From Florence With Love. Lucy GordonЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Just like yesterday?’
‘Si.’
‘So I’ll do that, and you can make preparations for tonight. I know you have dinner to cook for the family as well as for the workers.’
Her brow creased, looking troubled, and Lydia could tell she was worried. Exhausted, more like. ‘Look, let me do this, and maybe I can give you a hand with that, too?’ she offered, but that was a step too far. Carlotta straightened her gnarled old spine and plodded to the fridge.
‘I do it,’ she said firmly, and so Lydia gave in and concentrated on preparing lunch for sixty people in the shortest possible time, so she could move on to cooking the pasta sauce for the evening shift with Maria. At least that way Carlotta would be free to concentrate on dinner.
Massimo found her in the kitchen at six, in the throes of draining gnocci for the workers, and she nearly dropped the pan. Crazy. Ridiculous, but the sight of him made her heart pound and she felt like a gangly teenager, awkward and confused because of the kiss.
‘Are you in here again?’ he asked, taking the other side of the huge pan and helping her tip it into the enormous strainer.
‘Looks like me,’ she said with a forced grin, but he just frowned and avoided her eyes, as if he, too, was feeling awkward and uncomfortable about the kiss.
‘Did you speak to the hospital?’ he asked, and she realised he would be glad to get rid of her. She’d been nothing but trouble for him, and she was unsettling the carefully constructed and safe status quo he’d created around them all.
‘Yes. I’m fine to travel,’ she said, although it wasn’t quite true. They’d said they needed to examine her, and when she’d said she was too busy, they’d fussed a bit but what could they do? So she’d booked a flight. ‘I’ve got a seat on a plane at three tomorrow afternoon from Pisa,’ she told him, and he frowned again.
‘Really? You didn’t have to go so soon,’ he said, confusing her even more.
‘It’s not soon. It’ll be five days—that’s what they said, and I’ve been under your feet long enough.’
And any longer, she realised, and things were going to happen between them. There was such a pull every time she was with him, and that kiss last night—
She thrust the big pot at him. ‘Here, carry the gnocci outside for me. I’ll bring the sauce.’
He followed her, set the food down for the workers and stood at her side, dishing up.
‘So can I persuade you to join us for dinner?’ he asked, but she shook her head.
‘I’ve got nothing to wear,’ she said, feeling safe because he couldn’t argue with that, but she was wrong.
‘You’re about the same size as Serena. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you borrowed something from her wardrobe. She always leaves something here. Carlotta will show you.’
‘Carlotta’s trying to prepare a meal for ten people this evening, Massimo. She doesn’t have time to worry about clothes for me.’
‘Then I’ll take you,’ he said, and the moment the serving was finishing, he hustled her back into the house before she could argue.
He was right. She and Serena were about the same size, something she already knew because she’d borrowed her costume to swim in, and she found a pair of black trousers that were the right length with her flat black pumps, and a pretty top that wasn’t in the first flush of youth but was nice enough.
She didn’t want to take anything too special, but she didn’t think Serena would mind if she borrowed that one, and it was good enough, surely, for an interloper?
She went back to the kitchen, still in her jeans and T-shirt, and found Carlotta sitting at the table with her head on her arms, and Roberto beside her wringing his hands.
‘Carlotta?’
‘She is tired, signorina,’ he explained worriedly. ‘Signora Valtieri has many people for dinner, and my Carlotta …’
‘I’ll do it,’ she said quickly, sitting down and taking Carlotta’s hands in hers. ‘Carlotta, tell me what you were going to cook them, and I’ll do it.’
‘But Massimo said …’
‘Never mind what he said. I can cook and be there at the same time. Don’t worry about me. We can make it easy. Just tell me what you’re cooking, and Roberto can help me find things. We’ll manage, and nobody need ever know.’
Her eyes filled with tears, and Lydia pulled a tissue out of a box and shoved it in her hand. ‘Come on, stop that, it’s all right. We’ve got cooking to do.’
Well, it wasn’t her greatest meal ever, she thought as she sat with the others and Roberto waited on them, but it certainly didn’t let Carlotta down, and from the compliments going back to the kitchen via Roberto, she knew Carlotta would be feeling much less worried.
As for her, in her borrowed top and trousers, she felt underdressed and overawed—not so much by the company as by the amazing dining room itself. Like her room and the kitchen, it opened to the terrace, but in the centre, with two pairs of double doors flung wide so they could hear the tweeting and twittering of the swallows swooping past the windows.
But it was the walls which stunned her. Murals again, like the ones in the cloistered walkway around the courtyard, but this time all over the ornate vaulted ceiling as well.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Gio said quietly. ‘I never get tired of looking at this ceiling. And it’s a good way to avoid my mother’s attention.’
She nearly laughed at that. He was funny—very funny, very quick, very witty, very dry. A typical lawyer, she thought, used to brandishing his tongue in court like a rapier, slashing through the opposition. He would be formidable, she realised, and she didn’t envy the woman who was so clearly still in love with him.
Anita was lovely, though. Strikingly beautiful, but warm and funny and kind, and Lydia wondered if she realised just how often Gio glanced at her when she’d looked away.
Elisa did, she was sure of it.
And then she met Massimo’s eyes, and realised he was studying her thoughtfully.
‘Excuse me, I have to go and do something in the kitchen,’ she murmured. ‘Carlotta very kindly let me experiment with the dessert, and I need to put the finishing touches to it.’
She bolted, running along the corridor and arriving in the kitchen just as Carlotta had put out the bowls.
‘Roberto say you tell them I cook everything!’ she said, wringing her hands and hugging her.
Lydia hugged her back. ‘You did, really. I just helped you. You told me exactly what to do.’
‘You know what to do. You such good cuoca—good cook. Look at this! So easy—so beautiful. Bellisima!’
She spread her hands wide, and Lydia looked. Five to a tray, there were ten individual gleaming white bowls, each containing glorious red and black frozen berries fogged with icy dew, and in the pan on the stove Roberto was gently heating the white chocolate sauce. Sickly sweet, immensely sticky and a perfect complement to the sharp berries, it was her favourite no-frills emergency pud, and she took the pan from Roberto, poured a swirl around the edge of each plate and then they grabbed a tray each and went back to the dining room.
‘I hope you like it,’ she said brightly. ‘If not, please don’t blame Carlotta, I made her let me try it!’
Elisa frowned slightly, but Massimo just gave her a level look, and as she set the plate down in front of him, he murmured, ‘Liar,’ softly, so only she could hear.
She flashed him a smile and went back to her place, between Gio and Anita’s father,