I get dressed and brave the breakfast buffet, bracing myself in case Preston is there. Mercifully, the only people dining are the Silver Foxes. No young professors in sight. After three cups of coffee and several bombolones, my head starts to feel better. My stomach, on the other hand, is twisted into knots. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to face him. Checking the time on my phone, I realize class is going to start in a few minutes. I guess it’s going to be sooner, not later. I take a deep breath and head to the kitchen annex.
“How do you feel?” Preston asks when I set my purse down on our workstation.
“Not great.” Which is true. Just not for the reasons he thinks.
“Should you be here? Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“No, I’ll be fine,” I say. “Besides, there’s no way I’m missing today—we’re making Teodora cake.”
Always looking for an opportunity to turn any conversation into a history lecture, Preston asks, “Did you know it was named after Teodora, the wife of Justinian the Great? She was the empress of Byzantium.”
“I did know that,” I say. “We saw a mosaic of her at the basilica.”
“You remembered that?” He beams at me. “See, we’ll make a historian out of you yet.”
Great. Now, not only does my stomach ache, my heart does as well. Heartache over the fact that I won’t see Preston ever again after this week. Heartache that he doesn’t know the real me.
My musings are interrupted by Maria, who claps her hands to get our attention. “Buongiorno, class. Did everyone have a nice weekend?”
Everyone nods except me. My weekend was not the greatest.
“Wonderful,” she says. “Today, we have a special guest instructor who is going to demonstrate how to make Teodora cake.”
Preston nudges me and then points at the older woman standing at the front of the room. “Check out the guest instructor. Isn’t that Mama Leoni from the restaurant we went to?”
“I think you’re right.” My face grows warm as I remember our first kiss after dinner that night.
While Maria hands out recipe cards to each workstation, Mama Leoni explains the cake that we’re going to make. “This was invented in 2002 by a group of bakers in Ravenna. It uses pine nuts and cornmeal, which are traditional local ingredients, along with cinnamon, almonds, flour, eggs, and powdered sugar. Deliziosa!”
Maria rejoins Mama Leoni at the front. “Teodora cake is delicious,” she says. “And it’s not the only dessert we’re making today. This afternoon we’ll be making zuppa inglese which is a cross between a tiramisu and a trifle.”
I tug at the waistband of my jeans. I’m not sure I’ll be able to zip these back up with all the rich food we’ll be eating today, not to mention all the donuts I ate at breakfast.
“It is especially fitting that today is a dessert day, because it’s someone’s birthday today,” Maria says with a twinkle in her eye.
Mabel spins around on her stool to get a three hundred and sixty degree view of the room. “Whose birthday is it?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was jealous that someone was going to get more attention than her today.
“Is it your birthday?” Preston asks me.
“Nope. Mine was a few months ago. Is it yours?”
“No. Mine is in August.”
I feel a premonition wash over me. “August what?”
“August sixth.”
I rub my temples and groan.
“What’s wrong? Is it your head again?”
“No, my head’s fine.”
“You look faint.” He pulls a stool over. “Here, sit down.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay.” I tap the side of my head and smile at Preston. A smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “All better now.”
But I’m not better. I’m worse. Preston’s birthday is August sixth. Guess who he shares a birthday with? Yep, that’s right—what’s-his-name. Surely, it’s a sign from the universe. Preston and my ex have the same birthday. Clearly, this wasn’t meant to work out.
I manage to get through the rest of the morning, working side by side with Preston. I even manage to smile when Mama Leoni stops by our workstation to check on our progress.
“How are the lovebirds today?” she asks us.
“We’re great,” Preston says. “It’s so nice to see you again. I can’t stop thinking about that ravioli we ate at your restaurant.”
“You must come again,” Mama Leoni says.
“We’d like that.” Preston glances at me. “How about Friday?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Why don’t we play it by ear?”
Mabel turns and says loudly, “If you don’t want to go with the handsome professor, then I will.”
Loretta tugs her friend’s arm. “Stop interfering.”
“I’m not interfering.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
I roll my eyes at the ladies’ bickering. Mama Leoni seems amused by it. Eventually, they stop arguing, but only because Maria reminds them that they’re supposed to be mixing their batter.
“Do you think you’ll be well enough to catch up tonight?” Preston asks me.
“I’m not sure.” I hand him the eggs. “It might be better if I have an early night.”
He looks crestfallen. “Hopefully, you’ll be up for it tomorrow.”
“Hopefully,” I say.
After we finish baking our Teodora cakes, we break for lunch. I excuse myself and escape to my room for an hour. When I return to the kitchen, Maria announces that she has another surprise for us. The Silver Foxes are beside themselves with anticipation. Fueled by the coffee they had at lunch, they shout out their guesses.
“Is it gelato?” asks the man who is obsessed with the Italian ice cream.
“No, it’s not gelato,” Maria says.
“Is it another field trip with Professor Whitaker?” Mabel asks.
The entire room turns and smiles at Preston. He smiles back as a blush slowly creeps over his face. “I don’t think you want to hear another history lecture from me.”
“Yes, we do,” Mabel says.
Everyone murmurs in agreement.
“Unfortunately, the surprise isn’t a field trip with Professor Whitaker,” Maria says. “However, it does involve him.”
Preston raises his eyebrows. “It does?”
“Yes,” Maria says. “And Ginny.”
“Me?” I ask in a squeaky voice.
“The tourist board has asked us to do a cooking demonstration on Thursday. We’re going to make several of the dishes we’ve already prepared in class.” Maria points at a couple at the front of the room. “Frank and Jeannie, I thought you could demonstrate minestrone soup.” Frank and Jeannie look thrilled to have been chosen, giving each other high fives.
Then she indicates two women at the back. “Sylvia and Lois, can you demonstrate the Teodoro cake?” They jump up and down like they’ve just been selected as contestants on The Price is Right.
Finally, Maria turns and looks at us. “And, Ginny and Preston, I would like you to make tortelloni burro e salvia. Tortellini with butter and sage.” She grins. “Or, as Ginny likes to call it, toretellini with salivating burros.”
Everyone chuckles except Mabel. Instead, she grumbles that she and Loretta weren’t selected.
“There’s a lot to do to get ready for the demonstration. Each pair will need to work closely with each other over the next couple of days.”
Preston grins at me. “Looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together.”
Great. Just when I was hoping to spend less time with Preston, now I’ll be spending more time with him.
12
The Patron Saint of Shoes
“Are you ready?” Preston asks me.
We’re standing backstage waiting to be announced for our segment of the cooking demonstration. I peek around the curtain and take a deep breath. The place is packed. Public speaking isn’t really my thing, let alone public cook
ing demonstrations. Truth be told, part of me never wanted to become a history professor because I would have had to give lectures in front of lots of people. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I had been on the wrong career track all along.
But this is not the time for introspection about the choices I’ve made. I have to focus on what’s in front of me—cooking. I take a deep breath and smooth down my skirt. Why did I wear white? My hands are shaking with nerves. I’m sure I’ll end up splattering the sage and butter sauce all over me.
“Maybe you should go on by yourself,” I say. “There really isn’t room up there for more than one person.”
He laughs. “The stage is huge. There’s plenty of room for both of us.”
“I think I forgot something back in my room. I’ll be right back.”
Before I can flee, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me lightly. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right by your side the entire time.” He steps back and looks me up and down. “You look gorgeous, Ginny. It’d be a shame to deprive the audience of such a beautiful cook.”
“I don’t know about that. I think everyone’s attention is going to be focused on that bow tie of yours.”
He grins. “Is not.”
“Is too,” I say.
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is—”
Maria peeks her head around the curtain. “Are you ready? They’re about to introduce you.”
“We’re ready.” Preston holds out his arm. I tuck my arm through his and take a deep breath. Conscious of Preston’s leather and pine scent, I tremble as he escorts me up the steps to the stage.
The emcee smiles at us, then turns to the audience. “Please welcome Preston Whitaker and Ginny…” He pauses, adjusts his reading glasses, and peers at his notes.
I bite my lip. I’ve been here before. When confronted with my last name for the first time, it’s hard for people to figure out how to pronounce it. As much as I love the fact that it links me to my father and his Dutch ancestry, there are times when I wish it had a lot less letters in it. Something like Smith or Jones would be ideal.
I glance at Preston. He’s frowning. Why is he frowning?
After a pause, the emcee says slowly, “Ginny Morgan.”
I breathe a sigh of relief when I remember that when I registered, Evelyn used my middle name instead of my last name on the class forms. But my relief doesn’t last long. Preston is still frowning.
“Morgan,” he mumbles to himself. “Virginia Morgan Maarschalkerweerd,” he says as though he’s reading my passport out loud again. He looks at me. “That’s a very uncommon last name, but I’ve heard it before.”
My eyes widen. He’s figured it out. He’s made the connection. But before Preston can say anything else, the emcee summons us over to the center of the stage.
While Preston and I prepare the tortelloni burro e salvia, Maria explains what we’re doing to the audience. It’s almost like we’re on one of those cooking shows that I used to watch at my mom’s house.
We work smoothly together, in a rhythm that we’ve developed over the past month. But despite the harmony we have when it comes to cooking, it’s obvious that there’s tension between us on a personal level. At one point, Maria even encourages Preston to smile more.
As we’re preparing the sauce, his smile fades. “Maarschalkerweerd. You’re not any relation to Nicholas Maarschalkerweerd, are you?” he whispers.
“I think the sage is burning,” I say to distract him.
He lowers the heat, stirs the butter and sage sauce, then points at me with the spoon. “Wait a minute,” he says. “You know a lot about Roman sanitation, you know Latin, and, from what Loretta says, you’re clueless about Star Wars.” He takes a step back. “Oh, my gosh. I know who you are. You’re Virginia Maarschalkerweerd.”
I nod slowly. “Uh-huh. It’s a common name.”
“Maarschalkerweerd? No it’s not. I’ve only known of three people with that name. One is a renowned ancient history professor, Nicholas Maarschalkerweerd. I met him once at a conference. The second person is you. And the third person is someone I’ve only heard about from some colleagues. She has the same name as you—Virginia Maarschalkerweerd. But she was involved in a plagiarism scandal at—”
Maria pushes her way between the two of us. “What’s going on here?” she asks under her breath. “Why aren’t you cooking?”
“Sorry,” I say. “We were just debating how long to cook the tortellini. Right, Preston?”
“Sure,” he says flatly. “But I think I’ve figured it out.” He looks at me meaningfully. “Yes, I’ve definitely figured it out.”
“Good,” Maria says. “I was worried for a moment there.”
“Just nerves,” I say, then turn my attention back to our dish.
I’m not sure how I do it, but I make it through the rest of the presentation without fainting or throwing up. After the emcee and Maria thank us, and the audience claps, I rush off stage, nearly tripping flat on my face as I race down the steps.
Preston catches up with me and grabs my elbow. “We need to talk.”
I pull away. “Later.”
“No, now.”
“No, later.”
“No, now,” he says firmly.
It feels good slipping back into our cute little bickering routine, but then I realize that he isn’t finding this cute. Not one bit. I can see anger in his eyes. I can’t blame him. Not only have I lied to him, he thinks I committed the ultimate academic sin—plagiarism. It’s not just anger in his eyes. It’s condemnation.
“Later,” I say softly, then spin on my heels and barrel straight into someone. The only reason I don’t end up on the ground again is because Preston grabs me and steadies me on my feet.
I look up and see an elegantly dressed woman. For a moment, I think it’s Celeste. She has the same hairstyle, eye color, and dress sense, but when she opens her mouth, her Italian accent makes me realize my mistake. Oh, how I wish it had been Celeste, or Mia, or Isabelle standing there. I could really use a friend right now.
“That was a wonderful demonstration,” she says. “You two did a great job. Tortelloni burro e salvia is one of my favorite dishes.”
Neither Preston nor I respond. He’s staring at the floor, and I don’t trust myself to say anything.
The woman looks back and forth between the two of us, then extends her hand to me. “Allow me to introduce myself. Gabriela DiRusso. I taught for a semester at Preston’s university last year. You must be his fiancée. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Preston looks up sharply. “No, she’s not my fiancée, she’s my…” he starts to say before his voice trails off.
What was he going to say?
His girlfriend.
His ex-girlfriend.
His brief holiday fling.
The cheater.
The plagiarizer.
The woman he regrets meeting.
The woman he never wants to see again.
I have no desire to find out how he’d finish this sentence. So I run, faster than I’ve ever run before, pushing my way through the crowd, only stopping once I get outside. Then I sink onto a bench and start sobbing.
* * *
After a good cry, I wipe away my tears and push myself up off the bench. It’s going to be a long walk back to the retreat center, but I figure it will help clear my head. Dodging tourists searching for the perfect souvenirs and local families out for a stroll, I wander through the pedestrian-only zone in the center of Ravenna before turning onto Via di Roma. After walking through the Porta Serrata, one of the old gates leading into the city, a car honks its horn behind me. I ignore it, but the driver continues to lay on the horn.
I turn and see Preston leaning out of the window of a taxi, waving at me. He gets out and strides toward me.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he says.
I cross my arms across my chest. “Lucky me.”
“You ran off before I could exp
lain.”
“Explain what? That you lied to me? That you have a fiancée?” I jab my finger into his chest. “All this time, you’ve been cheating on her with me.”
He grabs my hand and pushes it away from him. “I would never cheat on a woman. Never.”
“You’re lying. You have a fiancée. Gabriela said so. Are you saying she’s a liar?”
“No, I’m not saying that.”
“Hah!” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. “You just admitted it. Gabriela didn’t lie. You did.”
Preston runs his fingers through his hair and exhales slowly. He looks intently at me, his normally bright blue eyes dull and lifeless. “When Gabriela was a guest professor at the university, I was engaged. She never met my fiancée, but she knew that I had one. Operative word being ‘had.’”
“Had?”
“Yes, had. We broke up. I told you about it.”
“No, you didn’t. I think I would remember if you told me you were engaged.”
“Do you remember when we had that food fight?” I nod. “You told me that someone betrayed you and I told you that I caught my ex with another guy.”
Memories of that day flood back. Some happy ones, like how cute Preston looked with flour smeared across his nose. Some not so happy, like the pain in his eyes when he told me about his ex cheating on him. He was so vulnerable that day, sharing the hurt he had experienced.
“So, you see, I didn’t lie to you,” he says.
“In all fairness, I didn’t know your ex had been your fiancée.” Even as I utter those words, I realize how lame they sound. He seizes on them.
“You’re playing semantics now. I’m not the liar, Ginny. I never was. You are.” He thrusts his hands in his pockets. His gaze hardens. “You’ve lied from the first minute I met you. You lied about being a manicurist. You lied about not liking history—you were an ancient history graduate student, for goodness’ sake. You were using a fake last name. You pretended you could speak Italian. You lied about what your father did. A cat trainer? How could I be so stupid to fall for that? And I’m pretty sure you’ve never even seen Star Wars.”
Smitten with Ravioli Page 12
