Three Gold Coins

by Josephine Moon

  She waited, not knowing what to say, wondering why he was bothering to spend time talking to her when he clearly had come to see Samuel. She’d been deluded to think that there was any chance that he was interested in her. She’d let her feelings run swiftly in the wrong direction, something she’d certainly been guilty of doing before—it was par for the course for someone with her diagnosis—but which she thought she’d learned to control.

  Matteo reached for the shoulder strap of his bag and pulled it to the front, opening the zip. He pulled out a plastic bag. ‘I have your chicken and parmigiana.’

  She’d completely forgotten about that.

  ‘I remember that you want to make Samuel a special Tuscan dinner.’

  ‘Grazie.’ Lara stepped forward and took the bag, her fingers touching his, and an unmistakable pulse zinged up her arm. ‘Um, did you want to come inside?’ she asked, gesturing down the slope to the villa.

  ‘Sì,’ he said, and reached down to take the pail of milk before she could lift it.

  ‘Just a second,’ she said.

  She returned to the barn and pulled the slide bolt to let out the goats, who sprinted away, then turned to face each other, rising up on their back legs and slamming their horns together, play fighting, their tails wagging with glee. Lara laughed. And it felt good. Maybe she could shake this dark mood after all. She was still smiling when she turned back to Matteo.

  ‘Andiamo,’ she said.

  He smiled at her. ‘Andiamo.’

  Let’s go.

  They walked silently down the grassy hill and past the herb garden near the kitchen doors and into the cool inside. Matteo lifted the milk up onto the wooden bench while Lara put the chicken and cheese in the fridge.

  Samuel came in, bent over, his broken arm held across his body, his other hand on the walking stick. He was now much steadier than he had been in the days immediately after his fall. It was good to see.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ Samuel said, smiling at Matteo. Matteo greeted him and put his hand affectionately on Samuel’s shoulder. It was easy to see that he truly cared for his great-uncle. They conversed in Italian for a few minutes, Samuel even chuckling at something Matteo said, while Lara cleared the kitchen benches and sink, packing the small dishwasher in the corner of the room and turning it on.

  She heard her name and the word formaggio, which she recognised to mean cheese, and wondered if they were talking about her plans for dinner. She turned around, smiling—the only thing she could do when she couldn’t understand what they were saying. They were both looking at her and talking rapidly. Then they seemed to agree on something, and Samuel nodded and left the room.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Lara asked.

  ‘Samuel asked me to teach you how to make ch-cheese,’ Matteo said, standing tall again after having bent down to chat to Samuel.

  ‘Cheese?’

  ‘Sì. He usually makes it himself, but can’t now with his wrist. He is hoping you might enjoy learning? He says he knows it is your day off, so the choice is yours.’

  ‘I would love that,’ she said, welcoming the distraction. ‘Will we go to your goat farm, or will we stay here?’

  Matteo rocked his head from side to side, considering. ‘I think we will stay here today. We will keep it simple.’

  ‘Okay, sure.’

  ‘We will save the goat farm for another day,’ he said, giving her a smile that in any culture she was sure was flirtatious.

  They started by passing the fresh goat milk through a fine steel mesh to collect any dust or hairs that might have settled in it.

  ‘We’ll begin with ricotta,’ Matteo said, pulling aside the curtain under the sink to fish through the saucepans for a large one to suit his needs. ‘It is very easy.’

  ‘Good,’ Lara said. ‘I’m going to find a pen and paper to write notes as we go. Back in a moment.’

  She skipped up the stairs and went into her room to fetch her notebook and a pen. She also took a moment to visit the bathroom, putting on some tinted moisturiser and a little lip gloss, and finishing with a swipe of mascara. She adjusted the ties around her floral crossover shirt. Looking in the mirror, she was, if not pleased, content with what she saw. She’d learned that making the outside of herself look good could help the inside feel better too. And she needed to lift her mood today.

  Back in the kitchen, Matteo had taken off his sandals and was standing barefoot on the terracotta tiles. Behind him were garlic cloves and iron pots hanging on the walls, as well as a crucifix and an original painting of a little girl with an English collie. Lara had been waiting for the right moment to ask Samuel about it, to ask him if the girl was his daughter.

  ‘Right,’ she said, opening her notebook. ‘Where do we start? Do we need to pasteurise the milk?’

  ‘No, no,’ Matteo said, ‘we never p-p-pasteurise milk at the d-d-dairy. The m-milk has living bacteria that keep it in balance and give it taste. When you pasteurise, you change the way the milk behaves, you change the taste, the texture. It tastes all wrong. But we are going to heat it,’ he said, putting the large pot onto the gas burner and igniting it. ‘All we need for ricotta is milk, salt and lemon juice.’

  ‘Lemon juice?’ she quizzed, making sure she’d heard correctly.

  ‘Sì.’ He began pouring the goat milk into the pot. ‘We heat the milk and just before it boils we add lemon. The milk will split into the curd and whey.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  Matteo grinned, passing her a large wooden spoon. ‘Sì. You need to stir while it heats.’

  ‘I had no idea it was so easy.’ She stirred the milk silently while Matteo cut open a lemon and squeezed some juice, the sound of the gas humming between them.

  Matteo came to stand beside her to better view the pot. She could feel the warmth from his body and it made her feel connected to him, somehow.

  ‘Do we need a thermometer to know when to add the lemon?’ she asked.

  He grunted in response. ‘If you are a beginner, yes, a thermometer helps. You cook the milk to ninety-three degrees.’ He turned to look at her proudly. ‘But I know what I’m doing,’ he said, and winked.

  The smell of the lemon was sharp and refreshing and she inhaled deeply, revelling in its clean, uplifting notes.

  After a time, the milk began to change in almost imperceptible ways.

  ‘Getting closer,’ Matteo said.

  The colour deepened and the volume seemed to take on an energy, not thickening, but somehow inflating. Not simmering, but swaying.

  Matteo nodded and lifted the cup. ‘When the lemon goes in, very soon, you’ll see the milk split. Keep stirring, but only for a little bit, only until you see the curds begin to form. Stir for another one or two seconds, then stop. If you keep going, you will break up the curds.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lara said, far more confidently than she felt. It all sounded very precise and she didn’t want to mess it up. Her whole morning’s milking effort was in this pot. But she didn’t get too long to fret about it, because all too soon Matteo tipped in the lemon juice.

  ‘Keep stirring,’ he encouraged.

  Then she saw it. Like magic, the milk split before her eyes.

  ‘Keep going,’ he said.

  She held her breath, stirring, poised to stop on command.

  ‘Yes, now,’ Matteo said.

  She whipped out the spoon and he turned off the gas, then turned to her and grinned.

  ‘You did it,’ he said.

  She gave a small whoop, her whole mood changed with this achievement. ‘What now?’

  ‘Now we will strain off the whey.’ He pulled another pot and a strainer from under the sink. ‘You hold this and I’ll pour.’

  Lara did as she was told, feeling far more important in her role of strainer-holder than was probably warranted, but excited by the success of their cheesemaking. Matteo used cloth holders to grab either side of the large pot and bring it to the kitchen bench, lifting it to pour.

  ‘Careful you don
’t get splashed,’ he said.

  He poured the pot’s contents slowly, the pale, cloudy whey rushing through the strainer into the second pot while the chunky off-white curds huddled together, and then nodded in satisfaction. Whey was still slowly trickling from the curds in the strainer.

  ‘Now we strain this through cheesecloth,’ he said, pulling open a drawer to reveal piles of folded soft, crinkly white cloths. Yet another container was produced, this one much smaller, and he laid a cloth over the top, holding it taut. ‘Into here,’ he said, indicating with a nod that she should tip the curds into the cloth. Afterwards Matteo gathered up the edges of the fabric and twisted it, forcing the curds into a smaller and smaller ball as they released even more whey.

  Lara watched, fascinated, then picked up her notebook to write a few things down.

  Matteo gave the ball a few more squeezes. ‘We won’t take all the whey out,’ he said. ‘It will dry out the ricotta. But we want most. Can you please find me a container for it?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, dropping her pen and ferreting around in the cupboards for a plastic container with a lid. ‘How about this?’

  ‘Perfetto,’ he said.

  He tipped the ricotta into the container. It tumbled in in lovely soft piles.

  ‘Now we just add sale,’ he said, looking up at the spice rack.

  ‘Sale?’

  ‘Salt,’ he clarified. He pulled down a teapot with a spoon jutting out from under the lid. ‘Here we are.’ He took the teaspoon and sprinkled some over the top of the ricotta. ‘Now stir,’ he said.

  Lara found another teaspoon and stirred the ricotta till she thought it was mixed.

  ‘And it’s done,’ Matteo said.

  ‘I can’t believe how easy that is,’ she said. ‘I’ll never buy ricotta again.’

  ‘You can add lemon rind too,’ he said. ‘You just g-grate the skin and sprinkle it on the t-top.’

  ‘But there is a lot of whey compared to the curds,’ she said.

  Matteo nodded, peering into the pot. It seemed like there was litres of it. ‘The cheese is the fat,’ he said. ‘The whey is the water and protein. But you can use it. You can feed it to goats, or chickens or pigs. You can drink it, too.’

  ‘Like bodybuilders,’ she joked, holding up her arms and pretending to flex her muscles. He eyed her arms approvingly and she felt herself flush.

  She sneaked a peek at Matteo’s biceps, which were evident under his shirtsleeves. She supposed all that work on the farm and in the cheese factory would naturally give him the types of muscles most people had to lift weights for in gyms.

  ‘What should I do with it now?’ she asked. Left on her own, she’d probably throw it away, but she sensed that would be frowned on by people like Matteo and Samuel, who spent a lot of time making their own food.

  ‘You can boil your pasta in it,’ Matteo said. ‘Or just drink it for n-nutrition.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Matteo looked at his phone and muttered to himself. Lara’s heart sank.

  ‘I am sorry, but I need to go now,’ he said, his brows knitted.

  ‘Of course.’ She itched to ask him where he was going, but it was no business of hers.

  ‘It is my mamma,’ he explained. ‘She needs me to help move some furniture so she can vacuum underneath it.’ He gave Lara an apologetic look.

  ‘Right. That’s important, of course,’ she said. ‘All those dust mites are bad for your health.’

  He scratched at his collarbone and bit his bottom lip, sheepish. ‘But w-w-w-would you like to know more about cheese? You could come and visit the f-f-farm.’

  ‘Sì. That would be great,’ she said, weaving her fingers together to stop herself from reaching out to touch him.

  Matteo suddenly smiled, as if relieved she’d agreed. ‘You have my number, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ They had exchanged numbers after they had left the hospital, so Matteo could check in with her about Samuel, or she could call Matteo if needed.

  ‘So, I will send you a message,’ he said.

  ‘That would be great. I’d love to learn to make more cheese—and I would really love to meet your goats,’ she said. ‘Meg and Willow have really grown on me. I think I might be becoming a goat person.’

  ‘There are worse things,’ he said. ‘I must go now. Say goodbye to Samuel for me.’ Before she could answer, he stepped forward and took her by the shoulders and kissed her on each cheek.

  ‘Bye,’ she said, taking a deep breath as he strode from the kitchen. She let it out very slowly, wrestling to dampen her excitement, which was once again fighting to get to the surface. How quickly her feelings today had swung from gloom to gladness.

  19

  Lara and Dave

  Lara didn’t have any friends to speak of. After uni, most of her school friends had gone overseas to travel and work in pubs or use their degrees, meet love interests and share cramped flats in dodgy parts of London. She’d finished her arts degree last year, but had never made any real friends there either. She hadn’t joined any sporting teams or theatre groups, and alcohol was not a great mix with her medications, so the uni bar was never in her sphere.

  Unlike most of her peers, she wasn’t hooking up with guys; she’d been so lucky to find her love early on and to have skipped all that messy dating business. Not to mention the STDs and pregnancy scares. No, she was blissfully happy with her reliable, steady guy, thanks very much. He was exactly what someone like her needed. He sheltered her from the many ups and downs that could have come along to destabilise her, and for that she was deeply grateful. He was her anchor, always knowing what to do.

  She’d looked for jobs, but there wasn’t a lot on offer for an arts graduate. She’d picked up acting gigs in local shopping centres during school holidays, and she waitressed a little, but the hours were mostly in the evenings and Dave missed her.

  ‘I work all day at the clinic or at the hospital and then you work at night,’ he’d said one evening, placing in front of her a bowl of macaroni cheese that he’d made himself. He sat down to join her. ‘Maybe this would work better if you saw your job as being my personal assistant or something. Then you could work from home, so to speak, and we’d be able to be together at night like normal couples.’

  She put a forkful of macaroni in her mouth. ‘Mm. That is good.’ She chewed and then swallowed, while Dave sipped his wine and gazed at her. It was an intense gaze that took in everything about her so he could be one step ahead, and she knew meant he would get his own way. Still, she went through the motions.

  ‘But what about money?’ she said. ‘How would I help to pay the rent, or have money of my own?’

  ‘Why do you need money of your own?’ he asked.

  She scoffed. ‘Everyone needs money to, I don’t know, buy clothes and a coffee here and there, pay for car repairs or go to the movies.’

  ‘But that’s the beauty of this arrangement,’ he said, placing a hand on her wrist. ‘You look after me and I’ll look after you. I have more paperwork and admin than I know what to do with most of the time.’

  That was true. Being a psychologist seemed to require almost as much time on paperwork outside of the consult room as it did actually counselling; Dave was forever writing in his leather-bound book. Add to that studying for a medical degree and it took a lot out of him. He needed her to help him. Then maybe he would rely less on Vicki.

  Many times he’d mentioned Vicki, a doctor in the same surgery where he practised psychology. She seemed to have become something of a mentor. He spoke to her on the phone frequently, quick conversations that always made him laugh, and for which he never offered an explanation, which made Lara feel spiky with jealousy, something she was ashamed to admit. Dave was so wonderful; she owed him so much. Besides, he talked to Vicki in front of her, so it wasn’t like he was hiding anything.

  Still, Vicki’s name made Lara’s body go hot with misplaced suspicion. Dave was faithful to her, of that she was sure. He whispered to her
in the dark, telling her how much he loved her and how he didn’t know what he’d do without her, that she was a beautiful, unexpected gift that had landed in his life. He wanted more of her, not less. That was why he wanted her to be at home at night.

  He had high needs. He had to lose himself in her to cope with the stress of his career and study. He craved her skin. He wanted her. It was the least she could do to be there for him.

  ‘I spend way too much money at the corner shop near the surgery, buying third-rate sausage rolls and toasted sandwiches,’ he said. ‘You could earn money, right there, by making my lunch each day.’

  ‘That wouldn’t take me much time. I should be doing it for you anyway,’ she said, feeling guilty she hadn’t thought of it already.

  ‘Well, what about that screenplay you’ve been saying you want to write?’ he said, picking up his own fork and loading it with pasta. ‘You’d have the time and freedom to work on that.’

  Okay, that was appealing. She’d enjoyed the acting jobs she’d done, but really knew that her talent, if she had any, would be more suited to an off-stage role. She’d been wanting to write a screenplay for years, a historical piece set in Melbourne after the Second World War, with the influx of European migration and the booming businesses that followed.

  Still, she wasn’t entirely convinced. Would she really find cleaning, cooking and being a little homemaker at Dave’s service satisfying? But then, did she find waitressing, washing dishes and mopping floors in cafes and restaurants satisfying? Not really. And it would make Dave happy, and that was what you did in relationships, wasn’t it?

  And what if this was Dave’s way of moving them closer to something more official, like marriage, or maybe children? Not that she was even sure if she could or should have children. There were a lot of medication and genetic questions around that. But if anyone could help her through it, surely it was Dave.

  ‘Look, no pressure,’ he said, getting up, withdrawing from her, the slight tilt of his chin alerting her to his swiftly changed mood. He was miffed.

  Shit. She owed him so much. She reached for his hand as he passed her chair, and pulled him to her. ‘Don’t leave, please.’ She needed him. ‘Thank you. I accept.’