Apricot Kisses (29 page)

I realize that my mouth is hanging open. Obviously one of us is crazy, and it might be me. Alberto clicks his tongue and pats me on the back with such force that I start to cough. Damn cigarettes. “And now go and board a plane, son, before I get all upset and have to steal some cookies from the kitchen to calm down.”

Hanna

When I get back to my apartment in the evening, I’m very tired but also immensely satisfied. While I guessed it wouldn’t be difficult to interest Saalfranck in Nonna’s apricot liqueur, the liquor trader’s reaction far exceeded my expectations.

After his first sip, the usually talkative man just sat in his leather chair for a while, staring at the bottle on his desk. After another taste, he jumped up and paced back and forth in his chic office before planting himself in front of me with gleaming eyes.

“You are a crafty little beast.”

The rest was all formalities. I gave him Tre Camini’s address, named Lucia as contact person, and left after assuring him several times that I wanted nothing for the tip—other than his promise to give the Caminis a fair offer.

I kick off my new ballerina flats and traipse barefoot to the kitchen, where I find, to my surprise, a pot of lukewarm ribollita on the stove. At first I’m annoyed that my mother kept the spare key instead of returning it to the landlord. But I’m hungry, so I shelve the boundaries conversation and warm up the soup.

Half an hour later, after stuffing myself with the thick soup of beans, potatoes, and vegetables, I’m luxuriating on my tiny balcony—as much as I can without patio furniture. Leaning against a large pillow, a glass of wine in my hand, I try to relax.

I actually manage not to think about anything for a moment. But then my stomach tingles again, and the rooftops of Berlin turn into the red bricks of Montesimo. I see the gate and the cypress-lined driveway leading up the hill, and on the way a white chicken scratching for worms.

What the heck, Hanna. It can’t be that difficult to get over it.
The tingling surges. Now I see Fabrizio’s face, his espresso-colored eyes, the laughter lines around his mouth . . . and tears run down my cheeks again. I can’t help it.

This lovesickness is as persistent as a chronic cold—and if I could, I’d gladly put up with such a cold for the rest of my life instead of the terrible loneliness that overcomes me whenever I’m alone.

I wipe my face and sit up straight. But it’s over. Fabrizio chose Sofia, and I have to accept that. Italy is far away, I’m in Berlin now, and I even have a significant career opportunity in a new, exciting city. I set things right and atoned for my mistakes. Except—my eyes open wide—except for the urn on my windowsill. Shit! I completely forgot Giuseppa.

“You can’t just send the grandmother to Italy by mail, Hanna.
Absolutement pas.
It’s impossible.” Claire looks at me sternly over her glass of wine. I couldn’t help but smile, amid all my tears, when she arrived, half an hour after my call, in running clothes and with a forgotten dab of facial cream on her forehead.

“But why not? I’ll send the urn by courier and pay extra so that it’s guarded like the British crown jewels. All kinds of things are mailed these days, so why not an urn?”

Claire takes my measure. “Because we’re not talking about any old urn. This is Giuseppa.”

“Your argument is completely irrational.” I don’t want to get mad, but the mere thought of facing Lucia or Fabrizio—let alone Sofia—squeezes the breath out of me. I clench my fists and shake my head. “I can’t go back.” The finality of my words brings me close to tears.

Claire moves closer to me on the couch. “I believe you’re making a mistake, Hanna.”

“Believe me, I’m doing the right thing.” I back away from her as far as the arm of the couch allows. Claire shakes her head with a smile.

“Yes, if you follow your brain. But your heart says something completely different.”

“What makes you the expert?” The heart she’s talking about beats like crazy against my ribs.

Claire smiles. “Because I’ve been your friend for longer than you realize. You love that man—very much. I can see that.”

“So what?” I blow away a strand of hair from my forehead.

“Did you tell him?”

“What would’ve changed if I had? He belongs to someone else.” My voice trembles, and tears push closer to the surface again.

“It could change a whole lot. But first you have to do it. What can you lose? Then it’s up to him to decide.”

“But—”

“Don’t be a silly goose, Hanna—or a chicken. If you love Fabrizio, then fight for him. Otherwise you’ll always ask yourself what could have been. And the little thing in there”—she gently taps on my chest—“will break into so many pieces that you’ll need a lifetime to pick them up.” Claire gets up and goes to her purse. When she comes back, she has an envelope in her hand.

“What’s that?” I ask suspiciously.

“I won’t just stand by while you head for disaster. I was going to give you this yesterday, but then I wasn’t sure if it was the right idea. Today I’m sure.” She puts the envelope in my lap. “Your flight leaves at one twenty tomorrow. So you have one night to decide whether you want to be a mouse or a grown woman ready to fight for her happiness.”

Chapter Sixteen

Hanna

I stare at the ceiling above my bed. Last night, my ghosts argued with each other nonstop without reaching a conclusion about what’s best for me. So I still don’t know what I’m going to do.

My brain tells me to tear up the ticket and concentrate on my career. After all, there are other handsome men in the world, and the men in Vienna are known to be gentlemanly. So then why am I stuck on this loutish farmer, when I’ll probably meet a more charming, cosmopolitan man soon?

Yet my heart knows neither reason nor logic. The thought of Fabrizio’s espresso eyes is enough to make it turn somersaults. I sit up.

And on top of that dilemma, Claire shows up with her stupid what-if scenario.

Honestly, what if I flew to Italy? Lucia is probably mad at me, and Marco never liked me anyway. Old Alberto is probably still in the hospital—although I hope he isn’t. Most likely Rosa-Maria hasn’t even noticed that I’ve been gone, and if she has, she’ll be in a huff over how I’ve treated Lucia. I’d probably run into Fabrizio and Sofia holding hands, smooching or, even worse, in the act—

Ohmigod! Perspiring, I throw off the blanket. Coffee. I need coffee, lots of it.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing with my second cup at the half-open window, next to Giuseppa. Fog curls down the street below, but the sun’s already shining on the rooftops. I soak up the morning air with closed eyes. It feels so good. I gulped down my first cup, but I drink this one more slowly.

“It looks like it’ll be a lovely day,” I tell Giuseppa, and I imagine that the old woman nods in agreement.

“Couldn’t you tell me what to do? A bird in my hand . . . or are two in the bush better after all? What do you think?” I say, laughing at myself. The tired old adage is truer than I like. Farmer or not.

Now I even imagine that I hear the beating of wings, a rustling, as if—then I feel a swoosh of air at my head and I scream. My hands fly up to protect myself, coffee splatters on the windowpane and frame—and I see a plump gray pigeon flutter off the outside sill in search of a better landing strip. Then my elbow pushes against something hard and cold. I reach out, but my fingers touch only air.

“Holy shit!” I watch the urn fall in a daze. It lands on the carpet with a hollow clunk. I squat with wobbling knees and check the container. I breathe a sigh of relief. Thanks to the fluffy rug, the urn is fine.

But then it hits me—what just happened. My pulse accelerates and goose bumps rise on my arms. Is it really possible that Giuseppa just answered my question? I jump up only seconds later and dash into the bathroom.

Fabrizio

“Pronto?”

“Fabrizio, what’s that noise in the background? Where in the world are you?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself for hours, Lucia.”

“It’s seven in the morning!” Lucia’s voice crackles through my cell phone. “Don’t tell me you ended up with Carlo at Salvi’s.”

“Cold. Try again.”

“What?”

I yawn. “No, I’m not at Salvi’s.”

“Listen, I have no time for games. I have to talk with you—well, Marco has to talk with you, but he went to Grosseto.”

“Grosseto?” I’m suddenly wide awake. “Is something wrong with Alberto?”

“No, no . . . Marco went to . . . the bank.”

I frown. “Why?”

“I’ll tell you in person. So hurry up, wherever you are.”

“Lucia, I’m in Florence. At the airport.”

The other end is silent for a moment, but I hear Lucia breathing. Panting might be the better word. But I move faster than she can formulate the undoubtedly annoying question she’s dying to ask.

“Why is Marco driving to the bank at this ungodly hour?” I snap. Her puffing gets louder.

“This morning we got—well, actually last night, but I was too busy to check e-mail, and you know how we’ve been finishing in the kitchen later and later—”

“Get to the point, Lucia!” I click the clasp of my bag open and shut.

“Marco wants to apply for a loan—for the distillery.”

The clasp breaks off the suitcase. “Say that again?”

I can barely hear Lucia’s whisper. “A German distributor wants Nonna’s liqueur.”

“What exactly are you saying?” I ask tensely, trying to repair the clasp with trembling hands. Questions fill my head, but I can’t formulate a single one.

“Last night we got an e-mail from a Herr Saalfranck. I Googled him. He supplies stores and restaurants with fine spirits and liquors, and owns a chain of stores himself. The e-mail said that someone from a leading gourmet magazine told him about our liqueur. Saalfranck had a chance to taste it, and now”—Lucia’s voice trembles—“now he wants exclusive distribution rights, internationally, and . . . he wants everything.”

“Everything?” The clasp slips from my fingers and clinks to the floor.

“Every drop we produce! And he’s willing to pay whatever price we set. Marco didn’t hesitate for one second, and you know what that means. So don’t you dare tell me that you already destroyed the recipe because I’ll have to kill you, unfortunately, if you did.”

“Hanna.” I get up from the bench I’ve been waiting on for an hour and a half.

“What did you say? The connection’s bad.”

“Hanna did that.” I start to pace up and down and catch the glance of the elegant woman on the other end of the bench, who’s been giving me furtive looks for the past hour and a half. When I raise my eyebrows, she blushes and hides behind her business journal again. My back hurts from sitting, and my forehead throbs. I press two fingers against my temples as the last call for the flight to Berlin mixes with the roaring in my ears. That’s my plane. The boarding line gets thinner; the woman folds her paper and uncrosses her legs. The flight attendant at the counter waves me forward, pointing to her wristwatch. “Listen, I have to get on the plane now, and I won’t be back before tomorrow evening. Tell Marco—”

“I won’t stop him!” She shouts so shrilly that I jerk the phone away from my ear. “This is the chance Nonna waited for all her life, and you, too. If you’re not getting involved now, Marco and I will do it ourselves, and for all I care, you can—”

“Shut up, Lucia, and listen carefully,” I interrupt. I need to keep my cool now. “Tell Marco that we need fifty thousand to get the distillery ready for mass production. If he can get one hundred, even better. Paolo needs to stop delivering apricots to the juice factory and the supermarket right away. I don’t want a single apricot to leave Tre Camini from now on.” I grab my carry-on bag and hurry to the counter, squeezing the phone under my chin and rummaging for my boarding pass and ID with my free hand. “Also, tell Marco the banker, Giovanni, has a wife named Rosalia and three children, all girls. Giovanni likes soccer and loves Scottish whiskey. Marco should play all the angles and try to get as much money as he can.”

Silence on the line, while I hand the flight attendant my boarding pass with the most charming smile I can muster. “Are you still there, Lucia?”

“Still . . . on the line.”

“Hey, are you crying?”

“No—yes—I’m just so glad.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too high. It’s just an offer, but maybe it’ll really turn out to be the chance we’ve been waiting for.” I hurry down the gangway. When I glance back over my shoulder, I see the flight attendant watching me curiously as she closes the door to the waiting area.

“Fabrizio? May I ask you something else?” Lucia’s voice softens.

“I have to hang up, Lucia.” I almost run the last few yards to the door of the plane, past the waiting crew. Despite my determination, I feel somewhat queasy.

“Are you going to bring Hanna home?”

I’m about to scold her, but something holds me back. I’m thinking of Nonna’s good-bye letter, of Alberto’s words, and of Hanna’s soft lips that I want to kiss again. It took me a while to be certain, and maybe it’s too late—but maybe not. “I hope so, Lucia.”

Hanna

I have never in my life packed a suitcase so fast and disorganized. I’ll pay for it in Italy—unless Lucia slams the door in my face right away. I did pack a lot of tops and dresses, but only one pair of jeans and neither socks nor underwear. I even forgot my makeup bag. But if I turn around now, I might change my mind and allow the ticket to go to waste.

It seems that my cab driver thinks I’m going to give birth in his cab if he doesn’t drive like a racecar driver. When the horrible ride ends in front of Terminal A, I clutch Giuseppa’s urn to my chest and give him way too much of a tip—I’m too nervous to wait for him to count the change. I climb out, grab my suitcase from the backseat, and slam the door shut with my hip.

“Hey—this isn’t a tractor,” he yells before taking off at full speed.

Just then it starts to rain—of course—so I run into the terminal. My flight isn’t listed on the display board—no wonder, since I’m over three hours early. I glance around, not sure what to do. People are running past, clutching their phones, pulling their suitcases to the check-in counters, and dashing into duty-free shops. I see a poster advertising the airport restaurant’s breakfast special.

Why not? I can’t check my bag yet, and I have nothing in my stomach besides coffee. And I haven’t eaten properly in days, so a breakfast croissant will hit the spot—although it’ll hardly be as delicious as Rosa-Maria’s cornetti. Suddenly I’m looking forward to the trip. At a magazine stand, I buy a women’s magazine that’s full of calming trivialities like new styles, moisturizers, and recipes. With Giuseppa under my arm, I stroll toward the airport restaurant.

Fabrizio

I’m almost surprised how smoothly everything goes. My plane arrives on time, I don’t have to wait for my luggage since I only have a carry-on, and the customs official waves me through without checking my ID. A mere two hours after leaving Florence, I’m in the arrivals terminal in Berlin. I stop in the crowd of people laughing, hugging, and kissing. Fragments of German sentences drift through the air, and it takes a moment for me to adjust to the unfamiliar language again. Then I remember that I don’t have Hanna’s phone number or address.

Retreating to a quieter corner, I take out my phone. But the battery is dead, and I didn’t bring the charger. I curse loudly, scaring an elderly lady pushing a luggage cart. I’m about to apologize when two little girls greet her with hugs and screeches. A magazine falls from her purse to the floor, and I stare in disbelief at the yellow house on the cover. I reach for it quickly.

“You’ve lost . . . something,” I say lamely and hand the overwhelmed lady her magazine, still staring at it. The mother rushes up and calls the girls, Pia and Pippa, to order. The Germans have a sense of humor, after all.

“Very kind.” The woman takes the magazine, but I don’t let go. I suddenly have an idea.

“Forgive me . . . this magazine . . . Where can I buy one?” Now I let go, and the woman looks startled.

“You can get it at any newspaper stand.” She speaks slowly as if I were half-witted.

“A newspaper stand, of course.” I nod, feeling embarrassed. Bowing a little, I turn and hurry away.

I run almost to the other end of the airport before finding a stand that isn’t sold out of
Genusto Gourmet
. But in the departure terminal, I manage to get my hands on the next-to-last copy, and, still in line, search for the masthead. I’m dying to read the lead article, but I have to find Hanna first.

The text blurs—the sleepless night is catching up with me—and I do a double take, imagining that I saw Hanna in the crowd. I need to take something for this headache, get a bite to eat, and wash it all down with a double espresso.

While pocketing the change, I almost crash into a display for the airport restaurant that some genius put right outside the door. Ouch. I rub my elbow and eye the poster, a smiling blonde woman holding out a breakfast cornetto.

And even though I feel strange about returning to the place where all the trouble started, I follow the pretty blonde’s pointing finger.

Hanna

Nothing has changed in the airport restaurant. The place smells of roast pork, coffee, and broken air conditioning. Servers hoisting trays squeeze by people, suitcases, and strollers. There’s even a tour group at the bar again, although its members are wearing matching T-shirts instead of green baseball caps. I make my way through the crowd to the back of the restaurant, half expecting to see my boss somewhere near the window—or a dark-haired man with a three-day beard and sad eyes. That doesn’t happen, of course—a relief but also, however irrationally, disappointing at the same time.

I head to a table for two next to the window and put Giuseppa on the empty chair, and then on the windowsill, despite the déjà vu. I have no time to ponder—the server’s already waiting for my order. She doesn’t recognize me, which is understandable, considering the hundreds of guests she sees every day. I return her impersonal smile with a warm, friendly one and order a corne—
croissant
and a coffee with milk.

Then I delve into an article about potted plants for balconies. I’d like to have a garden—of course, not one as big as Lucia’s at Tre Camini. Maybe I’ll get lucky and snatch a first-floor apartment in Vienna. I could grow strawberries or cherry tomatoes. I start to smile when I think of Sasha and how she flung her arms around my neck last night because Hellwig decided to run her article on urban vegetable gardening in the next issue.

“You know, I’m a little proud of myself,” I tell Giuseppa, and my heart beats faster. The old lady is going home, and so am I—even though I don’t yet know where that might be. The idea of a new beginning in Vienna is definitely exciting. But my life seems suddenly full of opportunities and maybe . . . maybe Fabrizio is one of them.

When the waitress brings my breakfast, I remember that I wanted to stop at the restroom when I bought the magazine. I lean toward the next table, where a couple in their thirties is studying a Thailand travel guide.

“Excuse me.”

The ginger-haired woman looks up.

“Could you please watch my stuff for a moment while I run to the restroom?” I ask. She looks confused for a moment, but then nods. I hurry off after mouthing thanks.