It was Pip’s turn to raise her eyebrows at Pedro. It was unusual to have anything but olive oil on the table in Spain.
He grinned. ‘The butter, right? A local guy went over the border to learn how to make it. Those French are good for something. Butter and bread. See, try this. It’s crisp on the outside, slightly chewy on the inside. Try it with the roe.’
She wanted to ask the provenance of the salmon roe but decided to do that when they were back in the kitchen. Was it really worth provoking an argument over a nice lunch? It could be local. She loaded up her torn piece of bread with a thick swipe of butter, some flakes of salt and a dripping teaspoon of the tiny pink bubbles.
‘Oh. My. God.’
Pedro grinned as Pip stuffed the rest of the bread into her mouth.
‘Did your dad smoke the salmon roe?’ she asked as she ran her tongue around her mouth, soaking up the flavour. The balls had burst, like pods of smoked seawater. She washed it all down with a sip of sparkling white txakoli. What a way to start a meal!
When she’d scooped up every last pink globe, running her fingers over the plate to wipe it clean, the waiter stepped forward and removed it.
Returning, he placed a jug of cider in front of them and two beer glasses. She knew this was local—they must have walked past more than one hundred barrels in just less than thirty kilometres today. As Pedro poured them each a generous glass, Pip sat back in her seat and started to tell Pedro about the chestnut grove where she grew up, her parents and her brilliant older sister. She decided to omit Jack. No-one wants to hear a breakup story over a delicious lunch.
The next dish was a plate of pickled elvers, smoked so they had turned from white to grey. Crisp and delicate, she could still taste the salty oil. ‘You know,’ said Pedro, ‘we keep these live under the waterfall around the back in spring and summer, near the vegetable patch, until they are ready to be preserved or cooked.’
‘Do you know how amazing eels are?’ Pip asked. ‘How far they travel to get to the sea? How much they transform to survive?’
‘I’ve heard. They go overland, right?’
‘Yes, they metamorphose. They live inland in lakes and dams and rivers for years, and then in autumn they will make their way overland—like snakes—dipping in and out of drains and water systems over these hills and mountains until they get to the Bay of Biscay.’
‘You mean the eels can come through the drains in Donostia?’
‘Basically they get to sea any way they can. Once they hit the salt water, they change, grow gills and swim thousands of kilometres to the Sargasso Sea. There they have a rave, lay a million eggs, and the elvers migrate back to land.’
‘And then the whole cycle starts again.’ Pedro shook his head. ‘That is pretty incredible. And so is your knowledge of all the seafood. We’ve never had anyone like you working in the kitchen before. I mean, everyone loves the detail, but not everyone understands it like you.’
Pip felt herself blushing, as she nodded and dipped her cider glass at Pedro. She was onto number three.
‘Or questions Eduardo!’ Pedro returned her salute and took a sip of his cider.
And so they laughed and chatted their way through eight slow courses. Pip tried the local percebes—goose barnacles plucked from rocky outcrops on the nearby foreshore—succulent razor clams and huge prawns from the deepest part of the bay. Pedro insisted she sample the pigeon breast and they shared a few caramelised beef ribs. They also had a salad of mixed leaves, as well as white asparagus, turnips, fennel, sweet carrots and beets from Telmo’s garden. The ceps and zizias were dished up smoked with a touch of olive oil infused with garlic and chilli. The pair washed the meal down with a few glasses of a smooth red Rioja until Telmo insisted they sample ‘just a dash’ of his homemade Patxaran liqueur. He’d collected the tiny sloe berries from nearby hedgerows and marinated them with a handful of coffee beans and cinnamon in anisette for twelve months. He served it alongside the beet and radish carpaccio and a raw goat’s cheese from a nearby farm.
Pip was leaning back in her chair, completely sated, when the chef himself appeared at her shoulder and placed a quenelle of ice cream in front of her.
‘Oh, Telmo—that was amazing! Wait until I tell my dad about this place. He manages to burn the chops every time. I’m going to bring him back here for a masterclass. Seriously. And the beets were incredible with the goat’s cheese. I’m not sure I have room for ice cream after that incredible meal.’ She picked up the plate to hand it over the table to Pedro but he shook his head.
‘You must try it. It’s Papa’s speciality.’
‘Okay.’ She lifted a spoonful to her lips and was struck by a smoky vanilla taste tinged with rosemary. It was perhaps the oddest—and yet most perfect—vanilla ice cream she’d ever had.
‘Telmo, you are a fire god. A genius. I think that was one of the best meals I’ve ever had in my life. Thank you.’
Telmo grinned. ‘I’m just a parrillero. There are many men like me who grill meat up here in the villages.’ He smiled at Pedro and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps when my son has finished with the fancy Donostia food he will come and cook with his papa.’
‘You can’t afford me, Papa,’ Pedro joked, but Pip noticed a wistful glance at the floor. ‘Come, Pip. It’s dark now. That was a long late lunch! We’ll walk up to the cabaña. It’s not far.’ He stood and kissed his father on both cheeks and Pip found herself caught in a bear hug with the jovial Telmo. She managed to extract herself with a promise to return in the morning for a lesson on which wood matched what vegetable and cut of meat. If she could walk tomorrow, that was, she thought ruefully. They had covered a lot of ground that day and most of it was uphill. She had a lovely buzz from a combination of weary muscles and new experiences.
Pedro and Pip stepped through the front door and wandered across a courtyard paved with old flagstones and along a small path that led to a tiny stone cottage attached to a larger villa.
It was a clear evening and Pip could just make out the hint of mountains in the distance. Maybe it was the wine, but the stars look soft and blurry, as if they could warm her hands if she just reached out. She marvelled at how the same sky could look so foreign. Her stars at home under the Tasmanian sky look so sharp and felt a lifetime away. The Saucepan was upside down. Orion. Pedro stepped closer and slipped his arm around her waist, tracing the Milky Way with his free hand.
Pip turned her head to kiss him. His lips tasted of apples, vanilla with a hint of smoke, but his hungry probing was far less innocent. He wrapped both arms around her and gently twisted her body to face his. They hugged—softly, tentatively, before stepping closer and clinging tight.
Pip ran her hand up the back of his untucked shirt, before slipping it underneath and sliding it along the edge of his jeans until she reached a soft line of hair leading to those defined abs. She let one hand rest there for a moment, running her fingers over his muscles while she used the other to pull his body against her.
Very slowly, Pip pulled away to catch her breath, adrenaline pumping, stomach churning with apprehension and excitement. She shouldn’t be doing this, should she? She still loved Jack. But Jack didn’t want her.
Despite her resolve not to contact him, she’d texted him the day before asking if she could visit him in Italy, but as usual he hadn’t responded.
What had she expected? Pip didn’t need to read the stars to know she and Jack were over. There was no going back. Not now.
Pip sighed and felt her skin shiver as Pedro traced the line of her cheek and tucked a curl behind her ears, his dark brown eyes shining with desire.
He leaned in for another lingering kiss. Pip trembled as he tugged her light cotton T-shirt and she gave in to her own longing and loneliness, gripping him hard and pushing him up against the wall. His body was a new sensation—fine and wiry like a dancer’s—and she wanted to run her mouth and hands over every inch of it. Pedro caressed the sweep of Pip’s back under her T-shirt as he p
ulled her hips tight against his. Fingers tiptoed up her spine, following the line of her sports bra to her breasts. Slipping his hand beneath the fabric, he cupped one, squeezing it like a peach. Then he slowly started to unbutton her shorts. Before she could stop herself, Pip’s fingers were fumbling for his belt buckle.
Pip had promised herself before today’s hike that Pedro was just a friend. But standing pressed against him, huddled against the chilly mountain air and the stars, Pip thought: Why not?
Electricity fizzed through every cell. She needed this.
Pip shimmied out of her shorts, feeling the cool air wrap around her body. Pedro kneeled down to plant a row of kisses up her thigh while running his hands up the backs of her legs.
Then he stood up, locked eyes with her, and took her face gently between both hands. Pedro’s brown eyes were dancing with kindness and yearning. He brushed hair out of her eyes, caressed her cheek. How could she resist?
Pip sighed and moved against him, their bodies starting to form a rhythm. Pedro groaned and whispered, ‘Let’s go inside.’
Pip opened her eyes and stared at the wall beside the bed. The stones seemed to be arranged in no particular pattern; just a hodgepodge of reddish stones jammed together with lime mortar instead of concrete. Her head thumped, the roof of her mouth was dry and it hurt to swallow. It hurt to move.
She didn’t want to roll over just yet. Or try to find her clothes. She needed to get her head around what had happened the night before, so she pretended to be asleep.
Pip heard footsteps. Pedro adjusted the sheet and duvet, pulling it over her shoulder to protect her from the frosty morning air. She couldn’t bear to open her eyes to look at him. She’d been having such a beautiful evening—then what?
After she and Pedro had come inside, he’d lit the fire and offered her some local absinthe. Her cheeks burned and her skin tingled as she remembered leading him to the couch and stretching out on top of him. They’d rolled around, wrapped together, Pip discovering the sinewy lines of his body, Pedro running his gentle hands—then those full red lips—over her curves as he pulled her closer and closer with each stroke. Kissed her deeper.
Pip shuddered as she tried to extinguish the heat and longing coursing through her veins: last night had been heaven.
Bittersweet.
Mother Artemisia had not been kind. Pip’s dreams were torrid, drowned in absinthe. And now here she was, in a tiny mountain villa with a man who wanted to create an eel dish with her, and perhaps a home—and all she could think about was Jack. She wanted Jack’s rough hands against her cheek, stroking her thigh. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell him—soil and salt. She squeezed the pillow with frustration. If she wasn’t cheating, then why did she feel so guilty?
She rolled over, irritated. Pedro thought she should be a chef, that she was wasting an opportunity. It was flattering, of course. Pedro was adorable. And that lithe caramel body, those elegant hands—she flushed.
But why did Pedro think he knew what was best for her? In a weird way, this was exactly what Jack had been like before they broke up. Pip lay back on the pillow and took a deep breath as the realisation hit.
All this time she’d blamed herself for the broken engagement—and her broken heart. But really, Jack had forced her hand. He had been uncompromising. She buried her face in the pillow as the truth washed over her. Did he have any regrets? she wondered.
Pedro walked into the room as his iPhone beeped on the bedside table and he checked the message.
‘Sorry, I thought it was my phone but it’s yours,’ he said as he passed Pip the phone.
Love to see you next week. Fine to stay. Have spare room. Jack
Chapter 21
Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487
Jacobus said, ‘You’re the colour of this aioli,’ as Artemisia stepped into the stifling heat of the kitchen. She’d been up before the sun all summer preparing for this feast and she felt as faded, old and beaten as the crocks and pots hanging along the wall. When she saw her reflection in the tiny kitchen window, her eyes were red and puffy and her nose raw where she had wiped it with her rough tunic. She glanced down at the glossy surface of the aioli Jacobus was stirring and noticed a speckling of lice and pockmarks where his sweat dripped. She could not muster the energy to scold the boy as he used his wooden spoon to push the lice under the surface and gave it a good mix to be sure.
Hildegard gently ushered Artemisia into a wooden chair. Once seated, she dropped her forehead onto the table. Her shoulders were shaking. Everyone in the kitchen stopped moving—the ding of the rotisserie chains hitting their mark missed a beat. She shouldn’t be sitting when there was work to be done, but she was too weak to stand.
Hildegard bustled past her, waving her knobbly fingers at Jacobus to indicate he should get on with it. Pierre nodded and started turning the chains. The old woman took a cup from a hook above the stove and scooped it into a small crock that had been boiling away all day, releasing a sour, putrid smell. Hildegard poked Artemisia in the back and she sat up obediently, wiping her nose with the hem of her tunic. She took a sip and grimaced. Hildegard gave her a soft whack, and she took another sip and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Holy Mother of God! I need something stronger.’ She looked around the room and made eye contact with Jacobus. ‘Boy, take a tankard from the larder and sneak out to the barrels where Abbot Roald and the monks blended the honey mead. Fetch me a full serve. And don’t be stealing any for yourself. Run now. And if you get caught, I’ll whip you myself.’
When the boy returned, Artemisia sat sipping the mead as she sagged back in the chair and tried to ignore the clanging and chatter around her. Her tunic and undershirt clung to her arms and back and she could feel the sweat dripping down her chest. She needed to reset her humours. It was unlikely a drop of mead would do it before she continued with the preparations, but the buzz settled her nerves and broke the back of her despair. There was no time to wallow in the muck of her own pity.
She was pleased enough with the mead blend. She’d pulped Abbot Roald’s request of juniper, anise, fennel seed, lemon balm and hyssop in the mortar. He insisted Abbot Bellamy’s traditional mead blend for banquets using Artemisia and coriander seed was too bitter. In God’s eyes, there was no room for Artemisia—many men died from the waters, because they were made bitter by this most poisonous herb.
Though she felt giddy her heart still ached. She reached down and patted her pocket—as if solace was curled up with the gift. Her betrothal.
‘Boy, wash this tankard please. And don’t be getting any more of your lice in the sauce. You’ll be fishing for them if I catch you again. I’m heading into the cold store. Pierre, mind the pork. We don’t want the stuffing to split.’ With that she walked the few short steps to the larder and blocked out the searing heat of the kitchen by closing the door gently behind her.
She struck a match, lit the candle on the middle shelf and pulled Andreas’s gift from her pocket. It was a small book, the likes of which she had seen them fashion at the printery in the village on market days.
She ran her hands over the calfskin jacket, then she peeled back the cover to reveal the dedication inked in indigo on the finest white parchment:
For Artemisia,
Mother of Herbs,
With all my love on our betrothal,
Your Andreas
She pressed it to her cheek and took a deep breath. Her Andreas.
She turned the page and felt her heart almost leap from her chest. Spread across the parchment was an indigo illustration of Artemisia’s version of Château de Boschaud—with the walled garden drawn with such texture and shading she could almost feel the granite. She recognised the berry path, the whirl of the maze garden with the circular seat at the centre and all the wicker supports and strut work in the physic garden. The circular orchard was set out, with the finest cherry and pear blossoms, and at the heart was Abbot Bellamy’s old rose garden. Bless his sou
l. Andreas had traced perfect buds spilling over chestnut stakes—but Artemisia’s stomach sank. Lady Rose would never have any idea about how the kitchen had toiled to welcome her into her new home. She ran her fingertips in a tiny circle, feeling the slightest indentation in the page until she traced it over to the far corner of the picture where the wild chestnut and oak forest swept off the page. She felt herself blush as she let her eyes linger on the two ghost-like figures entwined in the lower corner.
The image was so faint she almost missed it. There was no mistaking the setting, nor the lovers.
Chapter 22
Tuscany, October 2014
‘I was surprised to get your text,’ said Jack as he sped away from Galileo International Airport. It was a clear autumn afternoon and the only interruption to the stretch of blue sky across the windscreen was the occasional white speck of a plane.
Pip looked across at Jack’s strong hands gripping the steering wheel and glanced at his face. His eyes were fixed on the road. What the hell was she doing here? How could she tell him she wanted him after … She pushed Pedro from her mind. No, she didn’t deserve Jack, not one millimetre.
Pip couldn’t stop jiggling her feet as she thought of the sparkling line of stars, Pedro’s hands exploring her body. His soft kisses on her neck, his dancing tongue. Her stomach curdled with bitter regret. Pedro was one night. Would Jack ever forgive her if she told him? Should she tell him?
She wanted to lean over and stroke Jack’s brown arm. But after their awkward embrace at the airport they’d barely spoken as he loaded her luggage into his strange old white car. Flying into Pisa to see Jack was starting to feel like a terrible idea.
‘Thanks so much for coming to get me at the airport. I know Pisa is a bit of a trek for you. What is this car, anyway? It’s like a hotted-up Peugeot on drugs.’
‘Panda. A classic. Four-wheel drive. Fits between the vines. This one’s about twenty years old. They never die apparently. Bought it from the English guy who was working at Falgino before me. He was a bit of a sap. The car’s cool, though. I love it.’
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