? I’ll have to ask Alberto to feed the chickens more.”
“It’s actually a pretty good harvest for someone who’s scared stiff of chickens,” Hanna says. She sighs, and I sense exhaustion in it but also something else that I can’t quite explain. She reminds me of Marco when he’s reached the end of his daily run, or of Paolo when he’s picked the first apricot of the year.
Apricot Kisses Page 17