One Italian Summer - Lori Nelson Spielman Page 0,66
with a pretty red liquid. “Can I interest you in an aperitif?”
A cocktail now? Didn’t we just have wine with lunch? “I’d love one!” I say.
“I shall make you our famous Negroni, created right here in Tuscany by Count Camillo Negroni, one hundred years ago.”
“Perfect.” I perch on a barstool and try not to stare at his tanned forearms, with just the perfect smattering of dark hair, as he mixes gin and Campari.
“Did you enjoy a little siesta?” he asks, adding a jigger of sweet vermouth.
“I’m not much of a napper.”
“Nor am I. It used to frustrate my nanny.”
“You had a nanny?”
He lowers his gaze while he slices an orange, and an errant lock of dark hair spills onto his forehead. “My father was a successful jeweler. He and my mother traveled a great deal. My sister and I were left at home with any number of nannies. I describe my childhood as calm, cool, and neglected.” He gives a sardonic laugh. “I often wondered why they even had children.”
Despite his effort to sound lighthearted, there’s an aching undercurrent in his tone. At once, I feel a certain kinship with this man who grew up without his mother, like me.
“I’m sorry. You must have been lonely.”
He carries the drinks to my side of the counter and takes the stool beside mine. “You should not feel sorry for me. Look around. I am living in paradise. I could not have bought this inn without my inheritance.” He raises his glass. “Salute.”
I sip my drink and mentally bombard him with questions. Are you married? Do you have children? How do your lips taste? “Delicious,” I say—and quickly point to my Negroni.
“How about you, Emilia? You had a happy childhood, sì?”
“Yes,” I say, reflexively. But today, I take a moment to examine it. “My mother died when I was two. I have a recurring memory of her.” I look out the kitchen window, where the setting sun ignites the fields in orange and gold. “She was at the stove, stirring something. I remember her eyes, gazing down on me with pure kindness. She set down the spoon and scooped me into her arms and hugged me so tightly I could feel her heart beating against mine, as if we were one person, not two.” I look up and shake my head. “Of course it’s probably not a real memory at all.”
“But it is real, Emilia.” He’s turned to me now, his face so close that I can see a tiny scar on his jaw. “That feeling is primal, as if instinctually, we are born knowing of this mother’s love. And when it is absent, it leaves us with a thirst that can never be quenched.”
He lowers his eyes and shakes his head. “I am sorry. I did not mean to get philosophical.”
“No,” I say, touching his arm. “It’s fine. It’s good. You’ve articulated so beautifully what I’ve felt my entire life.”
His gaze falls on mine, refusing to budge. His dark eyes are shadowed, and I have to resist the urge to run my hand over the dark stubble on his beautiful cheek.
“Need any help?”
I leap from my stool, my heart thundering. Lucy stands at the kitchen entrance, dressed in black jeans and red heels, wearing the most curious look on her face, as if she’s stumbled onto a mystifying experiment and she’s hypothesizing about the smoking electrical current she’s witnessing.
A jazz ballad floats on the warm evening air. Lucy and I prepare a table in the courtyard beneath a pergola of twisted wisteria vines. We set out the first course, antipasto. Cured meats and fresh cheeses, artichoke hearts and Leccino olives dress the table. Poppy comes out just as Gabe opens a bottle of Chianti.
“Lovely,” she says, but her voice is strained. And she’s moving so slowly, even after her nap.
My phone chimes. It’s Daria again. I’d missed an earlier call, too, when my phone was dead.
Lucy holds out her glass. “Cheers to you, Gabriele,” she says, in her most seductive voice.
I send Dar a quick text before turning off my phone. Call u tomorrow. Xo
“Salute,” Gabe says. When he clinks his glass to mine, my hand trembles. He winks.
“No need to be nervous, Emilia.”
I turn away, clutching my glass with both hands.
“Where is Sofia?” Poppy asks, looking around. “She is here tonight, yes? And the boys?”
My heart skids to a halt. Sofia? Kids?
“Sì,” Gabe says. “You will see her tomorrow. She insists we dine in peace tonight.”