Margherita's Notebook (20 page)

When Serafino saw Margherita's masterpiece, he was speechless.

At that very moment, a woman came into the shop with her young daughter and approached the counter.

“Mama, will you buy it for me,
pleeease
?” the little one asked as soon as she saw that pink beauty.

The woman smiled. “Maybe for your birthday party.”

Margherita took advantage of the situation to press Serafino, who still hadn't made up his mind. “See?” she asked, once the mother and daughter had left the shop. Then she pulled several pictures from her handbag and showed them to the baker. Before his eyes was a sea of flowers and butterflies, a ship about to set sail, a leopard-skin boot, a teapot, a rocket, a castle with many spires . . .

“There's something for everyone, older kids as well as toddlers,” she said.

Serafino seemed to grow more interested.

“They're all so beautiful it would be a shame not to give it a try,” he admitted. “Make a couple of them, whichever ones you like, and let's see what the customers think.” Then he pointed to the Barbie. “Can you leave this one with me?”

“She's all yours,” Margherita replied, smiling.

Margherita said good-bye and left the shop. She was already picturing herself starting her own business, selling cakes to all the bakeries and pastry shops in the area, maybe even buying a scooter, on which she'd paint the words
MARGHERITA'S BAKED GOODS
in pink letters, and use it to make deliveries. Between that and her work as a chef, she would gradually be able to pay off her father's debt, settle the
mortgage on the restaurant, and maybe even get the bank to give her a loan. Absorbed in her daydreams, Margherita proceeded along Roccafitta's main street. Every few yards there was someone to say hello or stop to talk to, a friend, an acquaintance.

Yes, she really was home.

As she savored the fragrances that blended together in the air, playing a game of guessing what each one was, Margherita walked by the tobacconist's. Aldo was standing at the door. He greeted her and said, “Tell Armando to come pick his lottery ticket, we're drawing tonight, make sure you remind him!”

Margherita suddenly fell off that pink cloud she was sailing on with the wind behind her.

“I will tell him nothing of the kind! And I suggest you do the same!” she added threateningly, leaving the poor man with his mouth wide open.

All her optimism had been shattered. Although the sun shone brightly, Margherita felt as though a huge dark cloud had dimmed the light.

He's still gambling his money away
.

She suddenly felt unsteady, as if someone had pulled a chair out from under her. She leaned up against a wall and shut her eyes, hoping she'd get over it quickly.

But when she opened her eyes, just a few inches away was the face of Nicola Ravelli.

Great. Now I'm having hallucinations in broad daylight.

“Is everything all right?”

Except
hallucinations usually don't talk.

“Come on, maybe you'll feel better after a drink.”

And they don't offer you drinks.

Without waiting for her to answer, Nicola gently—
yes, gently!
—placed a
hand on her shoulder and led her toward his Touareg, which was parked nearby.

And they certainly can't drive!

In no time at all she was sitting next to him. They were both feeling slightly ill at ease, even Nicola, who almost regretted having invited her for no reason, driven by a sudden and unexpected impulse. And yet, when he'd seen her leaning up against the wall, her eyes shut, almost shivering, looking as though she were lost, he'd given in to the desire to be near her, to help her, to show her that things weren't as bad as they seemed. But now, having regained complete control of himself, he had no idea what to do. Margherita looked at him in silence, waiting. Nicola remembered that he'd mentioned getting something to drink.

“An aperitif in the hills?” he asked, with a tone that he instantly realized—even before she did—didn't sound offhand.

“All right . . .” She seemed to be in a daze. Her usual feisty air gone now, she reminded Nicola of a character he'd loved when he was a child, when his mother would read to him from
Alice in Wonderland
before going to bed. She reminded him of Alice herself, when she looks around in awe at the place she's ended up and wonders how she got there.

Ridiculous thoughts.

He regained his self-control, and the image of Alice/Margherita vanished like that of the Cheshire Cat, leaving behind only the hint of a smile.

For her part, Margherita felt like she'd been split in half. One part of her observed, without being able to do anything, and another part was doing exactly what it shouldn't be doing: allowing the enemy to encroach upon her territory. But not only that. Actually moving in the direction of the enemy. Waving a white flag.

Nicola drove fast, almost as if he were afraid she might change her mind. Preoccupied by their respective thoughts, they barely said a word for the whole ride. Nicola had opened the convertible top and Margherita, her eyes closed, her mind blank, enjoyed the fragrant air, the warmth of the sun, the sounds of nature all around. Nicola watched her out of the corner of his eye, surprised by her sudden surrender, by the unexpected respite that made him feel as though he were alone with her inside a giant soap bubble.

When the car came to a halt, Margherita opened her eyes and looked around to see where they were. She'd expected him to take her to one of those trendy bars that had mushroomed everywhere since Roccafitta had become a place to be. Instead, all she could see were olive trees everywhere. Nicola got out of the car and opened the door for her.

“Come,” was all he said. He held out his hand and she took it.

She felt like she'd entered some parallel universe. Nicola seemed so different from that cold, detached person he'd been the evening before. She noticed that for the first time since they'd met he'd used the informal, familiar
tu
with her, which only heightened her desire to leave her hand in his and let him guide her, without resisting.

Nicola felt like he was walking on thin ice. He knew he had to proceed slowly, with great caution. He knew that it would take very little for the bubble that enveloped them to burst.

Together they entered the olive grove. Margherita recognized the spot. Not much farther ahead, in the midst of the Mediterranean vegetation and the woods filled with leafy oak
trees, was a small group of ancient stone houses. On one of them, next to two wooden benches, was a faded sign that read
THE INN AT THE ABBEY
.

Nicola smiled. And this time his eyes did, too.

He looks like a kid.

The thought surprised her.

Then, floating up on the air, the notes of a warm, sensuous melody reached them.

“Sonata for flute, viola, and harp . . . Debussy.” He half closed his eyes and stood there listening.

Margherita let herself be carried away by the seductive harmony blended with exotic sounds. The music flowed around them, accentuating the magic of the strange moment. Then, just as it had begun, it died away.

“They're rehearsing for tonight's concert here at the abbey,” Nicola explained.

“I didn't know you liked classical music.” She was feeling more and more confused.

“The truth is, I wish I were an expert, but my knowledge is limited to Debussy and Chopin.” He paused briefly, and in his eyes a shadow appeared that Margherita couldn't quite work out. “They were my mother's favorites.” Then, as if he was the first to be surprised by what he'd just said, he took her by the arm and they headed toward the inn. “Weren't we supposed to get something to drink?”

And drink she did. One glass. Two. Three. The chilled prosecco made her head feel very light. Nicola watched her quietly, increasingly aware of the fact that one word too many might break the spell. The enchanted notes of Debussy's music filled the air once more.

“
Lento, dolce rubato
 . . .
allegro moderato
yet resolute . . .” Nicola's gaze was intense. “That's the tempo of the sonata,”
he added, but the look in his eyes seemed to be saying so much more.

She couldn't take her eyes off his. As if in a trance, she again took his outstretched hand. They moved in the direction of the music. Margherita felt like she was walking on air.

It's the effect of the prosecco, the music . . . probably both mixed up together.

Unwilling to entertain rational thoughts, all she wanted to do was to be led, to float . . . He seemed to understand and go along with that unexpressed desire. The grip of his hand was firm and secure, and there was something about his eyes she'd never noticed before, as if their chocolate brown hue were lit by specks of gold that made them look kinder. The air vibrated to the notes of the viola, which seemed to chase those of the flute, while the splendid Romanesque abbey rose up before them. Suddenly, the rhythm of the music changed, conjuring up in Margherita's mind images of nymphs and satyrs chasing after one another, playing hide-and-seek. Nicola put his arm around her waist. As the music rose to a crescendo, all he said was, “Come here.”

He wasn't asking. Margherita's knees buckled. He pulled her to him. Although the feeling she had was completely surreal, she knew it had to be real. This time it wasn't a dream. A distant echo inside her told her that she shouldn't, that it was wrong, that she would regret it later . . . but the voice of reason was drowned out by his lips upon her own.

A fruity aroma. A soft texture like that of a ripe peach, but firmer, more like a jujube. A taste like whipped cream and hot chocolate . . . Then a feeling of warmth, as if their
kiss released a primordial energy of passion, a blackberry, raspberry, and chestnut flambé . . . She was lost in those flavors, in that touch that was growing more intimate, in his scent that filled her nostrils the way his taste filled her mouth. She felt Nicola's desire growing in unison with her own, the desire they both had to partake of each other, and she felt an overwhelming temptation to let herself go completely. She could feel Nicola's mouth on her ear, moving lower on her neck. . . . She caressed him in return, feeling a hunger she'd never known before, a hunger that made her want to beg him to keep going. His hands moved across her back, pulled her body up close to his, all the while his mouth kept asking for more. Margherita didn't recognize herself in this woman who was moaning softly, who searched for him with her hands, her lips, her whole body . . . yet she couldn't stop. Nicola pushed her against a tree, still holding her close and murmured, “I want you . . . I want you here . . . now . . .”

And Margherita knew she could never have resisted—

But then, as if from a galaxy far, far away, Margherita thought she heard voices. Voices that were coming closer. Nicola moved away, releasing her. But he was forced to hold her when he realized she couldn't stand on her own. A few steps away was a noisy group of tourists heading toward the abbey. Confused, dazed, prey to a hundred different emotions, Margherita took a few steps and leaned up against an olive trunk. Nicola was quiet, and when she turned to look at him, for a brief instant she saw reflected in his face the same emotions she was feeling. He took one step toward her and Margherita took one back, frightened by the earthquake that had erupted inside her.

“Please, take me home,” was all she managed to say.

Nicola studied her in silence for a moment. “Are you sure that's what you want?”

Margherita nodded. “I'm not like this.”

And to escape the uncontrollable attraction of his gaze, those hands, that mouth, she turned and walked unsteadily toward the car.

Nicola followed her.

She asked him to leave her in the piazza. She needed to walk so that she could straighten out her thoughts. Why was it that Nicola moved her so deeply? How could he cause such a whirlwind of emotions inside her? She'd never in all her life been so violently, overpoweringly attracted to a man. Not even to her husband . . . Francesco had gradually made room for himself in her life, and Margherita had thought she loved him. But never—
never!
—had she felt such an overpowering urge to cling to his grasp, to lose herself in his kisses, to let herself go completely. What was happening to her? Why did she feel so uncontrollably attracted to Nicola Ravelli? She was like an animal during the mating season, prey to primitive drives, instinctual and . . . inebriating.