Margherita's Notebook (14 page)

Well, isn't this the perfect ending to a lovely day!

After his wheedling, after his tear-jerking theatrics, he had finally launched his attack. Now
she
was the one who had never loved him! The temptation to answer in kind was strong, but she refused to play his game. She turned the phone off and decided she'd simply ignore him. As she stroked Ratatouille, she mumbled, “
He
feels betrayed? Serves him right!” She shut her eyes.

Margherita tried every trick in the book to fall asleep, but simply couldn't. So much did she toss and turn that Asparagio and Ratatouille left the bed peevishly. Francesco's words had the same effect on her as the time she'd carelessly picked a prickly pear so that she could taste it: tiny needles sticking everywhere.

She finally got up and went into the bathroom, followed by the disapproving looks of her cats. She turned on the hot water faucet, put the plug in, then poured a generous amount of bath salts from the Terme di San Casciano into the tub. Then she went downstairs to the kitchen. She rummaged through the shelves until she found Erica's infuser along with the ingredients she was looking for: a pinch of licorice, a tablespoon of purpletop verbena, and a sprinkling of angelica. Carrying her steaming cup, she went back upstairs. The tub was full and shrouded in a fragrant mist. Margherita set the cup down on the edge, got undressed,
and immersed herself in the water. She was instantly filled with a feeling of wellness. Slowly, she slipped the tea, then slid down into the water until the bath bubbles covered her whole body and she was completely steeped in its warm, enveloping embrace . . .

For an instant her mind wandered back to the evening. In spite of everything, the dinner had been a success, although she had no intention of ever working for Ravelli again. She had to admit that Matteo had been right to insist that she accept. Just as it had been for her mother, cooking was Margherita's way to express herself, to show off the best of what she had inside. Erica had been the one to teach her this. In the evening, when the last guests had left the restaurant, Margherita would stay with her mother in the kitchen to prepare the dishes for the next day. Sometimes it was
tagliatelle
, others times it was
pici
, or perhaps even a roast that they would marinade and leave overnight. That was the moment she loved the most. Margherita would sit perched on the stool near the large wooden table and, while her mother kneaded the dough, she would discover those tiny secrets that made Erica the great cook she was. A smile crossed her face as she remembered when her mother had taught her to make
gnudi
.

“Take the spinach, after you've allowed it to cool, then chop it up and add it to the ricotta. When the two ingredients are thoroughly blended, that's when you add the eggs, then the flour and a pinch of nutmeg. Work all the ingredients together until you get a mass that has the texture of pizza dough. At this point, moisten your hands and form small balls, then leave them to rest on a floured wooden surface,” she explained as her hands swiftly kneaded the miniature dumplings.

“And what sauce do you use for them?”

“After boiling them, you add butter and Parmigiano, but there's a secret! Try to guess what it is . . .”

Margherita had made several guesses, but she hadn't come up with the right one, so in the end her mother had told her the secret ingredient: a grating of white truffles from the Sienese Clay Hills.

“The flavor is simple but strong. And a fairly mundane dish becomes an experience for the palate.”

“When I grow up I want to be a cook just like you . . .”

“If that's what you really want, then Erica's Restaurant will one day become Margherita's Restaurant!” she'd said, smiling.

And yet it had been her mother who urged her to move to Rome with Francesco.

“Perhaps you'll open a restaurant of your own in the city . . .”

Only now did Margherita understand the reason for her mother's insistence. Erica had found out that she was ill and she didn't want her daughter to stay there to see her die little by little. But things hadn't gone as planned: no restaurant in Rome, no romantic dream with a happy ending. An idea began to take shape in her mind: Instead of looking for any old job, why not reopen Erica's?

Of course, I'd have to find the money to fix the place up, but it would be beautiful, and I'm sure that Papa would be happy, too . . .

Lulled by that idea, she closed her eyes and relaxed in the scented water.

The air was filled with steam. Suddenly, Margherita was no longer in her small bathroom; she was in a Turkish bath. And she wasn't alone. She was holding Nicola's hand, whose grip was strong and reassuring. In the small pool, the
water bubbled all around them, enveloping them, spraying them, playing with their bodies. She extricated herself from his grip, he chased her, they struggled playfully and were submerged by the water. His mouth searched for hers . . . But just then Francesco appeared, wearing a turban, his face red with anger. Before Nicola could do anything, Francesco slapped her hard across the face . . .

Margherita jumped up, splashing water everywhere. She had fallen asleep in the tub, and when she slipped, she banged her cheek against the side. The water had grown cold. She shivered and, still in a daze, drew the terry-cloth robe around her. Just like in a food blender, she had combined all the ingredients of that stressful day: her arrogant, sexy, and sexist boss for one night; her childish, aggressive ex-husband; the dreamlike atmosphere that hovered over the villa; the tub filled with scented bubbles . . . and this had been the result! Checking to see if her cheek was bruised, she dried herself off and found shelter in her bed, hoping to sleep, this time without dreaming.

The next morning, when Margherita opened the door to take Artusi for his walk, she found Matteo standing there.

“I came by to find out how things went.”

The dog impatiently tugged on the leash and pointed toward the gate.

As Margherita struggled to hold him still, she answered her friend with a touch of irony: “The dinner was up to par. Nothing to worry about, your job is safe.”

Matteo didn't hear the irony in her voice and gave her a satisfied smile. She loosened her grip on the leash and headed toward the street.

“Sorry, but it's time for our walk.”

Matteo walked along beside her, still smiling.

“I knew it,” he remarked. “Actually, I was sure of it, it was child's play. Starting today you are officially on our lists. Margherita Carletti, on-call domestic chef! I just know they'll be calling you back soon.”

She stopped short and tugged hard on the leash. Artusi turned his head and gave his owner an angry look. He let out a growl of protest.

“That's exactly the point!” she exclaimed. “I refuse to work for that guy ever again!”

Matteo stared at her with a puzzled look on his face. “I don't get it, you said everything was fine—”

“I said the
dinner
was fine.”

Matteo put his hand on her arm in a way that expressed both alarm and protection. “Margy . . . he didn't try to make a move on you, did he?”

She burst into laughter. Actually, it sounded more like a screech.

“You can forget that! He likes icy, big-breasted women who wear designer clothes,” she remarked, maybe a bit too sardonically.

This time Matteo grasped all the implications in her tone. And his alarm began to grow.

“You're not trying to tell me that he's
your
type?”

How had their conversation taken this turn?

“I mean really, Matteo!” she shot back, perhaps overreacting a bit. “How can you even suggest I might be thinking of someone else after all I've been through with Francesco?”

But that's exactly what had happened.

He looked at her, mortified. “I'm sorry, you're right. It just looked like the perfect job for you. So what happened?”

Right, what
had
happened?

“I guess I just don't like arrogant, callous individuals who're convinced that money can buy everything. It's as simple as that,” she declared, hanging on to her words the way a castaway grips a piece of driftwood.

But Matteo wasn't convinced. “What do you care what he's like? All you have to do is cook, take the money, and that's the end of it.”

The problem was it didn't end there at all.

“I just don't enjoy being watched, judged, and criticized.”

“But the dinner was a success!”

“Yes, it was, but you have no idea what an ordeal I had to go through . . .” She started telling him about everything that had taken place the day before, leaving out some of the details, such as the way she had felt when his dark chocolate gaze was on her.

Matteo burst out laughing.

“Is that it? You just have to get used to it. It's never easy to work with a perfect stranger watching over you. But you'll see. In no time you'll be the most popular cook in the whole of Maremma.”

Margherita shook her head with determination. “No, Matteo. It's far too stressful. But I do have an idea . . .”

Matteo became attentive.

“I've been thinking about reopening my mother's restaurant!”

“Have you spoken to your father about it?”

“No. He's gone to Grosseto with Giulia, and besides, I want to surprise him. Of course, the place needs a lot of work, but I'm convinced it's a good idea, and I'm not afraid to work hard to make it happen.”

Matteo thought about it for a few seconds, then turned and smiled approvingly at his friend. Reopening Erica's restaurant with Margherita in the kitchen was sure to be a success.

“There's just one problem: you'll need money to renovate it,” he pointed out.

Margherita smiled.

“I read somewhere that the region allocates financial incentives to under thirty-fives, which means that I can apply.”

“So you're planning to take out a bank loan?”

Margherita nodded.

“And as security I can always mortgage the premises. We own the property. Why shouldn't they give me one? We have all the requirements, and what's more”—she smiled cheerfully—“I have the business in my blood!”

“So you've decided to stay, then?” Matteo asked, trying to find the answer in her eyes before hearing her actual words.

Margherita nodded again. He threw his arms around her.

“I don't want to lose you again, Margy,” he whispered.

Margherita wriggled out of his embrace and looked at him in surprise. “You never did lose me, Matteo.”

Meanwhile, in his office, Nicola Ravelli was on the phone with Vittorio Giovanale, still intent on persuading him.

“Are you sure you don't want to sell? I know we could reach an agreement . . .”

There was a moment's silence; perhaps the old man was lost in thought. A smile crossed Nicola's face. He wasn't such a tough nut after all.

Giovanale began speaking again: “I won't hide the fact that I've been able to get some information about you. I know your father produced some excellent wine, and I can understand perfectly well why you would want my land, but—”

Nicola wouldn't let him finish.

“Why talk about it over the phone? How about talking about it over dinner again?” said Nicola alluringly, suggesting they meet at one of the finest restaurants in the area.

“Sounds like a nice idea,” the winemaker replied. “But, frankly, I'd prefer to come to your place again. After tasting the cuisine that's served there, any other pales in comparison. And besides”—he paused—“it would be easier to talk.”

Nicola smiled. Just as he had thought, his idea about organizing dinners to do business was beginning to bear fruit. A vision of Margherita passionately cooking unexpectedly crossed his mind. Strangely, though, instead of irking him, the image excited him . . .