Margherita's Notebook (26 page)

She couldn't believe what was happening. What the hell was he talking about?

“We're friends,
just
friends,” she said.

“It's not true. If you hadn't met Francesco, the two of us—”

Margherita interrupted him. “The two of us what? If I hadn't met Francesco, it would have been someone else. I love you, but you'll always just be a friend for me.”

Matteo's voice suddenly grew aggressive.

“It's not about Francesco, is it?” he said, almost as if he were talking to himself. He looked her straight in the eye. “It's because of that other guy, isn't it? Ravelli.” He pronounced the name as spitefully as he could.

Margherita turned around without answering, trying to hide her emotions. Yes, it was because of him. But she refused to admit it even to herself.

“Answer me!” There was a tinge of anger in Matteo's voice now.

Margherita stiffened. “Don't spoil everything. Leave me alone.”

She walked away fast toward the exit. Matteo chased after her, grabbing her by the arm to stop her.

“Margy, why won't you give me a chance?” he begged her. “I can wait . . .”

“It's no use, Matteo. I'm sorry.”

And without letting him say anything further, she quickly walked to the car. All she could think of right now was going home.

During the ride back, neither of them said a word. Margherita was lost in her own thoughts and Matteo mulled over his.

“Be straight with me, are you in love with Ravelli?” Matteo finally asked, when they had only a few miles left to go.

She didn't answer. Matteo was the last person in the world with whom she wanted to discuss her feelings for Nicola. When they finally reached her house, she opened the car door and stepped out. He followed her as far as the gate.

“How can you not see it?” he blurted out. “He's not the right man for you. He'll hurt you. He'll have fun with you and then throw you away like a dirty rag. A guy like him could never have a
cook
as a girlfriend! Margy, I'm begging you, you don't want to make another mistake . . .”

“The only mistake I made was to misread your feelings,” she replied.

And without another word, she entered the front yard and closed the gate behind her. Matteo was right: Nicola Ravelli might not be the right man for her. But she did not intend to make the mistake of throwing herself into her friend's arms just because he was there and willing to have her. Now that she knew what real love was, she refused to make do with less. Angelica's words from
The Leopard
came to her mind: “It would be like drinking water after tasting . . . Marsala.”

As soon as she entered the house, she heard Valastro calling her name. She stopped to say hello, and it was at that moment that the two men sitting on the floral-patterned couch turned to look at her. She felt as though her heart had dropped straight into the bowl of an electric mixer on high speed. What was Nicola doing sitting in her living room with Armando, a bottle of hazelnut liqueur between them?

Her father got up to meet her.

“Where were you? I thought you'd never come back. Nicola came by to see you, and we discovered that we have lots of things in common. First among which, the fact that he's a connoisseur of hazelnut liqueur . . .”

They're already on first-name terms!

“. . . and he loves the tango, Debussy, and even Monet,” Armando continued enthusiastically.

Margherita was speechless.
What did he want from her? Why was he there? Why wouldn't he leave her alone?

“You never told me you had such a great father,” he said, smiling, perfectly at ease.

“It never came up . . . ,” she answered, trying to maintain a detached tone.

“And for that matter, you never told me you had such an
interesting
boss,” Armando said, patting Nicola on the back. “See you soon. When you're free, come by for some more of my hazelnut liqueur,” he said, picking up his jacket as he stepped toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Margherita asked, her tone perhaps too plaintive. She didn't want to be alone with Nicola. Not right then. Not in her own house.

But Armando didn't seem to get what his daughter was trying to tell him between the lines.

“I have some chores, see you later.
Hasta luego
, Nicola!” he said with a nod, and headed out the door cheerily, totally unconcerned about what might happen after he left. He had other things on his mind: like finding the money he needed to play that damned 44. He couldn't afford to lose this time.

Thanks, Dad, perfect timing!

Nicola sat back down in the armchair and began stroking Ratatouille, who'd curled up on his lap. Margy looked at them in disbelief. Most of the time the cat was rather wild and wouldn't let anyone near him. But the traitor was now rubbing his multicolored nose on Nicola, purring like a well-oiled machine.

“I like your pets.” Nicola looked up at her. “They're just like you: very . . . accommodating.”

Margherita stood there, her arms folded across her chest. She was tense. Suspicious.

I know why you're here—because of Carla. Now you're going to tell me I'm fired.

“Why are you here?” Better not prolong the agony.

“I need you.”

Maybe I heard wrong.

The electric mixer was beginning to falter. Now her heart was as heavy as dough that won't rise.

“. . . this time it's a very special dinner,” he was saying.

Of course, what was I to expect? I guess I should be thankful I haven't lost my job.

But Margherita couldn't control herself. “Woman, right?”

He nodded, smiling.

Don't they say that only 33 percent of all managers are women? How is it he seems to know every single one of them?

“Another tough cookie?” she asked, trying to regain her composure.

“I'd say so.” Nicola didn't take his eyes off her. “But this time it's not a business dinner . . .”

It's not for work.

Suddenly, Margherita decided the game wasn't fun anymore. However, she couldn't get out of it now. For a second there she felt dizzy, the world was spinning all around her.

Breathe slowly. Try to be professional. Only professional.

“Old girlfriend?”

Nicola laughed. “No, no girlfriend.”

No girlfriend.

“It's a woman I want to win over.” He smiled. “You'd describe her as a chocolate mousse with chile pepper, a hint of hot spice enfolded in sweet softness, both sensuous and comforting . . .”

It was so damned hard to stand there listening to him borrow her culinary metaphors to describe the woman he'd soon be holding in his arms.

“She has a creamy texture that's pleasing and satisfying to the eyes, the palate, the nose . . . Sort of like the sound of a spoon as it cuts into a chocolate crust and then sinks into a zabaglione cream—”

Margherita couldn't bear hearing any more of this.

“You've been very explicit, I think that will be enough,” she interrupted him.

Nicola got up and came close to her. Too close. His eyes were in her eyes. His lips just an inch or so from her lips.

“Do you think you can help me win her heart?” he whispered, his voice smooth as silk.

I'd rather kill myself!

“Food isn't enough to win a woman's heart,” she objected, feeling short of breath.

“I'll take care of the rest . . . ,” Nicola replied, as he continued to look at her provocatively.

Margherita moved back and looked away. What kind of game was he playing? Why was he looking at her like this and talking about his future conquest? What was he trying to prove?

“I think we've said everything that needs to be said.” She brushed him off, trying to regain her composure. “I'll make sure the menu is perfect,” she assured him and showed him to the door.

“See you tomorrow . . . Don't forget, I want you to outdo yourself.” Those were his last words before he left.

Margherita shut the door behind him and leaned up against it. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

I'll outdo myself, you can be sure of that. But this will be the last dinner I'll ever make for you, Mr. Nicola Ravelli!

Meanwhile, Armando was sitting in the piazza talking to Italo and sipping red wine.

“It's just two hundred euros, I'll pay you back next week. Don't you trust me?” he insisted to his friend.

Italo shook his head. It wasn't a matter of trust. Rosina, his wife, had decided they had to save, and he was forced to beg her even for the small change he needed to go to the bar and have a drink with his friends. Disheartened, Armando did some mental arithmetic. With the money he had left, if the number came up he would just be able to cover his expenses. He absolutely had to add to his stash.

“Do you think Baldini might lend me the money?”

Italo nodded. After all, he'd recently sold his vineyards, and who would refuse a small loan to a friend? Reassured, Armando said good-bye and hurried off to find the elderly winemaker: this might just be the solution to his problems. And perhaps, instead of two hundred, he could ask him for a little more . . .

The following day, Margherita got up early. Throughout the night she'd had nightmares about vegetable pies burning, lobsters with almond-shaped eyes leaping out of the pot, ladyfingers gone berserk marching in her direction. She'd woken up several times in a sweat, her mind always focused on her encounter with Nicola. Her mind was made up. She would amaze him one last time. She would prepare a dinner worthy of a sultan, the perfect blend of food and eros. There was an indissoluble link between food and seduction, between the appetite for food and sexual appetite, and during the long month working for him she'd proved it to him.
Why do I want to do myself harm?
There was only
one answer to the question: this dinner would represent her, Margherita. Each dish, each ingredient would be a description of herself. He might succeed in conquering another woman, but she was going to be there, too. Present not just in his thoughts but also in the flavors, in the aromas, in the colors. It would be the epilogue of their relationship. But in such a way that he would never forget her.

She'd spent the whole afternoon cooking at the villa with that one thought on her mind. Little by little, the dishes had begun to take shape, filling the kitchen with aromas. She'd put a small table out in the garden with a white lace tablecloth over it, and she'd set it with crystal plates and glasses. At the center of it was a composition of wildflowers, and at the heart of that was a large red gerbera daisy.
Her name being Margherita, Italian for daisy, the flower she had always identified with.

She was lighting the last candles in the garden when Nicola's voice made her jump. She hadn't seen him come home.

“It's perfect.”

Margherita turned to look at him and smiled. “Come,” she said, taking him by the hand, “I want you to see what I've prepared.”

Nicola followed her into the kitchen. First, she showed him a silver platter where, on a bed of crushed ice, she'd arranged some oysters, open and inviting.

“For starters . . . oysters,” she said, her eyes looking deep into his. “This is how you eat them.” She mimed the gesture. “Tip the shell between your lips, drink the juice, enjoy it . . . then bite the fish slowly, using your tongue to press it up against your palate . . .”

Margherita could hardly recognize herself. She had no
idea where that throaty, sexy voice had come from, those allusive words, which she uttered shamelessly while gazing at his lips.

Nor could Nicola take his eyes off Margherita's lips. Growing deep inside him was the desire to hold her, to bite her, to have her. But he didn't want to disrupt their game. He wanted to keep listening to her voice, which was warm, sensuous, irresistible, different from what it usually was. He wanted to hear more about her fantasies . . .