Margherita's Notebook (10 page)

“I wish I could, but right now I can't afford it,” Giulia admitted sadly. “I don't earn that much, and this year, because of the recession, there are fewer bookings. I'm so sorry that I can't help you.”

Margherita smiled and hastened to reassure her.

“Don't worry, I'll find something. The season is just beginning; maybe it'll be easier to get a job on the coast.”

Giulia gave her a big smile.

“So you've decided to settle down here for good?”

Margherita nodded. “I've turned over a new leaf as well, and I want to start over. I don't know how, but I've decided I'm going to start from right here.”

M
argherita's furry/feathery tribe festively welcomed her home the way they always did, with a concert of howls, whistles, and mews over which Armando's loud voice could be heard.

“Quiet, quiet, otherwise Italo'll get his shotgun out!”

Margherita smiled at her father. “Giulia sends you a special hello . . .”

Armando's eyes lit up. “Is that what she said?”

“Those exact words,” Margherita answered in amusement.

“Did she say anything else about me?”

“To be honest, she was sort of busy with her two gentleman callers . . .” she answered mischievously.

Armando pricked up his ears.

“Gentleman callers? What gentleman callers?”

“Salvatore and Gualtiero. They reminded me of the wise men bearing gifts . . .”

Armando made a face.

“A ferret and a fishmonger, nothing to worry about . . .”

“But they certainly were trying their best,” she teased him. “You should have seen them!”

“They can forget it! Giulia's too much for them to handle!” Armando answered categorically.

“But not for you, right?” Margherita watched him carefully for his reaction. Armando, however, was a champion card player, and his poker face gave nothing away.

Margy was tempted to keep on teasing him when Artusi's barking alerted them that they had a guest.

“Can I come in?” asked Matteo, knocking on the door.

Margherita let him in, reassuring poor Artusi, who raced over to have a sniff at the newcomer, after which, reassured, he went back to his nap.

Armando took advantage of Matteo's arrival to take off.

“I'll leave you kids alone, I have a couple of things I need to get done,” he said, as he quickly went out the door.

Margherita couldn't help smiling in amusement. Something told her that Giulia's farm would soon to be visited by yet another gentleman caller.

“I have a brilliant idea.” Matteo's words distracted her from her thoughts. She turned toward her friend.

“Your ‘brilliant ideas' usually lead to nothing but trouble,” she remarked, smiling.

But Matteo wouldn't be put off. “Not this time!” He paused theatrically and said, “I've found you a job!”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Wow! In record time . . . and what sort of a job is it? Part-time secretary, salesgirl, bartender—”

“None of those,” he interrupted her. “This is a job that's
perfect for you. You're going to be the chef for some rich guy who needs someone to organize power lunches and dinners from A to Z.”

Margherita stared at him in amazement.

“I was right when I said your ideas are dangerous! Where on earth did you get such an idea? I've never worked as a chef, and I don't have any references.”

“You're an amazing cook,” Matteo said. “And that's enough. I'll take care of the rest.”

“What do you mean you'll ‘take care of the rest'?” she asked, alarmed.

“Simple. We'll just say that in Rome you were a caterer and private events organizer.”

“But that's not true!”

“Only you and I know it isn't. You must have some friend willing to vouch for you, right? And anyway, I challenge anyone to deny you're a wizard in the kitchen.”

“You're out of your mind! We'd be scamming them!” she snapped. “I don't do things like that!”

Faced with Margherita's angry reaction, Matteo's enthusiasm seemed to deflate. At which point the look on his face changed to that of someone beseeching her, and would have been a match even for Artusi's best performance close to a table covered with food.

“Look, Margy, there's nothing wrong here—” he began.

But she stopped him before he could continue. “There's nothing wrong with inventing fake references?”

“But we wouldn't be ripping anyone off!” he replied adamantly. “You
are
a great chef, there's no getting around it. And you need to work. So, as Machiavelli says . . .”

“. . . the end justifies the means!” she finished sarcastically. “No, I'm sorry, I simply can't do it.”

He moved closer to her and took her hand. He looked at the palm and pretended to examine it. “And yet I see the future of a great chef here . . .”

Margherita couldn't help smiling. That was always the way with Matteo: even when his ideas were on the dodgier side, she couldn't control herself the way she would have liked to, because every single time he'd manage to make her laugh.

“So can I take that as a yes?” Matteo tried again, convinced that he'd found a weak point in her defenses.

“It's a no!” Margherita answered, serious again. “I don't feel like getting into hot water. You're going to have to find a real chef for your client.”

He looked at her adoringly. “I don't know anyone who's better than you. And I'm ready to put my reputation on the line to prove I'm right.”

“Don't insist, and don't give me that sad-eyed look!” she scolded him jokingly. “I know you, you can't fool me!”

“Promise me you'll give it some thought, please . . .”

Matteo was ready to play his tenderness card, bring up the memories they shared, all the things they'd done together ever since their childhood days. Anything, as long as she didn't go away again. As long as he wouldn't lose her to the first city idiot passing through Roccafitta.

“Come on, Margy. I'm only asking you to think about it. You don't have to decide right away.”

“Matteo, I don't feel like it, I really don't.” Margherita seemed determined not to go back on her decision. “I'll find something else, you'll see.”

But what if she didn't? What if she missed the city? Even worse, what if she decided it was best if she went back to her husband? No, this time Matteo was ready. There wasn't
going to be another Francesco. He was holding his trump card and he was ready to play it.

The road wound upward, climbing steadily along the slope of the hill with a series of turns. The Touareg handled each one smoothly, and the warm air tousled Carla's hair. For once, she wasn't concerned about ruining her perfect hairdo, and from behind her dark sunglasses she watched Nicola. Driving appeared to relax him, but, as always, he was watchful. The man never unwinds, she thought to herself. For an instant, a fleeting image of Nicola asleep in her arms, lost in slumber, vulnerable, crossed her mind, but Carla cast it aside, annoyed with herself for her childish daydreaming. What she appreciated the most about him—besides his money and his social standing, of course—was his inexhaustible energy, the fact that he was like a ruthless warrior, and his total lack of sentimentality. We are so much alike, you and I, she thought, as she continued to observe his determined profile, made even more seductive by his stubbly chin. This was exactly why Carla had to pursue her aims without succumbing to the foolish mawkishness that would only get in the way of her plans. At that moment, Nicola steered the car into a clearing on the side of the road and stopped. Carla looked at him inquisitively.

“I want you to see something.” He opened the car door and got out.

She followed him. In spite of herself, for a instant she was charmed by the breathtaking beauty of the landscape. In the distance, the veiled and sparkling mist allowed a glimpse of the sea. The vegetation covering the hills seemed to be colored with the whole spectrum of greens, while in
the valley below, the blinding expanse of yellow grain alternated with ocher patches of freshly plowed land. Nicola pointed to an area that was entirely covered by row upon row of perfectly symmetrical vines one next to another, bordered by a chestnut grove on one side and a fast-flowing river on the other.

“Can you see that plot of land?”

Carla nodded.

“It's the largest one in the whole area. The only one that produces wine with DOCG status. This means that the state guarantees the wine's origin,” he continued. “All thanks to the terroir which, according to my agronomists, is perfect for intensive cultivation. Which is exactly what we need to be able to increase production.”

Nicola stopped talking, and Carla turned her gaze away from the vineyards to look at him.

“But there's a hitch, isn't there?” she asked.

“The owner is an old-fashioned guy who's devoted his entire life to making wine. He wants to turn it into a product of excellence.”

Reminds me of my father, he thought, but without actually saying so.

“In other words, he has no reason to sell.”

A cold smile crossed Nicola's lips. “Theoretically, yes. But, as you know very well, I don't stop until I get what I want.”

Those words and the tone he used to say them made Carla shiver, as though she'd just had an electric shock. Pure arousal. Her whole self would have wanted to be the object of that desire . . . She looked away and forced herself to put certain thoughts under lock and key. The time wasn't ripe. Sooner or later the time would come to satisfy cravings that weren't strictly related to her job. But not now.

“I know. So what do you plan to do?”

Nicola's gaze continued to linger on the vineyards.

“I've been asking around. Vittorio Giovanale has an import-export company with a partner and it's not doing very well. After the recession, the bank stopped lending them money, and now they can't finance their recapitalization. So Giovanale needs to sell out, and the only way to do that . . .”

“. . . is to sell the vineyards,” Carla finished.

Nicola nodded. “For him they're a losing proposition,” he said, giving her a smile that revealed his total self-assurance. “An elegant dinner with just the right atmosphere would be an excellent way to get our deal started.”

“No doubt about that. I'll make sure everything's perfect.”

Nicola looked at her with approval. “I know you're up to the situation.”

Carla smiled at him, dwelling perhaps for an instant too long on his lips. Soon, very soon, she would become essential to him, to the point that Nicola wouldn't be able to do without her . . . in every way.

Well, that's taken care of, thought Armando as he came out of Bar dello Sport, putting the receipts in his wallet. He was pleased that Margherita had come home, even though his normal lifestyle had been completely turned upside down. After five years he'd grown accustomed to living by himself, and especially not having to report to anyone. If she knew I was still indulging in the odd bet or two . . . He left this thought hanging in midair. He looked around with a hint of concern: there was always the chance she might show up unexpectedly. On the piazza, where the midday sun
shone brightly, the usual tourists moved about in groups, armed with their cameras, led by guides holding umbrellas to make sure they could be seen, taking them toward the restaurants that offered a set-price tourist menu. Armando was relieved that Margherita was nowhere to be seen, but he instead saw Salvatore walking proudly in his direction, wearing tight bright red jeans and a blue shirt with several buttons undone at the collar. “Aging does strange things to some people,” Armando said as he greeted him. “Now that you have a little money in your pocket, you think you can get all the women you want . . .”