Georgia's Kitchen (16 page)

Gabri requested
il conto,
which gave them at least fifteen minutes before the check was on the table. Knowing she couldn’t stomach one more minute of Oscar’s arrogance, Georgia walked her friends back to their table, promised to visit them at their farmhouse in Pistoia soon, and continued outside for some air.

The half dozen or so outdoor tables were filled with laughing locals, tipsy tourists, and an international brood of smokers. The air had cooled, yet still held the unmistakable promise of summer. A group of college-aged Americans ran down the street laughing and shouting, no doubt on their way to the Irish pub around the corner. Georgia walked down a few doors to a closed
farmacia.
Perusing fancy pharmacies was one of her favorite things to do in Italy, filled as they were with herbal remedies for everything from acne to weight loss, and white-coated salesclerks to assist customers in choosing precisely the right one. Transfixed by a life-size cutout of a bikini-clad woman with a tape measure wrapped around her waist and a bouquet of daisies seemingly sprouting from her head, she was startled by a voice behind her.

“Scusi, signora, ha del fuoco?”
A late-thirtyish man with broad cheekbones and heavily lidded eyes stood before her, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He wore a knee-length trench coat and looked bored. Handsome and bored.

“Momento, signore,”
Georgia said. Though she hadn’t lit a cigarette in years, she still collected matchbooks from restaurants and bars. She passed him a mini-matchbox and watched him slide it open and strike a match on its side.

He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke to the sky. Holding the matches up to the light from the streetlamp, he made out the name of the restaurant.

“È americana?”
he asked, handing them back.

“Sì. Sono di New York.”

“I went to New York City once,” he said in accented English. “The energy. The people, rushing here and there. Do they never stop?”

She laughed. “Not really.”

“Not really here either anymore.” Two Vespas charged down the street as if to prove his point. “We used to care more about family. Friends. Life. Now we care about success. Money.”

“I think it’s like that everywhere.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe so.” He gestured with his cigarette to the blurry glow of outdoor tables. “Did you have dinner over at Benci?”

“Yes, I did. Did you?”

“No, across the street. Da Gino. Much quieter, but they make delicious pasta bolognese. My favorite.” He patted his belly with his nonsmoking hand and smiled, the memory of the meal momentarily erasing his distaste with his country’s capitalistic ways. “Forgive me. I am so rude. Do you want one?” He held out a pack of Marlboro Reds.

She did. Watching his fingers graze his lips as he inhaled, the hand then coming to rest nonchalantly on his thigh, the thin trail of smoke escaping his lips as he spoke, the slight clench in his voice—yes, she wanted one. Her first cigarette in five years, and she wanted to smoke it with him.

“Sure,” she said, plucking one from the pack. She held the skinny cigarette dumbly in her hand until she remembered he had returned her matches and unzipped her bag to find them.

He flicked a lighter, pulled from his pocket, and Georgia looked up into his face, lit by the flame. He had a thin, white vertical scar, the size of a sewing needle, under his left eye.

“I thought you needed a light,” she said, removing the unlit cigarette from her mouth.

“I did.”

“But why’d you ask me if you had one yourself?” He smelled like a mixture of oranges and olives. Oranges, olives, and smoke. If someone could bottle that scent, she’d buy it by the barrel.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, his lips turning down slightly at the corners as he did. “I thought you looked nice, maybe someone to talk to. For a little conversation, I guess. I meant nothing by it.”

This guy, who was handsome and real and looked sort of like Javier Bardem and loved pasta bolognese, had seen her and wanted to talk to her and she wanted to talk to him too.

She held out the cigarette, slightly sticky with lip gloss. “Do you want this back? I don’t actually smoke anymore.”

He shook his head and she tossed it into the garbage can a few feet away.

“You have a good arm,” he said. “Isn’t that what they say in America? A good arm?”

“They do.” She tried to think of something clever to add, but all she could think was how much she liked the way he talked and smoked and smelled. And how he was one of the few guys she knew who could wear a trench without looking like a Wall Street warrior about to hop the 5:51 local to Larchmont.

“So what do you have planned for your vacation in Firenze?”

“Well, I only have a few more days here.” She swallowed
hard, summoning her courage. “Maybe you could show me around? We could have lunch, maybe?”

The cherry of his cigarette froze on the way to his mouth, hanging there like a hazard signal, until he brought his hand back to his thigh. “I would love to, really, but I cannot. I am leaving the city in a few days myself. And I have a girl, I’m in a relationship. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Georgia’s face burned. “That’s fine, I mean, that’s great. Don’t be sorry. Like I said, I’m leaving soon anyway. I’m going to San Casciano. It’s a small town, supposed to be really charming. I’m working there.”

His eyes widened. “In San Casciano?”

“Have you heard of it?”

“
Sì, sì, sì, certo.
San Casciano is beautiful. You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.” He held up the cigarette as if toasting with a glass of champagne and smiled. “Thank you for the fire. It was nice to meet you. Good night.” He turned and walked down the street, in the opposite direction of Osteria de’ Benci.

Georgia watched him for a few seconds, wondering where he’d go. But it was dark and the street was poorly lit. When her eyes could no longer make out his figure, she returned to the restaurant, the scent of oranges, olives, and smoke lingering in her mind.

T
he Tuscan countryside whizzed by in a kaleidoscopic whirl of shapes and colors. Green grass and trees melded with blue sky, purple and yellow wildflowers, peachy-orange villas, brown-and-gray farmhouses, and the occasional red-and-white Auto-grill, Italy’s (delicious) answer to fast food. Georgia surveyed the scene from the backseat of a cramped Lancia driven by Richard, one-half of the all-over-each-other British couple from the Hotel Leo. That morning in the breakfast room, Cesca had steered Georgia to their table and introduced her as the famous American chef who was headed in the same direction they were and, as it happened, needed a ride. They didn’t seem to buy the famous chef thing, nor had they looked thrilled about having a passenger, but Cesca wasn’t the kind of person one said no to. So Georgia, her giant suitcase, L.L. Bean tote, and oversize handbag stuffed into the tiny red car’s backseat, along with a handful of the couple’s guidebooks and three neat black umbrellas. Apparently Richard and Hillary expected rain.

To maximize her sliver of space, Georgia aligned her left leg on top of her right and wedged herself into the crook of the car
door, triple-checking to make sure it was locked. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to travel, and certainly not the most stylish, but who was she to turn down a free ride. With her right butt cheek growing numb and visions of varicose veins dancing in her head, she started to wish she had.

Her stomach leaped with each turn of the steering wheel, and it wasn’t only due to Richard’s screechy driving. She’d phoned Claudia a few days earlier, and though their conversation had seemed perfectly friendly at the time, in hindsight it
had
been a little brief. What if Claudia—no kids, not married, fighting with her boyfriend—was not the same upbeat, ebullient restaurateur Georgia remembered? What if age and disappointment had changed her? And what if—and this was the question that kept Georgia up at night like a nasty case of food poisoning—what if Georgia was changing too? Unwittingly bypassing any chance at the guy and the baby and taking the shortcut straight to spinsterhood? At thirty-three she was no
giovincella
. Ten years ago, she’d assumed that by thirty she’d be married, the mother of two, maybe three, kids, the owner of two, maybe three, restaurants. Lofty goals, sure, but change two or three to one and not entirely unreasonable. Instead, she was sardined into the backseat of a second-rate Italian sports car, no closer to having the kids, the husband, or the restaurants than she was a decade ago, her fragile leg veins engorging with blood by the second.

“This must be it.” Richard stepped on the brake and the Lancia slammed to a stop next to a silvery eucalyptus tree.

Hillary peered at the wrought-iron gate and stuck out her finger to buzz the intercom.
COLLINA VERDE
a white-and-green ceramic sign spelled out in thick script letters. Green Hill.

“Hey, hold the phone a sec,” Georgia yelled from the backseat. “I’m not ready to go in yet.”

“You can’t bear to leave us?” Richard asked. “Or is it my driving you’ll miss?” He climbed out of the car and began pulling Georgia’s bags from the back.

“Your driving, for sure,” she said. Despite having their hands all over each other the whole drive (had Georgia not been crammed in the backseat, there was no telling what might have gone down), the Brits were all right. She couldn’t hate them just because they were in love.

The late-afternoon sky was hazy with heat, heavy with moisture, and she gingerly patted her hair. Without a mirror, she’d guess the frizz factor hovered around seven. She twisted the mass into a bun and secured it with a band. Claudia hadn’t hired her for her hair anyway.

“Wish me luck, guys.” Forgoing the intercom, she pushed on the gate and it swung open.

“You’ll be brilliant, Georgia,” Richard said, closing his door and throwing the car into reverse. “Positively brilliant.”

“Toodle-loo, darling!” Hillary shouted.

“She means
buh-bye,
” Richard yelled, sticking his head out the window. “Isn’t that what you Yanks say?”

Georgia waved good-bye and watched the car grow smaller and smaller, until it looked like a dusty apple imprinted on the sky. She turned around slowly, taking in the surrounding green hills, the verdant vineyards, the cypress trees stretching to the sky—her home for the next four months. With her tote bag slung over one shoulder, her handbag over the other, her suitcase wheels chewing up chipped stone behind her, she made her way up the long brown path before her.

No one answered the door. After her third knock, an insistent
rat-a-tat-tat,
she followed the path to the back of the villa. Pressing her nose against one of the fan windows flanking the back door, she cupped her hands around her eyes to better see into the
house. A pair of tall green Wellies stood next to a shorter pair of duck boots, next to a pair of old tennis shoes. A brown umbrella leaned against an empty umbrella stand, and a shiny rubber hat hung from its curved handle. The house was definitely inhabited, which was a relief; she was beginning to wonder if Claudia had forgotten her arrival and slipped out to Sicily or Sardinia or some other Mediterranean paradise. She raised her hand to knock on the door, but it jerked open before her knuckles could connect. A doughy-faced man with thinning brown hair and flinty eyes of an indeterminate color stood before her. He wore a white chef coat and khaki shorts. He did not smile.

“Buon giorno,
I mean
buona sera. Sono Georgia,”
she said, flustered by his pursed lips and steely expression.

“
Buona sera.
You are the American,” he answered after a long pause. “I speak English.”

“Oh, great.” Georgia chuckled. “So do I.”

He still didn’t smile. “Come in. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Really? I was knocking on the door for a while. I guess you didn’t hear me.” She stepped into the house and was greeted with the scent of fresh, pungent olive oil, as rich as liquid gold.

“I heard you. I was busy. And we never use the front door.”

“Oh.” Georgia lined up her suitcase next to the tennis shoes and retracted the handle. She placed the tote bag on the floor, her handbag on top of it. “Is Claudia around?”

“She’s over there. In the kitchen.” He gestured with his thumb but didn’t move his stocky frame from the door separating the mudroom from the rest of the house.

Georgia tried to look over his shoulder, but he was planted squarely in the door frame and she could make out only a large, pleated lampshade behind him.

“Are you planning on letting me in?”

“Of course. Excuse me.” He turned on his heels and Georgia
followed him into a cozy sitting room with a sofa, two overstuffed armchairs, and a large fireplace. Bouquets of wildflowers, one propped in a ceramic pitcher, one in an old can of San Marzano tomatoes, and another in a mason jar, decorated the room.

“So, shall I go find her or are you going to tell her I’m here?” The guy was beginning to bug her.

“You go. She’s expecting you.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll just leave my stuff there.”

He grunted in response.