‘Anita?’
‘Sì. They’ll need a wedding planner.’
‘They can’t afford a wedding planner!’
‘It’s part of the package. I’m not planning it, I simply don’t have the time or the expertise, and Jen can’t plan a wedding in a strange place from a distance of two thousand kilometres, so we need Anita.’
‘I could do it. I’m here.’
‘But do you have the necessary local contacts? No. And besides, you’re already busy.’
‘Can I do the catering?’
He smiled tolerantly. ‘Really? Wouldn’t you rather enjoy your sister’s wedding?’
‘No. I’d rather cut down the cost of it to you. I feel guilty enough—’
‘Don’t feel guilty.’
‘But I do. I know quite well what cooks get paid, and it doesn’t stack up to the cost of a wedding in just three months!’
He smiled again. ‘We pay our staff well.’
She snorted rudely, and found a mug of tea put down in front of her.
‘Don’t argue with me, cara,’ he said quietly. ‘Just ask your sister when she could come over, and arrange the flights and check that Anita is free to see them.’
‘Only if you’ll let me do the catering.’
He rolled his eyes and laughed softly. ‘OK, you can do the catering, but Anita will give you menu options.’
‘No. I want to do the menus.’
‘Why are you so stubborn?’
‘Because it’s my job!’
‘To be stubborn?’
‘To plan menus. And don’t be obtuse.’
His mouth twitched and he sat down opposite her again, swirling his wine in the glass. ‘I thought you were going to cook chestnuts?’
‘I can’t read the recipe book. My Italian is extremely limited so it’s a non-starter.’
He took it from her, opened it and frowned. ‘Ah. Well, some of it is in a local dialect anyway.’
‘Can you translate?’
‘Of course. But you’d need to know more than just classic Italian to understand it. Which recipe did you want to try?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, how do I know? I don’t know what they are.’
‘I’ll read them to you.’
‘You know what? I’ll do it in the morning, with Carlotta. She’ll be able to tell me which are her favourites.’
‘I can tell you that. She feeds them to us regularly. She does an amazing mousse for dessert, and stuffing for roast boar which is incredible. You should get her to teach you those if nothing else. Anyway, tomorrow won’t work. There’s a fair in the town.’
‘Carlotta said there was a day off, but nobody told me why.’
‘To celebrate the end of La Vendemmia. They hold one every year. Then in a few weeks there’s the chestnut fair, and then after La Raccolta, the olive harvest, there’s another one. It’s a sort of harvest festival gone mad. You ought to go tomorrow, it’s a good day out.’
‘Will you be there?’
He nodded. ‘All of us will be there.’
‘I thought we were avoiding each other?’
He didn’t smile, as she’d expected. Instead he frowned, his eyes troubled. ‘We are. I’ll be with my children. Roberto and Carlotta will be going. I’m sure they’ll give you a lift.’
And then, as if she’d reminded him of their unsatisfactory arrangement, he stood up. ‘I’m going to do some work. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
* * *
She did see him, but only because she kept falling over him.
Why was it, she thought, that if you lost someone in a crowd of that size you’d never be able to find them again, and yet every time she turned round, he was there?
Sometimes he didn’t see her. Equally, probably, there were times when she didn’t see him. But there were times when their eyes met, and held. And then he’d turn away.
Well, this time she turned away first, and made her way through the crowd in the opposite direction.
And bumped into Anita.
‘Lydia! I was hoping I’d see you. Come, let’s find a quiet corner for a coffee and a chat. We have a wedding to plan!’
She looked around at the jostling crowd and laughed. ‘A quiet corner?’
‘There must be one. Come, I know a café bar on a side street. We’ll go there.’
They had to sit outside, but the sunshine was lovely and it was relatively quiet away from the hubbub and festival atmosphere of the colourful event.
‘So—this wedding. Massimo tells me your sister’s coming over soon to talk about it. Do you know what she wants?’
Lydia shrugged, still uncomfortable about him spending money on Anita’s services. ‘The hotel was offering a fairly basic package,’ she began, and Anita gave a soft laugh.
‘I know the hotel. It would have been basic, and they would have talked it up to add in all sorts of things you don’t really need.’
‘Well, they wouldn’t, because she hasn’t got any money, which is why I’m working here now.’
Anita raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘Is that the only reason?’ she asked softly. ‘Because I know these Valtieri men. They’re notoriously addictive.’
Poor Anita. Lydia could see the ache in her eyes, knew that she could understand. Maybe, for that reason, she let down her guard.
‘No. It’s not the only reason,’ she admitted quietly. ‘Maybe, subconsciously, it gave me an excuse to spend time with him, but trust me, it’s not going to come to anything.’
‘Don’t be too sure. He’s lonely, and he’s a good man. He can be a bit of a recluse—he shuts himself away and works rather than dealing with his emotions, but he’s not alone in that. It’s a family habit, I’m afraid.’
She shook her head. ‘I am sure nothing will come of it. We’ve talked about it,’ she said, echoing her conversation with Isabelle and wondering if both women could be wrong or if it was just that they were fond of him and wanted him to be happy.
‘He needs someone like you,’ Anita said, ‘someone honest and straightforward who isn’t afraid of hard work and understands the pressures and demands of an agricultural lifestyle. He said your family are lovely, and he felt at home there with them. He said they were refreshingly unpretentious.’
She laughed at that. ‘We’ve got nothing to be pretentious about,’ she pointed out, but Anita just smiled.
‘You have to understand where he’s coming from. He has women after him all the time. He’s a very, very good catch, and Gio is worried that some money-seeking little tart will get her claws into him.’
‘Not a chance. He’s much too wary for that, believe me. He has strict criteria. Anyway, I thought we were talking about the wedding?’
Anita smiled wryly and let it go, but Lydia had a feeling that the subject was by no means closed…
* * *
‘What are you doing?’
A pair of feet appeared in her line of sight, slender feet clad in beautiful, soft leather pumps. She straightened up on her knees and looked up at his mother, standing above her on the beautiful frescoed staircase.
‘I’m helping Carlotta.’
‘It’s not your job to clean. She has a maid for that.’
‘But the maid’s sick, so I thought I’d help her.’
Elisa frowned. ‘I didn’t know that. Why didn’t Carlotta tell me?’
‘Because she doesn’t?’ she suggested gently. ‘She just gets on with it.’
‘And so do you,’ his mother said softly, coming down to her level. ‘Dear girl, you shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not part of your job.’
‘I don’t have a job, Signora Valtieri. I have a bargain with your son. I help out
, my sister gets her wedding, which is incredibly generous, so if there’s some way I can help, I just do it.’
‘You do, don’t you, without any fuss? You are a quite remarkable girl. It’s a shame you have to leave.’
‘I don’t think he thinks so.’
‘My son doesn’t know what’s good for him.’
‘And you do?’
‘Yes, I do, and I believe you could be.’
She stared at Elisa, stunned. ‘But—I’m just a chef. A nobody.’
‘No, you are not a nobody, Lydia, and we’re just farmers like your people.’
‘No.’ She laughed at that and swept an arm around her to underline her point. ‘No, you’re not just farmers, signora. My family are just farmers. You own half of Tuscany and a palazzo, with incredibly valuable frescoes on the walls painted by Old Masters. There is a monumental difference.’
‘I think not—and please stop calling me signora. My name, as you well know, is Elisa. Come. Let’s go and get some coffee and have a chat.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t. I have work to do—lunch to prepare for everyone in a minute. I was just giving the stairs a quick sweep.’
‘So stop now, and come, just for a minute. Please? I want to ask you something.’
It was a request, but from his mother it was something on the lines of an invitation to Buckingham Palace. You didn’t argue. You just went.
So she went, leaving the ornate and exquisitely painted staircase hall and following her into the smaller kitchen which served their wing of the house.
‘How do you take your coffee? Would you like a cappuccino?’
‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
Bone china cups, she thought, and a plate with little Amaretti biscuits. Whatever this was about, it was not going to be a quick anything, she realised.
‘So,’ Elisa said, setting the tray down at a low table between two beautiful sofas in the formal salon overlooking the terrace. ‘I have a favour to ask you. My son tells me you’re contemplating starting a catering business. I would like to commission you.’
Lydia felt her jaw drop. ‘Commission?’ she echoed faintly. ‘For what?’
‘I’m having a meeting of my book group. We get together every month over dinner and discuss a book we’ve read, and this time it’s my turn. I would like you to provide the meal for us. There will be twenty people, and we will need five courses.’
She felt her jaw sag again. ‘When?’
‘Wednesday next week. The chestnuts should be largely harvested by then, and the olive harvest won’t have started yet. So—will you do it?’
‘Is there a budget?’
Elisa shrugged. ‘Whatever it takes to do the job.’
Was it a test? To see if she was good enough? Or a way to make her feel valued and important enough to be a contender for her son? Or was it simply that she needed a meal provided and Carlotta was too unwell?
It didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t refuse. She looked into Elisa’s eyes.
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘Just so long as you’ll give me a reference.’
Elisa put her cup down with a satisfied smile. ‘Of course.’
CHAPTER NINE
THE book club dinner seemed to be going well.
She was using her usual kitchen—the room which historically had always been the main kitchen in the house, although it was now used by Massimo and his children, and for preparing the harvest meals.
She needed the space. Twenty people were quite hard to cater for if the menu was extravagant, and she’d drafted in help in the form of Maria, the girl who’d been helping her with the meals all along.
The antipasti to start had been a selection of tiny canapés, all bite-sized but labour intensive. Massimo had dropped in and tasted them, and she’d had to send him away before he’d eaten them all.
Then she’d served penne pasta with crayfish in a sauce of cream with a touch of fresh chilli, followed by a delicate lemon sorbet to cleanse the palette.
For the main, she’d sourced some wild boar with Carlotta’s help, and she’d casseroled it with fruit and lots of wine and garlic, reducing it to a rich, dark consistency. Massimo, yet again, had insisted on tasting it, dipping his finger in the sauce and sucking it, and said it was at least as good as Carlotta’s great-nephew’s. Carlotta agreed, and asked her for the recipe, which amazed her.
She’d served it on a chestnut, apple and sweet potato mash, with fresh green beans and fanned Chantenay carrots. And now it was time for the dessert, individual portions of perfectly set and delicate pannacotta under a spun sugar cage, with fresh autumn raspberries dusted with vanilla sugar and drizzled with dark chocolate. If that didn’t impress them, nothing would, she thought with satisfaction.
She carried them through with Maria’s help, set them down in front of all the guests and then left them to it. She put the coffee on to brew in Elisa’s smaller kitchen, with homemade petit fours sitting ready on the side, and then headed back to her kitchen to start the massive clean-up operation.
But Massimo was in there, up to his wrists in suds, scrubbing pans. The dishwasher was sloshing quietly in the background, and there was no sign of Maria.
‘I sent her home,’ he said in answer to her question. ‘It’s getting late, and she’s got a child.’
‘I was going to pay her.’
‘I’ve done it. Roberto’s taken her home. Why don’t you make us both a coffee while I finish this?’
She wasn’t going to argue. Her head was aching, her feet were coming out in sympathy and she hadn’t sat down for six hours. More, probably.
‘Are they happy?’
She shrugged. ‘They didn’t say not and they seemed to eat it all, mostly.’
‘Well, that’s a miracle. There are some fussy women amongst them. I don’t know why my mother bothers with them.’
He dried his hands and sat down opposite her, picking up his coffee. ‘Well done,’ he said, and the approval in his voice warmed her.
‘I’ll reserve judgement until I get your mother’s verdict,’ she said, because after all he hadn’t been her client.
‘Don’t bother. It was the best food this house has seen in decades. You did an amazing job.’
‘I loved it,’ she confessed with a smile. ‘It was great to do something a bit more challenging, playing with flavours and presentation and just having a bit of fun. I love it. I’ve always loved it.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I can see that. And you’re very good at it. I don’t suppose there’s any left?’
She laughed and went to the fridge. ‘There’s some of the boar casserole, and a spare pannacotta. Haven’t you eaten?’
He pulled a face. ‘Kid’s food,’ he admitted. ‘My father and I took them out for pizza. There didn’t seem to be a lot of room in here.’
She plated him up some of the casserole with the vegetables, put it in the microwave and reheated it, then set it down in front of him and watched him eat. It was the best part of her job, to watch people enjoying the things she’d created, and he was savouring every mouthful.
She felt a wave of sadness and regret that there was no future for them, that she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life creating wonderful, warming food and watching him eat it with relish.
She’d had the girls in with her earlier in the day, and she’d let them help her make the petit fours from homemade marzipan. That, too, had given her pangs of regret and a curious sense of loss. Silly, really. She’d never had them, so how could she feel that she’d lost them?
And after he’d eaten so much marzipan she was afraid he’d be sick, Antonino had stood up at the sink on an upturned box and washed up the plastic mixing bowls, soaking himsel
f and the entire area in the process and having a great time with the bubbles. Such a sweet child, and the spitting image of his father. He was going to be a good-looking man one day, but she wouldn’t be there to see it.
Or watch his father grow old.
She took away his plate, and replaced it with the pannacotta. He pressed the sugar cage with his fingertip, and frowned as it shattered gently onto the plate. ‘How did you make it?’ he asked, fascinated. ‘I’ve never understood.’
‘Boil sugar and water until it’s caramelised, then trail it over an oiled mould. It’s easy.’
He laughed. ‘For you. I can’t even boil an egg. Without Carlotta my kids would starve.’
‘No. They’d eat pizza,’ she said drily, and he gave a wry grin.
‘Probably.’ He dug the spoon into the pannacotta and scooped up a raspberry with it, then sighed as it melted on his tongue. ‘Amazing,’ he mumbled, and scraped the plate clean.
Then he put the spoon down and pushed the plate away, leaning back and staring at her. ‘You really are an exceptional chef. If there’s any justice, you’ll do well in your catering business. That was superb.’
‘Thank you.’ She felt his praise warm her, and somehow that was more important than anyone else’s approval. She washed his plate and their coffee cups, then turned back to him, her mind moving on to the real reason she was here.
‘Massimo, I need to talk to you about Jen and the wedding. They’ll be here in two days, and I need to pick them up from the airport somehow.’
‘I’ll do it,’ he offered instantly. ‘My mother’s preparing the guest wing for them, but she wanted to know if they needed one room or two.’
‘Oh, one. Definitely. She needs help in the night sometimes. Is there a shower?’
‘A wet room. That was one of the reasons for the choice. And it’s got French doors out to the terrace around the other side. Come. I’ll show you. You can tell me which room would be the best for them.’
She went, and was blown away by their guest suite. Two bedrooms, both large, twin beds in one and a huge double in the other, with a wet room between and French doors out onto the terrace. And there was a small sitting room, as well, a private retreat, with a basic kitchen for making drinks and snacks.
Valtieri's Bride & A Bride Worth Waiting For: Valtieri's BrideA Bride Worth Waiting For Page 14
