Lessons Learned

by Nora Roberts

  “First you mince the clams.”

  Juliet looked at Carlo, then down at the mess of clams on the cutting board. “Mince them?”

  “Like so.” Carlo took the knife and with a few quick moves had half of the clams in small, perfect pieces. “Try.”

  Feeling a bit like an executioner, Juliet brought the knife down. “They’re not…well, alive, are they?”

  “Madonna, any clam considers himself honored to be part of Franconi’s linguini. A bit smaller there. Yes.” Satisfied, he passed her an onion. “Chopped, not too fine.” Again, he demonstrated, but this time Juliet felt more at home. Accepting the knife, she hacked again until the onion was in pieces and her eyes were streaming.

  “I hate to cook,” she muttered but Carlo only pushed a clove of garlic at her.

  “This is chopped very fine. Its essence is what we need, not so much texture.” He stood over her shoulder, watching until he approved. “You’ve good hands, Juliet. Now here, melt the butter.”

  Following instructions, she cooked the onion and garlic in the simmering butter, stirring until Carlo pronounced it ready.

  “Now, it’s tender, you see. We add just a bit of flour.” He held her hand to direct it as she stirred it in. “So it thickens. We add the clams. Gently,” he warned before she could dump them in. “We don’t want them bruised. Ah…” He nodded with approval. “Spice,” he told her. “It’s the secret and the strength.”

  Bending over her, he showed her how to take a pinch of this, a touch of that and create. As the scent became more pleasing, her confidence grew. She’d never remember the amounts or the ingredients, but found it didn’t matter.

  “How about that?” she asked, pointing to a few sprigs of parsley.

  “No, that comes just at the end. We don’t want to drown it. Turn the heat down, just a little more. There.” Satisfied, he nodded. “The cover goes on snug, then you let it simmer while the spices wake up.”

  Juliet wiped the back of her hand over her damp brow. “Carlo, you talk about the sauce as though it lived and breathed.”

  “My sauces do,” he said simply. “While this simmers, you grate the cheese.” He picked up a hunk and with his eyes closed, sniffed. “Squisito.”

  He had her grate and stir while the rest of the kitchen staff worked around them. Juliet thought of her mother’s kitchen with its tidy counters and homey smells. She’d never seen anything like this. It certainly wasn’t quiet. Pans were dropped, people and dishes were cursed, and fast was the order of the day. Busboys hustled in and out, weighed down with trays, waiters and waitresses breezed through demanding their orders. While she watched wide-eyed, Carlo ignored. It was time to create his pasta.

  Unless it was already cooked and in a meal, Juliet thought of pasta as something you got off the shelf in a cardboard box. She learned differently, after her hands were white to the wrists with flour. He had her measure and knead and roll and spread until her elbows creaked. It was nothing like the five-minute throw-it-together kind she was used to.

  As she worked, she began to realize why he had such stamina. He had to. In cooking for a living the way Franconi cooked for a living, he used as much energy as any athlete did. By the time the pasta had passed his inspection, her shoulder muscles ached the way they did after a brisk set of tennis.

  Blowing the hair out of her eyes and mopping away sweat, Juliet turned to him. “What now?”

  “Now you cook the pasta.”

  She tried not to grumble as she poured water into a Dutch oven and set it on to boil.

  “One tablespoon salt,” Carlo instructed.

  “One tablespoon salt,” she muttered and poured it in. When she turned around, he handed her a glass of wine.

  “Until it boils, you relax.”

  “Can I turn down the heat?”

  He laughed and kissed her, then decided it was only right to kiss her again. She smelled like heaven. “I like you in white.” He dusted flour from her nose. “You’re a messy cook, my love, but a stunning one.”

  It was easy to forget the noisy, bustling kitchen. “Cook?” A bit primly, she adjusted her hat. “Isn’t it chef?”

  He kissed her again. “Don’t get cocky. One linguini doesn’t make a chef.”

  She barely finished her wine when he put her back to work. “Put one end of the linguini in the water. Yes, just so. Now, as it softens coil them in. Careful. Yes, yes, you have a nice touch. A bit more patience and I might take you on in my restaurant.”

  “No, thanks,” Juliet said definitely as the steam rose in her face. She was almost certain she felt each separate pore opening.

  “Stir easily. Seven minutes only, not a moment more.” He refilled her glass and kissed her cheek.

  She stirred, and drained, measured parsley, poured and sprinkled cheese. By the time she was finished, Juliet didn’t think she could eat a thing. Nerves, she discovered with astonishment. She was as nervous as a new bride on her first day in the kitchen.

  With her hands clasped together, she watched Carlo take a fork and dip in. Eyes closed, he breathed in the aroma. She swallowed. His eyes remained closed as he took the first sample. Juliet bit her lip. Until then, she hadn’t noticed that the kitchen had become as quiet as a cathedral. A quick glimpse around showed her all activity had stopped and all eyes were on Carlo. She felt as though she were waiting to be sentenced or acquitted.

  “Well?” she demanded when she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Patience,” Carlo reminded her without opening his eyes. A busboy rushed in and was immediately shushed. Carlo opened his eyes and carefully set down the fork. “Fantastico!” He took Juliet by the shoulders and gave her the ceremonial kiss on each cheek as applause broke out.

  Laughing, she pulled off her hat with a flourish. “I feel like I won a Gold Medal in the decathlon.”

  “You’ve created.” As Pierre boomed orders for plates, Carlo took both her hands. “We make a good team, Juliet Trent.”

  She felt something creeping too close to the heart. It just didn’t seem possible to stop it. “Yes, we make a good team, Franconi.”

  Chapter Eleven

  By twelve the next day, there was absolutely nothing left to be done. Carlo’s remote control demonstration on the proper way to prepare linguini had gone far beyond Juliet’s hopes for success. She’d stayed glued to the television, listening to Carlo’s voice beside her and through the speakers. When her supervisor called personally to congratulate her, Juliet knew she had a winner. Relaxed and satisfied, she lay back on the bed.

  “Wonderful.” She folded her arms, crossed her ankles and grinned. “Absolutely wonderful.”

  “Did you ever doubt it?”

  Still grinning, she shot a look at Carlo as he finished off the last of both shares of the late breakfast they’d ordered. “Let’s just say I’m glad it’s over.”

  “You worry too much, mi amore.” But he hadn’t seen her dig for her little roll of pills in three days. It pleased him enormously to know that he relaxed her so that she didn’t need them. “When it comes to Franconi’s linguini, you have always a success.”

  “After this I’ll never doubt it. Now we have five hours before flight time. Five full, completely unscheduled hours.”

  Rising he sat on the end of the bed and ran his fingers along the arch of her foot. She looked so lovely when she smiled, so lovely when she let her mind rest. “Such a bonus,” he murmured.

  “It’s like a vacation.” With a sigh, she let herself enjoy the little tingles of pleasure.

  “What would you like to do with our vacation of five full, unscheduled hours?”

  She lifted a brow at him. “You really want to know?”

  Slowly, he kissed each one of her toes. “Of course. The day is yours.” He brushed his lips over her ankle. “I’m at your service.”

  Springing up, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard. “Let’s go shopping.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Juliet strolled with Carlo
through the first tower of the enormous circular shopping center attached to the hotel. People huddled around the maps of the complex, but she breezed around the curve and bypassed one. No maps, no schedules, no routes. Today, it didn’t matter where they went.

  “Do you know,” she began, “with all the department stores, malls and cities we’ve been through, I haven’t had a chance to shop?”

  “You don’t give yourself time.”

  “Same thing. Oh, look.” She stopped at a window display and studied a long evening dress covered with tiny silver bangles.

  “Very dashing,” Carlo decided.

  “Dashing,” Juliet agreed. “If I were six inches taller it might not make me look like a scaled-down pillar. Shoes.” She pulled him along to the next shop.

  In short order, Carlo discovered Juliet’s biggest weakness. The way to her heart wasn’t through food, nor was it paved with furs and diamonds. Jewelry displays barely earned her glance. Evening clothes brought a brief survey while day wear and sports clothes won mild interest. But shoes were something different. Within an hour, she’d studied, fondled and critiqued at least fifty pairs. She found a pair of sneakers at 30 percent off and bought them to add to an already substantial collection. Then with a careful maneuver to pick and choose, she weeded her selection down to three pair of heels, all Italian.

  “You show excellent taste.” With the patience of a man accustomed to shopping expeditions, Carlo lounged in a chair and watched her vacillate between one pair then the other. Idly, he picked up one shoe and glanced at the signature inside. “He makes an elegant shoe and prefers my lasagna.”

  Wide-eyed, Juliet pivoted on the thin heels. “You know him?”

  “Of course. Once a week he eats in Franconi’s.”

  “He’s my hero.” When Carlo gave her his lifted brow look, she laughed. “I know I can put on a pair of his shoes and go eight hours without needing emergency surgery. I’ll take all three,” she said on impulse, then sat down to exchange the heels for her newly bought sneakers.

  “You make me surprised,” he commented. “So many shoes when you have only two feet. This is not my practical Juliet.”

  “I’m entitled to a vice.” Juliet pushed the Velcro closed. “Besides, I’ve always known Italians make the best shoes.” She leaned closer to kiss his cheek. “Now I know they make the best…pasta.” Without a blink at the total, she charged the shoes and pocketed the receipt.

  Swinging the bag between them, they wandered from tower to tower. A group of women strolled by, earning Carlo’s appreciation. Shopping during lunch hour, he gauged as he tossed an extra look over his shoulder. One had to admire the American workforce.

  “You’ll strain your neck that way,” Juliet commented easily. She couldn’t help but be amused by his blatant pleasure in anything female. He merely grinned.

  “It’s simply a matter of knowing just how far to go.”

  Comfortable, Juliet enjoyed the feel of his fingers laced with hers. “I’d never argue with the expert.”

  Carlo stopped once, intrigued by a choker in amethysts and diamonds. “This is lovely,” he decided. “My sister, Teresa, always preferred purple.”

  Juliet leaned closer to the glass. The small, delicate jewels glimmered, hot and cold. “Who wouldn’t? It’s fabulous.”

  “She has a baby in a few weeks,” he murmured, then nodded to the discreetly anxious clerk. “I’ll see this.”

  “Of course, a lovely piece, isn’t it?” After taking it out of the locked case, he placed it reverently in Carlo’s hand. “The diamonds are all superior grade, naturally, and consist of one point three carat. The amethyst—”

  “I’ll have it.”

  Thrown off in the middle of his pitch, the clerk blinked. “Yes, sir, an excellent choice.” Trying not to show surprise, he took the credit card Carlo handed him along with the choker and moved farther down the counter.

  “Carlo.” Juliet edged closer and lowered her voice. “You didn’t even ask the price.”

  He merely patted her hand as he skimmed the other contents in the case. “My sister’s about to make me an uncle again,” he said simply. “The choker suits her. Now emeralds,” he began, “would be your stone.”

  She glanced down at a pair of earrings with stones the color of dark, wet summer grass. The momentary longing was purely feminine and easily controlled. Shoes she could justify; emeralds, no. She shook her head and laughed at him. “I’ll just stick with pampering my feet.”

  When Carlo had his present nicely boxed and his receipt in hand they wandered back out. “I love to shop,” Juliet confessed. “Sometimes I’ll spend an entire Saturday just roaming. It’s one of the things I like best about New York.”

  “Then you’d love Rome.” He’d like to see her there, he discovered. By the fountains, laughing, strolling through the markets and cathedrals, dancing in the clubs that smelled of wine and humanity. He wanted to have her there, with him. Going back alone was going back to nothing. He brought her hand to his lips as he thought of it, holding it there until she paused, uncertain.

  “Carlo?” People brushed by them, and as his look became more intense, she swallowed and repeated his name. This wasn’t the mild masculine appreciation she’d seen him send passing women, but something deep and dangerous. When a man looked at a woman this way, the woman was wise to run. But Juliet didn’t know if it were toward him or away.

  He shook off the mood, warning himself to tread carefully with her, and himself. “If you came,” he said lightly, “I could introduce you to your hero. Enough of my lasagna and you’d have your shoes at cost.”

  Relieved, she tucked her arm through his again. “You tempt me to start saving for the airfare immediately. Oh, Carlo, look at this!” Delighted, she stopped in front of a window and pointed. In the midst of the ornate display was a three-foot Indian elephant done in high-gloss ceramic. Its blanket was a kaleidoscope of gilt and glitter and color. Opulent and regal, its head was lifted, its trunk curled high. Juliet fell in love. “It’s wonderful, so unnecessarily ornate and totally useless.”

  He could see it easily in his living room along with the other ornate and useless pieces he’d collected over the years. But he’d never have imagined Juliet’s taste running along the same path. “You surprise me again.”

  A bit embarrassed, she moved her shoulders. “Oh, I know it’s awful, really, but I love things that don’t belong anywhere at all.”

  “Then you must come to Rome and see my house.” At her puzzled look, he laughed. “The last piece I acquired is an owl, this high.” He demonstrated by holding out a palm. “It’s caught a small, unfortunate rodent in its talons.”

  “Dreadful.” With something close to a giggle, she kissed him. “I’m sure I’d love it.”

  “Perhaps you would at that,” he murmured. “In any case, I believe the elephant should have a good home.”

  “You’re going to buy it?” Thrilled, she clasped his hand as they went inside. The shop smelled of sandalwood and carried the tinkle of glass from wind chimes set swaying by a fan. She left him to make arrangements for shipping while she poked around, toying with long strings of brass bells, alabaster lions and ornamental tea services.

  All in all, Juliet mused, it had been the easiest, most relaxing day she’d had in weeks, maybe longer. She’d remember it, that she promised herself, when she was alone again and life wound down to schedules and the next demand.

  Turning, she looked at Carlo as he said something to make the clerk laugh. She hadn’t thought there were men like him—secure, utterly masculine and yet sensitive to female moods and needs. Arrogant, he was certainly that, but generous as well. Passionate but gentle, vain but intelligent.

  If she could have conjured up a man to fall in love with…oh no, Juliet warned herself with something like desperation. It wouldn’t be Carlo Franconi. Couldn’t be. He wasn’t a man for one woman, and she wasn’t a woman for any man. They both needed their freedom. To forget that would be to forge
t the plans she’d made and had been working toward for ten years. It was best to remember that Carlo was a ride on a carousel, and that the music only played so long.

  She took a deep breath and waited for her own advice to sink in. It took longer than it should have. Determined, she smiled and walked to him. “Finished?”

  “Our friend will be home soon, very soon after we are.”

  “Then we’ll wish him bon voyage. We’d better start thinking airport ourselves.”

  With his arm around her shoulders, they walked out. “You’ll give me our Philadelphia schedule on the plane.”

  “You’re going to be a smash,” she told him. “Though you might want to try my brewer’s yeast before it’s done.”

  “I can’t believe it.” At eight o’clock, Juliet dropped down into a chair outside customer service. Behind her, the conveyor belt of baggage was stopped. “The luggage went to Atlanta.”

  “Not so hard to believe,” Carlo returned. He’d lost his luggage more times than he cared to remember. He gave his leather case a pat. His spatulas were safe. “So, when do we expect our underwear?”

  “Maybe by ten tomorrow morning.” Disgusted, Juliet looked down at the jeans and T-shirt she’d worn on the flight. She carried her toiletries and a few odds and ends in her shoulder bag, but nothing remotely resembling a business suit. No matter, she decided. She’d be in the background. Then she took a look at Carlo.

  He wore a short-sleeved sweatshirt with the word Sorbonne dashed across it, jeans white at the stress points and a pair of sneakers that weren’t nearly as new as hers. How the hell, she wondered, was he supposed to go on the air at 8:00 A.M. dressed like that?

  “Carlo, we’ve got to get you some clothes.”

  “I have clothes,” he reminded her, “in my bags.”

  “You’re on Hello, Philadelphia in the morning at eight, from there we go directly to breakfast with reporters from the Herald and the Inquirer. At ten, when our bags may or may not be back, you’re on Midmorning Report. After that—”