Margherita's Notebook (21 page)

Nicola had driven aimlessly along the country roads. Only when dusk fell did he decide to go back to the villa. It was useless for him to try to fool himself; there was something special about Margherita, something he'd never found in any other woman. And she was clearly very attracted to him, too. He'd felt it when, wrapped in his arms, she'd returned his kisses and caresses. But then she'd pulled away. Why? When he got home, he went into the kitchen and
straight to the refrigerator. There was still a dish of custard, strawberries, and cinnamon that Margherita had prepared the evening before. He dipped one finger into the soft, scented cream and brought it to his lips. He closed his eyes, savoring the flavor that was both delicate and intense. The custard tasted just like Margherita: sweet but intense, soft and enveloping. Nicola smiled. What would it be like to make love to his beautiful chef?

Nicola fantasized about being on the beach with her. He imagined tenderly holding her close, his hands delicately exploring her sensuous body. She blushed, her lips trembled. Yes, the first time for them would be sweet, unexpected. He couldn't explain why, but that woman for him was like honey, like wine that seems to be light at first but then hits your head like a hammer . . .

Margherita, in her own bed, couldn't sleep. Prey to a strange feeling of excitement, she kept twisting and turning in her sheets. However much she tried not to think about him, Nicola's face kept forcing itself into her thoughts. She was perturbed by the memory of his hands on her skin, of his demanding lips. She'd had only a taste of what it would be like to have sex with Nicola, but it had been enough for her to understand that, in spite of everything, there was nothing she wanted more.

If Margherita had been asked to give Nicola a color, it would have been red. A warm, turbid, sensuous red, like his lips. She abandoned herself to the memory of his mouth when it had sunk into the soft flesh of her neck, of his caresses that had been so feverish. That man was a hot chile pepper: all it took was his touch for her to feel herself burning;
spiciness heightened the senses, intoxicated them. She would have wanted to make love to him in fiery red sheets, violently and passionately. She imagined his frenzy, his strong caresses, his ardent kisses . . . The idea alone aroused her. She closed her eyes, overcome by feeling.

What has he done to me? Why do I desire him so?

It was her last conscious thought before falling into a restless sleep filled with dreams in which Nicola possessed her forcefully . . . not letting her breathe.

T
he next day, Margherita woke up to utter mayhem. Artusi was chasing and barking at Asparagio, who was meowing desperately. Valastro kept shrieking “Food! Food!” and Ratatouille was jumping up and down on the bed, prodding Margherita insistently with his nose in an attempt to rouse her from her dreams. Margherita finally gave up.

“Okay, I get it . . .” She peered at the alarm clock: it was very late. “Calm down, guys, I'm getting up,” she said to her personal zoo, and headed off toward the kitchen.

On the fridge, a sticky note said: “Won't be back for lunch. Have a good day, kiddo!”

A regular Houdini! Where the hell could he have gone? I must find him!

Once again, she was overwhelmed by anger, worry, and anxiety.

I have to stop him. I have to prevent him from gambling again!

Her hands shook as she made herself a cup of ginger-flavored coffee.

This time I won't let him mesmerize me with his lies!

Margherita fed her impatient menagerie and got ready to go out.

I'll find him and have him over a barrel!

It was time for Armando to own up to his responsibilities. He couldn't keep shirking them.

But aren't you doing the same thing?

The question had popped into her mind before she could stop it.

I'm not shirking anything!

She knew that wasn't true, though. She was fleeing from her emotions.

I mustn't think about him. I mustn't think about Nicola.

Yet the memory of his kisses, his arms tight around her, the wave of desire she'd felt was still there, present and very real.

I must keep my distance.

But her emotions had no intention of succumbing to the dictates of reason. They were like a warm ricotta soufflé that kept overflowing, that crept inside her and caused her to feel a sweet dizziness, knocking down her defenses.

It was only when she'd arrived at the tobacconist's that her worries about Armando got the upper hand again.

“Aldo, have you seen my father?”

He looked away from her. “Not today,” he answered vaguely.

“Are you sure?”

The storekeeper seemed very intent on straightening the newspaper rack, which was already in perfect order.

“No, I haven't seen him,” he repeated.

Margherita realized she wasn't going to get anything out of him. This connivance between men came before everything else, she thought, as she left the store defeated.

She took a look around the piazza, but there was no sign of her father.

Where could he be? She asked around, but no one seemed to know. It was while she was trying to figure out what to do that she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Ciao!”

Margherita turned around to find Giulia's smiling face.

“Ciao. Do you by any chance know where Armando might be?”

“I saw him last night at the tango lesson. You haven't lost him, have you?”

For a moment, Margherita was almost tempted to ask her if she'd help her deal with her father's gambling problem. But then she thought better of it. After all, there was something going on between the two of them, and she didn't want to upset Giulia. She was going to have to handle Armando on her own.

“Every now and again he disappears. I think that my coming home has upset his plans a little . . .”

“Coffee?” Giulia suggested.

A few minutes later they were sitting at one of the tables of the Bar dello Sport, chatting away like old friends.

“How are things with your husband? Better?”

Margherita remembered how affectionate and supportive Giulia had been the night Francesco had shown up unexpectedly at their home. She could see the same empathy in her eyes right now. She was tempted to open her heart to her, tell her about the emotional turmoil going on inside her that she hadn't been able to talk to anyone about.

“The truth is it's not about him . . . ,” she started. “I mean, I think I've made the right decision, although I have asked myself whether I should have given him another chance . . .”

“I think that if you still loved him, you wouldn't have let him go. In fact, I'm sure about that,” Giulia said.

Margherita looked at her gratefully.

“So who is it?” Giulia continued.

Margy told her about Nicola, about what had happened between them, about her fantasies.

“No man has ever made me feel this way before . . . it's the first time I've dreamed about such things . . . fantasized like this.” She fell silent, feeling embarrassed.

Giulia smiled with an amused air.

“It's all a question of chemistry. Either it's there, or it isn't. There wasn't any with Francesco, whereas with Nicola . . .” Giulia didn't finish her sentence as she watched Margherita's reaction. “From what you've told me, I'd say there's no doubt about it.”

Margherita blushed. But Giulia wasn't at all trying to embarrass her.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of, not at all! It's something you feel right away, it's wonderful, all he has to do is touch you gently for you to feel alive, electric, euphoric . . . Feelings I'm very familiar with myself.”

“You've felt something like this too?”

Giulia nodded.

“Camilo. I would have done anything to be with him. I was head over heels in love with him . . .”

“. . . but it ended,” Margherita added for her.

Giulia shrugged.

“It's over,” she said with a twinge of regret. “But for as
long as it did last, it was like fireworks . . . He lit up the sky above my head . . .”

Margherita lowered her eyes, lost in thought. Giulia took her hand in hers.

“Let your instinct guide you, Margy. And remember,
amor y saber, no puede ser.
”

At Margherita's puzzled look, Giulia hastened to translate.

“It is impossible to love and to be wise.” Then she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my goodness, I'm talking in proverbs like Gualtiero and Salvatore!”

And the two of them burst out laughing.

When Armando got home, it didn't take long for him to figure out that a storm was brewing. Artusi was hidden in his basket, and all you could see was his watchful face. Ratatouille and Asparagio had disappeared, and Valastro was inexplicably silent.

“We need to talk,” Margherita began, in a tone of voice that meant business.

“Has something happened?”

“You tell me. I went by the tobacconist's and—”

Armando interrupted her: “I was going to tell you—”

I've heard this one before!

“Papa, don't lie to me!”

But he continued, undaunted. “Margy, the problem is that I've fallen for it again. I only played a couple of tens, but it's the same thing. It's as if I'd bet a million . . .”

“And you think you can just tell me like that?” Margherita was astounded.
Did he want her to feel sorry for him?

“Yes, because the psychologist urged me to talk to you
about it. He said that the first step is ‘to be honest with your loved ones.' ”

“Papa, do you really think you can lead me down the garden path just like that?”

Armando, mustering all his greatest acting skills, pretended to be offended and picked up his phone.

“Since you don't believe me, talk to him yourself. Go on, call Dr. Bacconi and ask him where I was today,” he insisted.

Margherita felt guilty. For the umpteenth time she thought she might have gone over the top.

What kind of a daughter am I? He's right to be upset.

And she apologized to him.

Armando drew a sigh of relief. She'd fallen for it again. Orbetello. Next time I'll do my betting in Orbetello! he thought to himself.

The days passed and there was no word from Nicola. Margherita kept telling herself that it was better that way, that what had happened made no sense at all. To while away the time, she started cooking again. Depending on her mood, she'd make something sweet or something savory. If she felt anxious, she'd chop vegetables, prepare meat rolls and roasts, or else she'd put all her energy into kneading dough, to keep from thinking about him, his kisses, his caresses. If, instead, it was sadness that got the upper hand, then the only remedy was to make desserts. She prepared all sorts of cookies, fruit mousses, apple crumbles . . . And of course she was also making the American cakes that Serafino had ordered from her. The most popular one was the Barbie. Thanks to Matteo, it was also starting to sell in some of the bakeries on the coast. So Margherita would
prepare the icing, knead the almond dough, shape the multicolored flowers for her sugar doll clothing, and not have to think.