Saffron Nights (10 page)

A
ny thoughts Maeve had of a quaint truffle-hunting experience vanished when she saw the dogs. These folks took their truffle hunting very seriously. It was October, the exact proper season for finding the fleshy white fungi—Italy was the only place in the world you could find them—
tartufo bianco
. The black ones could be found elsewhere in the world.

Maeve was staying in a large villa in rural Tuscany. It sat at the end of a dirt road driveway. On either side of the drive were rows and rows of grapevines, tinged in October’s gold. In front of the huge terra-cotta-colored brick building were two arches, leading into the front rooms. Small windows were on each side of the arches and four small ones were above them. From looking at the front of the home, you’d think it was dark and dank. But inside, it was filled with light. The other sides of the house were almost all glass—a new renovation to the home that had been in the same wealthy family for generations.

There was a third floor, smaller, which is where Maeve slept. Her windows and private balcony looked out over the fields of grapevines to the wooded mountains, which were reputedly filled with what she had come to explore: truffles.

As luck would have it, Giovanni, her sturdy, handsome guide and host, was serious about truffles and insisted on rising at midnight to hunt the delicacies.

“The dogs can smell them better in the moonlight,” he said.

But it was freezing. Freezing in Italy—great. Where were all those sunny beaches of the Mediterranean? Of course, there were no truffles in the sand. Maeve piled on the layers and borrowed a jacket and warm boots from Giovanni’s sister, Lucinda.

She trudged along with Giovanni and his crew of eight, each one tending a dog, which were so well trained they completely ignored her. She tried to engage with them—no takers.

“We send them to a special school for training,” he explained, as they watched one tear into the rich Tuscan earth and pull out a white truffle between its teeth, very carefully, not bruising the $3,000-a-pound delicacy.

They stopped working at about 5:00 a.m. and Maeve was tired and hungry when they stepped into the kitchen of the villa. She could smell frying butter and something else . . . earthy, musky. When they sat a platter of it in front of her she nearly fainted from the richness of the butter dripping off the truffles.

“This is the best way to have them,” Giovanni told her. “You can do all kinds of things with them—dress them up, add special sauces, but those of us who know will tell you. Plain. In butter,” he said with butter dripping down his chin.

He sipped his wine. Yes, wine for breakfast. It made Maeve giddy—the sheer hedonism, eating one of the most expensive delicacies in the world, drinking wine with a handsome Italian—all at 6:00 a.m.

“Well,” Maeve said, holding his gaze. “I am off to bed. I am so tired.” She yawned—her chest expanding and Giovanni’s eyes casually grazing over her breasts.

Maeve woke up around noon, took a shower, and found her table covered in delicious-looking pastries, jewel-like jams, and a crock of light yellow butter. She sat down to the treats in front of her. A light rapping came at her door.

Giovanni opened the door and walked in with a coffeepot and two cups. “Good morning. I thought we could both use this. It will clear our heads,” he said and looked sheepishly away from her. He was gorgeous in a classic Italian way—large, bold features, beautiful smooth dark olive complexion.

“May I join you?”

“Absolutely,” she said, fresh from the shower, still in her new blue velvet robe, feeling its softness envelop her body, just the way she had imagined. “This food is incredible,” she said, spreading apricot jam on a pastry, taking a bite, then eyeing the butter.

“Mmm,” he said, pouring the coffee, its sounds and smells filling the air between them. “Try the butter.”

She mused on the attraction she felt for him last night. This morning it was gone. The moment was past.

Her knife plunged into the butter and spread it on another piece of pastry. When she bit into it, she could feel her taste buds standing alert. It was the creamiest and sweetest butter she’d ever had. A slight touch of salt, perhaps? A giggle erupted.

“What?”

She could not stop laughing. Such heaven in her mouth. It was a taste of happiness. Joy. Unbridled flavor.

“Good, huh?”

She stuck a serving spoon in the tub of butter. “Do you mind?” she said, after calming herself down. He was going to think she was a crazy American if she didn’t get a grip.

He shook his head, an amused smile spreading across his face.

She scooped the butter and tried to maintain her composure. What had gotten into her? She felt herself yielding to this butter. She licked it delicately, savoring each sweet dip, her tongue quivering with the anticipation, until she could not stand it any longer—she wrapped her mouth around the large spoon and filled her mouth with it and felt it melt, sliding into her throat. She swallowed it and looked at Giovanni.

“Man,” he said coming closer to her. “You, ah, reall-l-l-ly love that butter.”

He moved closer to her and the next thing she knew his mouth gently kissed hers, his tongue licking her lips, then going further into her mouth, deep kisses full of fire and promise.

She did not even really believe in the idea of monogamy and so she shrugged off images of home and hearth. She was bound and determined not to be controlled by anyone—even Jackson. And yet, even as this gorgeous hunk of Italian manhood was in front of her, a whiff of a robe between them, she had no desire to sleep with him. And it worried her. This was exactly the kind of situation she loved before. The man was attractive, they had plenty of time to explore, and she’d be on a plane soon. No fuss. Just fun. But something just didn’t feel right. It was Jackson dwelling in her mind.

She pulled away from him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m on assignment and—”

“It’s quite all right,” he said, hoarsely. “I understand.”

He sat back and soon they were talking about food and cooking. Chef was a good friend of his. In fact, it was he who had pulled the strings allowing Maeve to be there.

“You know, Chef used to say cooking is about control,” he said. “Eating is about submission. He said people who really enjoy their food are great in bed.”

The idea of submitting to food played in her mind. She knew she had submitted to this incredible butter—so pure and fresh she could not get enough of it. Still, Jackson’s face, his legs, his pitiful look as he lay in the hospital bed—all of it flashed before her, while Giovanni’s eyes moved over the curves of her body.

There was something about the butter that reminded her of . . . home. She thought it was ridiculous, of course. A little of Virginia in Italy? Or was it the other way around? But it reminded her of her childhood—but she couldn’t quite say how.

Sitting across the table from her host, gelling in the moment with the butter, something in her brain clicked.

“How well did you know Chef?” she asked.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ve known each other for years.”

“Did you know that he and his wife were in an open marriage?”

He smiled. “Of course. We were in some of the same clubs at one time. But I found the lifestyle unpalatable after a while. It ruined my marriage. But Paul and Yvette? They loved it.”

“Who would want to kill him?”

He shrugged. “Nobody I know. All of the women? They just wanted to sleep with him. Famous chef. There was one woman . . .”

Maeve’s head tilted. “One woman?”

“Yes, he began to prefer her. I can’t remember her name. Susan? Sarah? It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Later, she was grateful for an extra few days in her schedule. She needed a little rest. She lay in a huge hammock on her balcony, the October sun spilling onto her body, as she gently rocked. The scent of wild rosemary filled the air. It was true what she had always heard about Italian men—they filled your senses. They knew how to eat, how to cook, and oh yes, she wondered if they knew how to make love. Once again, she wondered if she should allow herself the indulgence of a lover while she was here. Maybe, she thought as she closed her eyes, once again, thinking immediately of Jackson. And when she opened them, he was standing there looking down at her.

“Hard at work, I see,” he said.

G
etting up at midnight didn’t suit Jackson. In fact, he wasn’t sure he liked being here at all. He was haunted by images of his experience in Hawaii and Hong Kong. The pock-faced man named Snake. The beautiful blonde and the strange look she had given him. And the open hotel door, followed by a fist to his already-bruised face. The unbelievably handsome Ji taking them off to the middle of nowhere and the shots that had been fired. The Italians on this estate seemed like something out of a dream, so hospitable.

He hoped for decent moonlight so he could get some shots of the dogs and people hunting for truffles, but as they traipsed up the hillsides, his camera saw only Maeve’s white facing shining out from beneath a mound of hats, scarves, and hoods. There she was, no makeup, bundled up as if it was the tundra instead of Tuscany, her cheeks red, her eyes glimmering as she followed alongside the dogs.

He wondered if she had had been sleeping with Giovanni. He caught their host watching her intently and once or twice he swore she looked back at him with longing. He felt an enraging, painful jealousy creeping into his gut. Why? Why would he even care if she were sleeping with anybody else? For some reason, he just did not want to think of Maeve sleeping with someone else. It was an odd sort of protective sensation.

He had never had a relationship in which he cared that much about fidelity. It was just sex, after all, and he knew that had nothing to do with love or emotions. His woman could sleep with others—as long as she kept coming back to him for more.

“What are you doing? Flirting with him?” he came up behind Maeve and whispered in her ear.

“What’s it to you?” she said. “And no, I’m not flirting with him.”

“Humph. I’ve heard that before,” he said. They had stopped under a huge tree. The dogs were taking a bit of a break—or so it seemed.

“Oh really? Women in your past? More than just fucks?”

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugged. “Let’s just say I learned the hard way.”

Maeve cocked her head. “When was the first time you were in love?”

The word
love
hung in the air like rain on a humid day.

“High school—or at least that’s what I thought,” he said. “We were seventeen, hot and heavy.”

What he didn’t tell her was that by that time, he was in a foster home, his mom in prison for drugs. He and his foster sister’s best friend became close friends, and then dated, and one thing led to another. At seventeen, he got the girl pregnant and was ready to give up on his dreams of studying photography to marry her. She aborted—without telling him first.

Of course, with hindsight fifteen years later, he knew it was absolutely the right thing for her to do. Why have another unwanted child in the world with parents who could not provide and did not even know how to take care of themselves, let alone how to take care of a baby?

But then, it hurt like hell. He carried that open wound for years. His foster parents gave up on him, couldn’t wait for his eighteenth birthday, when they gave him tuition for art school and said, “Please don’t come back.” By then, he had been caught several times with pot and cocaine and sleeping with his girlfriend. He couldn’t blame his foster parents for getting rid of him. He never could.

He would never forget the look of betrayal his foster mother had when she held up a Baggie of pot she had quite innocently found when cleaning his room. It hurt to see that—especially after she had done so much for him. But he had grown accustomed to disappointing people. What they gave him was never enough. Truthfully, even the drugs and the sex were not enough—the only thing that soothed him was the adrenaline rush of a perfect photograph. Now that was fulfilling.

What to do about Maeve? How to sort through these feelings? Lust? Friendship? Love? He looked at her as she moved away from him toward one of the dogs, brought his camera to his eye. Maeve and the dog. Great shots.

On one level, it really didn’t matter what happened between them. They both had work to do. He hoped it would go smoother from this point on. But the mystery deepened. Where was Alice? What did he or Maeve have that Snake wanted? And what the hell had Chef gotten himself into?

C
ould she work with a man who was in love with her? Was Jackson in love with her? Sometimes when he looked at her, she wondered. How could she maintain the distance she needed to work, to write, to breathe? What would happen to their partnership if it went bad? She could feel his eyes on her. His camera on her. And there was a change in his sarcastic, cocky behavior. Maybe it was the head injuries. Maybe she was just imagining his interest in her.

In any case, they had work to do. She focused on the truffles. Working and relationships didn’t mix. One failed “working” relationship after the other in college taught her that lesson.

Ah, youth.

Now, here I am in Italy, safe and sound for the time being, living the dream of every food writer
.

“Hard to imagine these ugly little truffles are so delicious,” she said to Jackson, as they walked toward the villa.

“Better than the jellyfish?”

“Ah, no, I don’t think so. I was surprised I like them,” she said. Mr. Mei-Lei had carefully prepared jellyfish for her dinner on her last evening in Hong Kong. They weren’t fishy at all and she loved the golden-ink color of the gel and the way it felt, so smooth, on her tongue, all the way down into her throat.

“I’m surprised you remember how much I liked the jellyfish,” she said.

“Why?” he said, tilting his head just so and she imagined tilting her head the other way, just so. Lips on lips. Tongues twirling. The memories of their kiss tugged at her.

“I just didn’t think you were paying attention,” she said.

“You’d be surprised what I see when it looks like I’m not paying attention,” he said, moving closer to her. She could see, now, the faint pink tint around his nose and lips from the cold. He grinned.
Don’t do that, don’t look at me like that while I’m trying to work. Don’t look at me as if you know exactly what I’m thinking, as if you know exactly what to do with all these body parts standing at attention, tingling.

She looked away at the resting dogs.

“Time to call it a day,” someone said.

Maeve wandered away from Jackson, leaving him alone with his camera, but her thoughts lingered.

 

When she was back in her room, she found herself wishing she could call Chef Paul and ruminate about the jellyfish. Perhaps she could add the ginseng mix and give the jellyfish a little kick. “Play with your food,” he always said.

She made a note to ask Alice where she might find some jellyfish once she was back in the States—if she ever heard from her, that is.

She dashed off an e-mail to Martin about the butter she had eaten in Tuscany—still so fresh in her mind yet having touched something in her past. What could it be? Was it a memory or a dream? A murky place, indeed.