Margherita's Notebook (18 page)

Margherita smiled at him. “Lighter. Maybe a little sad, but much lighter. I feel like my life's changing, and who knows where it will take me . . .”

Matteo hugged her, smiling.

“Your life is here, with us. Rome was just a brief interlude. Come on, let's go conquer the town's palates!” he said, pulling her into the bakery.

Serafino looked at her skeptically from behind the counter.
Piled up on the shelf was a huge variety of loaves of bread.

“I don't know, Margy, just what exactly are these American cakes?”

Margherita knew what Serafino was like, and she'd expected him to be reluctant. She gave a quick sidelong glance at Matteo, who couldn't hide a smile before the old baker's obvious perplexity.

“I'd rather have you try them than try to describe what they're like,” Margherita said, determined not to get discouraged. “I'm sure I can convince you.”

Serafino gazed proudly at the loaves, the baguettes, the assortment of almond cookies, the
baci
, the aniseed biscotti, the crisp yellow anise wafers on his shelves.

“I'm for tradition,” he replied. “And that's something you should know. Your mother was the same.”

Margherita stopped to think before answering him.

“I agree that tradition is important, Serafino. Just like seasonal products, a short supply chain, as people call it these days, and authenticity, too . . . but I think we can find a way to combine the two, the old with the new.” She smiled. “And I'm ready to show you how.”

Serafino smiled back. “You remind me of your mother. When you're determined about something, you don't let up. Fine. If you can convince me, then I'll change my mind.”

As they left the shop, Matteo looked at her admiringly. “I bet you succeed.” He hesitated a moment and added, “I'd be ready to bet on you anytime.”

She looked at him inquiringly. “What do you mean by that?”

Matteo rested his hands on her shoulders. “Let's be partners, Margy.”

“Partners?”
Now she was the one who was puzzled.

“Yes, in the restaurant business. Just think how great it would be! Together again just like old times.”

“But first I have to find the money to pay off the debt . . .”

“I wish I could help you, but I don't have any savings, you know that. But I'll support you in any way I can, always.”

She couldn't help giving him a hug. They stood there holding each other for a long time. Then Margherita wriggled out of their embrace and, filled with gratitude, she whispered, “Thanks, Matteo. Thanks for your confidence in me. You're a real friend!”

Still feeling very emotional, Matteo would have liked to tell her that it wasn't just a question of confidence, that he'd been waiting for this moment for years, that now that she'd come back he'd never let her go again . . . But that was when Margherita's cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Is this the cook?” Margherita recognized the unpleasant voice of Miss Lemon Popsicle.

“Speaking.”

“I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Ravelli to inform you that the next dinner is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”

“I need to know the number of guests, whether they're men or women or both, the type of dinner—”

Carla interrupted her with irritation: “It's a dinner for three! All you need to do is prepare something elegant. Period.”

“That wasn't our agreement!” Margherita retorted with similar irritation. “I need to talk to Mr. Ravelli,” she added determinedly.

“That's absolutely out of the question! He cannot be
disturbed for such things,” Carla cut her off. “We'll see you tomorrow,” she said, and hung up.

“What a bitch!” Margherita hissed, putting the phone back in her handbag.

“Come on, don't let it get to you. Whatever you prepare, it'll be delicious.” Matteo put his arm around her and pulled her toward him.

Margherita squirmed out of his grip and looked at him, anger in her eyes.

“That's not the problem. I made an agreement with Ravelli, and I expect him to keep his side of it!”

Matteo sighed, spreading his arms as if to say that nothing could be done about it. “Okay, I give up.”

“It's a matter of principle, Matteo. That guy is used to doing whatever he wants, to pushing people around, to solving everything with money. He needs to learn that's just not how things work!”

Why should I care so much? Why is this so important to me?

“Where's his office?” she asked.

He gave her the address but couldn't help adding, “Margy, don't bite off more than you can chew. Remember, you need his money.”

Margy looked him straight in the eye. “No, what I need is his respect.”

“Lack of respect?” Nicola asked as he looked her up and down, his gaze a mixture of irony and bewilderment. “Would you please explain to me what we're talking about here?”

She'd barged into his office without warning, something that would have cost anyone else dearly. Except that this time it was
her
,
and Nicola was finding her very beautiful right now, with those eyes that sparkled, her flushed cheeks, her air of someone who's ready to fight for something she believes in. Nicola was surprised by the realization that what impressed him most about her was that she was genuine. She was a rare type in the world he was used to, filled with yes-men, phonies, people who were all show.

Margherita looked at Nicola. However much she tried, she couldn't read his face. For a moment there, she could have sworn she'd seen an expression of amazement, followed by irritation, and now something completely different, something she couldn't put her finger on but that gave her a funny feeling from her lips all the way down to her stomach.

“Well?” Nicola had managed to put his usual mask back on. It had taken years of hard work to learn how to hide his emotions so well.

“Well, we had an agreement.” Faced with his provocative tone, Margy came right back down to earth, mentally scolding herself for thinking she'd seen something that could only have been her imagination.

“So where's the problem?” he asked.

“The problem is that your assistant,” she pronounced this last word slowly, so that he could get a clear idea of just how much she disliked Miss Lemon Popsicle, “said that I couldn't disturb you to find out what I need to know, and she hung up on me.”

Nicola held back a smile. Carla's efficiency, her wanting to act as a filter at all costs, often verged on a kind of possessiveness that wasn't always to his liking.

“But now you're here, you can ask me all the questions you want,” he answered compliantly. “But I don't have
much time, so we'll have to talk while I have my lunch.” He picked up the phone and ordered sandwiches and
pizzette
, ignoring Margherita and her reproachful look.

“Is something wrong?” he asked to kindle her anger. He liked to see her worked up.

“Nothing's wrong, except that the lunch break is an important time of the day, which must be enjoyed peacefully to avoid upsetting the body, not while continuing to work, and especially not eating prepackaged food laden with fats, GMOs, and who knows what else!”

He looked at her and burst out laughing.

“A rousing speech if I ever heard one! And all for a couple of sandwiches with some
pizzette
on the side?”

I let him trick me into taking his bait
.

Margherita could usually tell when she went too far. But this time she was convinced he'd provoked her on purpose.

“Everyone's responsible for their own destiny . . . and their own stomach,” she replied, hoping she sounded sarcastic enough. Then she deliberately turned her back on him and went over to the window, pretending to be interested in the view. She could feel his inquiring and provocative gaze upon her. She was feeling the same weakness at the knees as when she drank a very alcoholic fruit cocktail on a scorching hot day. She tried to dismiss this ridiculous feeling. Nicola noticed she was clenching her fists and straightening her shoulders, as if she were fighting some secret battle that he wasn't a part of. When she turned around, she had regained control of herself.

“Well, then, while you wait for your artificial lunch to arrive, could you please tell me who the guests are?”

“It's one of my partners, he manages the consortium when I'm not here. His name is Enrico Rossi, a real gourmand
who loves to spend time at the table. Satisfied?” he asked with a smirk.

She nodded while jotting everything down in a notebook.

“Any preferences?”

“No, I'll leave it up to you.” The insolent look he gave her would have made any other woman blush, even one who was much more experienced than Margherita.

“Fine.” Suddenly, all she could think of was getting out of there and as far away as possible from those eyes, those hands, that body that made her feel hungry inside, the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with food.

“Right.” He stood up and held out his hand.

Margherita was forced to take it. Nicola's handshake was firm yet gentle at the same time, and her only wish was that he'd never let go of her . . . It took a considerable amount of effort to get her mind to force her hand to let go. When she finally managed it, it was as if a scorch mark had been left on her skin—invisible but indelible.

Feeling confused, she started toward the door, when Nicola called her again: “Margherita . . .” It was the first time he'd ever called her by her name. It was like a caress. Long, sensuous, intimate.

“Yes?” She could hardly trust her voice.

“Enrico will be staying over, so I would be grateful if you could invent something for breakfast, too.”

Margherita simply nodded and finally managed to reach the door, freeing herself from that spell that was as dangerous in its near invisibility as a spider's web.

She walked out onto the street and headed toward the car, her mind filled with thoughts, some of which she actually found quite pleasant. Nicola Ravelli had the power to
play havoc with her. She couldn't deny the fact that when he'd given her that insolent look, she'd wanted him. A lot. She turned around and gazed up at his office windows. Standing there at the large window in his private studio was Nicola, watching her. For a moment their gazes met and he smiled at her.

He should smile more often. He's gorgeous.

Margherita nodded toward him and got into her car to get away from those eyes. The fact was Nicola had the same effect on her as a goblet of champagne.

This time, just like the last, when Margherita arrived at the villa, there was no one there waiting for her. But at least the gate and entrance door were open. It seemed as though the help had been trained to be as invisible as possible to avoid bothering the lord of the manor. And this made Margherita, who was used to her noisy menagerie, to Armando's talkative presence, and Matteo and Italo's frequent visits, feel slightly uncomfortable.

She entered the large kitchen, arranged the ingredients on the counter, and after writing the evening's menu as she always did on the small blackboard, she got down to work. She hadn't been able to resist the sea urchins at the fishmonger's. She knew it was risky, but she wanted to put the flavor of the sea in her dishes. So as an entrée she'd decided to make a salad with sea urchins and lemons, accompanied by tiny bread rounds. This would be followed by shellfish couscous, sea bass smothered in oven-baked leeks, and to finish, a semifreddo with meringues, whipped cream, and hot chocolate sauce.

Margherita was busy preparing dinner when she heard a
cheerful voice behind her: “So this is the famous chef!”

Margherita whirled around and found herself facing a man in his forties, not particularly handsome, but with an engaging smile and sparkling blue eyes. “I'm Enrico Rossi, Nicola's business partner,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand, but then drawing it back amused when she showed him her own hands covered with flour.