The Summer of Everything, page 15
‘Did you actually sleep?’ she asked him, helping him stack the produce by the refrigerator door.
‘A little. Nothing coffee can’t fix.’ He gave her new whites a nod. ‘I like the uniform.’
‘You do?’ She ran her hand down the fabric, still pinching herself that she was wearing it.
‘It suits you.’
‘Your father gave them to me this morning.’
‘I know. I was the one who ordered them.’ He threw her a warm smile as she took another box from him, loving the uniform all the more knowing Andre had arranged it for her.
Uncle Benito prepared them a plate of brioche buns with butter and jam alongside hot macchiatos. Work stopped for twenty minutes while they gathered to eat, conversation light as they discussed the day ahead before activity resumed once more.
At lunch, when the doors opened, a steady stream of diners flowed through. They eyed the new specials board by the entranceway with interest and, soon after, dockets for pan-fried squid, veal scaloppini and artichoke risotto began lining up on the pass.
Even from inside the kitchen, Belle could hear the mood lift in the dining room. The specials board at the top of the laneway was doing its intended job too, and diners began to fill the tables—winter tourists stopping through on their way to the Alps and locals who would normally find elsewhere to eat. Only an hour into service and a small line began to snake its way outside.
Uncle Benito worked tirelessly, but not with the exhausted and agitated look of someone who could barely keep up, nor with the resistance he’d exhibited weeks earlier when he’d begrudgingly let Belle help him with prep. This time he asked her to taste, sought her advice on plating and taught her how to manage her stations. Cooking at home was one thing, but juggling multiple orders, being the grill, pastry, fry, and sauté chefs all at once, and ensuring all components came together at the same time while not getting in each other’s way was something else entirely. She sliced her fingers, burnt her hands, singed her eyebrows, but she shrugged it off, bandaged herself up and kept moving.
Dinner service was even busier, as locals and tourists emerged from their homes and hotels for a meal. Andre turned the music up loud and its beat filled the laneway, streaming out into Via di Pasquino, enticing people in. Belle thought half of Rome must have poured through Valentina’s doors by the end of the night. She couldn’t remember when she’d stopped for air or a bathroom break, and she hadn’t eaten since the brioche bun she’d had for breakfast.
After service, she hung her apron next to Uncle Benito’s on the hook and pushed through the kitchen doors to the dining room and rousing applause from the wait staff. As the dinner service had wound down and Uncle Benito had loaded the dishwasher, she’d fixed platters of couscous and veal scallopini to be served alongside the usual pizza and pasta for the staff meal.
She dropped into a chair beside Andre and was so ravenous, she quickly devoured two plates of food and several glasses of wine, the alcohol soaring to her head.
‘Hungry?’ he asked with amusement, watching her.
But her mouth was too full of couscous to reply, and all she could do was nod.
At one am, Avery rose and pulled her jacket on, throwing her arms around Belle and squeezing her tight. ‘I’m going out. I’ll see you in the morning. And by the way, you were friggin’ awesome tonight!’
Belle hugged her back. ‘Thank you. Be safe.’ She watched her leave through the door, marvelling for the umpteenth time at Avery’s inexhaustible energy. The only place Belle wanted to drop into was her bed.
‘You must be tired,’ Andre said, draping his arm across the back of her chair.
‘Yes, it’s been a long day.’
‘Shall I walk you home?’
‘I’d like that.’
They rose from their seats. Natalya and Josh volunteered to remain behind to clear the table, and everyone else pulled on their coats and scarves and clambered out the door. Andre helped Belle into her jacket, deft hands carefully relocating her braids so as not to catch them in the collar.
Uncle Benito appeared at their side, slapping Andre lightly on the back. ‘Buona notte, son,’ he said, wearing a wide smile. ‘I’ll see you at home.’ He turned to Belle. ‘And buona notte to you, bella. I am so proud.’
The wine may have gone to her head, but even without it, she would have felt the same surge of emotion well in her eyes. I am so proud. No one had ever said those words to her before.
After saying goodbye to Uncle Benito, she and Andre left Valentina’s under a clear, cold sky. They turned into Piazza Navona, the crowds gone for the day, and the fountains gurgling to an audience of pigeons.
‘You were remarkable today, Belle,’ Andre said.
With her spare chef’s uniform tucked under her arm, she smiled. The cold stung her cheeks, but it was intoxicating, as though she were standing on the edge of the world. And maybe she was. Working in that kitchen had sparked something long dead inside her, a sliver of hope that one day she might cook professionally. And it may have only been in a tiny trattoria tucked away in a small unassuming laneway, but she felt utterly blessed. Despite his earlier reservations, Uncle Benito had proven to be a generous and knowledgeable teacher and no cooking class could ever compare.
‘What a day,’ she said, revelling in the memory of it. ‘What a ride this whole trip has been.’
‘You enjoy cooking a lot, don’t you?’ Andre asked.
Belle smiled. ‘It’s in my blood. I can’t explain it, but it’s like I was born to do it, which is ridiculous when you consider that I come from a long line of lawyers. I should be in a courtroom somewhere fighting for justice.’ She laughed. If only her father could see her now. ‘But there’s something about cooking, about colour and creation and making people happy through food, that I love.’
‘Then that’s exactly what you should keep doing. If you love it, you should live and breathe it.’
They reached the steps to Avery’s apartment and Belle sighed with regret. Although she could have fallen into bed, she didn’t want their time together to end, didn’t want Andre to leave. She wanted to keep the night alive until the sun rose again. An idea popped into her head, and before she could consider how preposterous it was at this late hour, she blurted it out anyway. ‘Bake with me.’
‘Huh?’ A smile eclipsed his bemused expression.
‘Let’s bake something upstairs, in Avery’s kitchen.’
‘You want to bake something?’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘Now? At one-thirty in the morning?’
‘Yes!’ She was breathless with the idea. ‘Let’s make biscotti and hot chocolate.’
He looked truly confused now. ‘I thought you’d be sick of cooking for one day.’
‘Never. Come on.’ She tugged on his arm, feeling emboldened enough to lead him up to the empty apartment, when previously they’d only ever spoken on the steps outside.
She unlocked the door and let them both in. Flicking on the lights, she kicked off her shoes and shrugged out of her jacket. ‘Just give me a second. I’m going to change. I’m wearing every dish on the menu at the moment.’
Andre’s chuckle followed her as she headed for her bedroom. She closed the door and hung her clean uniform in the wardrobe, then she threw off her soiled one, covered in sauce splatters and oil, and tossed it on the floor to be soaked in the morning. Climbing into clean jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, she pulled open the door and walked to the kitchen, finding Andre with his shoes off too, pulling flour and sugar out of the pantry and lining them on the bench beside butter and eggs.
‘Biscotti, right?’ he said, glancing up as she entered.
‘Yes.’ She pushed her sleeves up and stood beside him. ‘We can do an almond and citrus batch and a chocolate and vanilla batch.’
‘Do you have chocolate pieces?’
‘I do. And we can also melt them and dip the ends of the biscuits in later.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m going home with a stomach ache, aren’t I?’
‘What Italian ever goes home with a stomach ache after eating biscotti?’ she asked seriously.
Andre blinked, then they erupted in a fit of giggles, doubled over, their laughter coming out in snorts. Belle was certain the late hour, the sleep deprivation and the alcohol were making them loopy. Or perhaps it was just the inexplicable nature of their friendship that had always made them feel so comfortable around each other. Comfortable enough to snort while laughing.
When they’d regained enough composure to finally breathe again, they returned to the task, pulling ingredients, bowls, and utensils from the cupboards. Biscotti was easy to make, a combination of butter and sugar, combined with eggs then later, baking powder and flour. They made two separate batches, Andre presiding over the one with orange zest and almond extract, and Belle making the chocolate and vanilla batch.
They formed their doughs, talking and laughing, the ease with which they worked together in Avery’s speck of a kitchen testament to their friendship. If Belle cast her mind back, she couldn’t recall the exact moment Andre had become one of her dearest friends. He seemed to have always been there, like a constant fixture in her life, and not just for the four months she’d been in Italy.
When their dough was ready, they shaped them into flat logs and spread them out on paper-lined baking trays.
Andre stared at them; brow furrowed. ‘They just need one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘Turbinado sugar.’ He rifled through Avery’s pantry and extracted a bag of raw sugar. ‘It crystalises the top of them when they’re baking in the oven.’
He opened the bag and Belle stuck her hand in at the exact moment Andre did. Their fingers knocked together, then became stuck in the bag’s opening. A frisson of energy shot up Belle’s arm, the hair on the back of her neck rising at his touch. The air became charged around them, and his eyes locked on hers, a moment trapped in a heartbeat.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Belle said, snatching her hand back and blushing.
Andre blushed too. ‘No, I’m sorry. You go first.’
‘No, really, I’m taking over.’
‘I don’t mind if you do.’
‘I have a terrible habit of it.’
Belle lowered her eyes, unable to hide her flaming cheeks. Andre swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Suddenly, the kitchen became airless and small and a trifle hot, which was ridiculous, for it was not the first time their hands had bumped together, although it had never happened while they were alone in an apartment.
‘We should get these in the oven,’ Belle croaked.
Andre cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Oven.’
They sprinkled turbinado sugar over the logs then squeezed one tray on the top rack and the other on the bottom of Avery’s ancient little oven, Belle praying it would not give up the ghost halfway through. While the biscotti baked, they made small talk, leaning against the bench, skirting around the weird thing that had happened with their fingers.
Twenty-five minutes later, they took the trays out, set them aside to cool, then cut the logs into slices. They slid the biscotti back into the oven to bake for a further ten minutes, making hot chocolate while they waited.
Finally, with a plate of freshly baked biscotti and mugs of hot chocolate, Belle tugged open the balcony door and they lowered themselves onto chairs outside to eat.
‘Are you cold?’ Andre asked. ‘I can get you a jacket.’
‘There’s a blanket on the sofa we can share.’
He disappeared inside, returning moments later with a thick woollen blanket that Belle sometimes threw over herself when the apartment was cold. He draped it over them both, and they huddled down under it, hot mugs and biscotti balancing on their laps. Exhaustion dragged at her muscles again, Andre’s warm body beside her making her drowsy.
‘It’s beautiful at this time of night,’ she said, glancing out over the quiet corsia, towards Piazza Navona.
‘Rome has a tender side when you take away her grit and noise,’ he said, staring out too.
‘Would you ever leave Italy?’ she asked.
He shrugged, cupping his hands around his mug. ‘I don’t know. My heart is here in Rome, in Tuscany, in Italy.’ He glanced at her. ‘I’m not sure I’m built for anywhere else. And my father is here. He hasn’t had many days off in the last thirty years. Someday, I’d like to take over the trattoria so he can retire.’
‘Then you’ll be bound here.’
‘There are worse places in the world to be bound.’
They shared a smile then fell silent, the soft crunch of biscotti and slurp of hot chocolate the only sound.
‘Thank you for baking with me,’ she said. ‘Ben never used to do that.’
Andre raised an eyebrow. ‘Not even once, in all the years you were together?’
Belle shook her head. ‘He thought cooking was silly, certainly not as important as the things he did. He was happy to taste but would never roll up his sleeves and join me in the kitchen. It was a bit beneath him.’
‘I’d be happy to cook with you every day of the week, Belle.’
His words wrapped her in warmth and, feeling sleepy, she rested her head against his shoulder, and he nestled his cheek against her hair. After Ben had broken her heart, the idea of being close to another man was something she’d only occasionally entertained. Twenty years of knowing someone, of them imbuing every part of your soul, could create a gaping void to fill. Months later, Andre had filled it, and the thought neither surprised nor troubled her. Rather, it made her heart swell, even if she wasn’t sure she filled his heart.
When the sky began to pale and the first streaks of amber coloured it, Andre stood with a regretful look. ‘I better go so we can get some sleep.’
Belle rose too, sad that their time was over, for she could have sat out there with him for a thousand sunrises. She collected the plate of biscotti and empty mugs and followed him inside, placing them down on the kitchen bench.
She ignored his pleas for her to stay in the apartment where it was warm and walked him down the stairwell. Out on the corsia, he looked at her with a tender smile. ‘I had a wonderful night, Belle.’
‘I did too.’
A second passed, then another, as their eyes held, and Belle’s heart skipped a beat. To her surprise, when Andre leant in to kiss her cheeks, he skimmed her lips instead. She was too stunned to respond at first and she blinked, seeing surprise in his eyes too, as though he hadn’t planned on doing that. Then, with an unexpected urgency, he wrapped his hands around her waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her.
Her breath fled as she folded into him, her intensity matching his with a dazzling fervour. She linked her arms around his neck, pulling him closer still, seeking his tongue, his lips, his whole mouth. It was everything she was afraid it would be. Exquisite, passionate—a desire that had confused and tormented her for months. No one had ever kissed her like that before, with such need that her stomach flipped and heat rose in places that left her breathless.
When they finally separated, Andre smiled. There was a satisfied, almost languid expression on his face. ‘Sorry. I’m not sure you were ready for that, but I couldn’t help myself.’
She pulled back to look at him, surprised by his apology. ‘You don’t have to say sorry.’
‘It’s just that, you’re still recovering from a painful breakup. I know moving on can be difficult; I’m going through it too. I didn’t want to scare you off.’
She shook her head, leaning in closer to him as his arms remained around her waist. ‘You could never scare me off. I’ve wanted this too.’
‘Really?’ He looked thoroughly pleased. ‘I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you, in that little bar in London.’ He laughed sheepishly. ‘It’s hard just being your friend. I’ve tried to be patient.’
‘You’re the most patient person in the world,’ she said, marvelling that all this time he’d felt it too, that sweet, taunting ache that came with adoring someone from a distance. ‘In fact, I thought you didn’t like me.’
‘Don’t ever think that. You haven’t left my mind since that night. It’s just that…’ He grimaced, as though trying to find the right words in a language that wasn’t his first, ‘love might be complicated for us, Belle.’
‘Complicated?’
‘You have Ben, I have Mary.’
‘I don’t have Ben. And I hope you don’t have Mary.’
He looked away. ‘You know what I mean.’
She touched his cheek, turning his face back to hers. ‘I’m not sure I do. But I want to come into this with an open heart, with the past behind me. Can you do the same?’
He stared at her, their gazes locked, his eyes so intense on her she thought he could see the most intimate parts of her soul. ‘My heart is wide open.’
She nestled into his chest and closed her eyes with contentment, feeling the light thud of his heartbeat against her cheek. If only she could freeze time, halt its interminable tick, prolong the moment before he said goodbye. Now that she’d tasted him, she wanted more, a bubbling giddiness chasing the exhaustion of the day away and making her limbs tingle, her heart pound faster, her lips burn.
She sighed, soaked in the kind of happiness she had long forgotten. How swiftly life could change. How remarkable that a heart once shattered could heal and seek love again if you allowed it.
‘You’d better get inside.’ He rubbed her arms gently. ‘It’s freezing out here.’
‘I don’t want to leave you.’
He beamed. ‘You don’t know how happy that makes me.’
She smiled too, the luckiest girl in the world.
He kissed her cold nose, then her lips. ‘Until tomorrow, bella.’
‘Until tomorrow.’
He pulled away, his arms leaving hers regretfully, before he turned and walked back towards the piazza, disappearing into the dawn.
Twenty-One
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Belle’s eyes reluctantly opened. Stretching her fatigued muscles, she rolled over to check the time, groaning at the single digits that blinked back at her. Seven o’clock. She’d hoped for a sleep-in, to remain buried beneath the covers on a frosty morning after a busy night at Valentina’s, but she could already hear Avery awake and banging around her room as she threw clothes into her suitcase. She was returning home to Vancouver for the holidays, and Belle and Andre were driving her to the airport.
