“Course,” he says. “Listen, I’m sure you have somewhere to be, but quickly, I wanted to talk to you about the sunsets.”
“The sunsets?” I toss my camera bag into my back seat and start up my car.
“When you applied for the job with me, you brought in a portfolio of sunsets,” Ron says. The ones I took for Quinn while we were apart all of those months.
“Right,” I say.
“I have a friend up North here, that is looking to acquire a sequence of photos of sunsets, he wants to have them made into a collage and sold as posters. I vouched for your work, told him it’s exactly what he’s looking for. What do you think?”
I put the car back into park, trying to replay what Ron has just said, trying to process it.
“So, he wants to buy my work?”
“Yep.”
“All of them?”
“Yep,” Ron confirms. “So, I told him I’d check with you and give him your contact info, he should be in touch soon, he’d like to get this all wrapped up in the next few weeks.”
I swallow hard and get a handle on my voice, which I know is going to shake with excitement. This is exactly what I’ve been waiting for. One tiny part of me is disappointed that Quinn isn’t here, waiting with wide eyes and bitten lips for me to fill her in. She won’t be here when I click off to kiss me and offer her congratulations, to celebrate the changes that are coming. For both of us.
But this is happy. This is awesome news. And I’m legitimately happy when I say the next words. And maybe it’s a good thing that Quinn is in Italy and this moment has already lost some of its luster. I exchange uncontrollable excitement for the kind of calm professionalism that might help me line up more jobs in the future. Which is the ultimate goal anyway.
“That sounds perfect. Yes, tell him that I said yes.”
“Buonasera!”I call into the tiny house before opening the door the rest of the way.
“Buonasera!”Amalea’s now familiar voice replies. I’ve been in Italy for just over two weeks now. I love it here and can’t wait to come back someday with Ben. Maybe even bring Carter and Shayna along. But school is rough. The courses aren’t hard, necessarily, as much as I feel out of place. For starters, I’m the only girl in the classes, which is fine. I tend to relate to guys much better, but these guys are different. There are three of them, and their senses of humor are severely lacking. One of them, John Paul, he’s from the United States, too, he says “ci, ci!” no less than one hundred times per class, and I’m pretty convinced that that phrase doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. None of it is bad, it’s just not comfortable. I’m much more content in Amalea’s kitchen, helping her bake or clean, or just watching her conjure up these delicious meals all from recipes passed down to her from her family, never a written recipe in sight.
The kitchen is exactly where I find her now, stretching a large piece of dough out onto her simple, wooden counter top. “You’re finished for the day already?” she asks.
“Yep. I have an early class tomorrow, though. What are you making?”
“Sfogliatelle.” She lifts the buttery dough up, stretching it from underneath until it’s paper thin and so beautiful. Like magic.“ Have you eaten?”
“I nod. We made gnocchi with wild boar sauce.”
“Ah, Chef Baldassare’s favorite.” Amelia doesn’t look up from the dough she is tediously working when she says it. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think she works it a little harder.
“You know Chef? Of course you do, there’s like, twenty people total in this town.”
Amalea bites her bottom lip.
“I like him, which is saying something, because I don’t like most people.”
Amalea glances up, her brows pulled together. I’m either confusing or offending her. I rush to erase my social blunder as best I can, but I’m like a little kid scrubbing so hard on a mistake that I just wind up tearing the paper. “I mean, I like you. I just, crap, I don’t know. I’m getting better about it. I think.”
“Getting better at liking people?” she asks.
“Yeah. Something like that. Anyway, Chef is pretty amazing, he really knows his stuff.”
“He makes terrible sfogliatelle,” Amalea says smugly. She slaps another layer of butter onto it. And I’m no expert, but it seems a little extra forceful.
“Okay. Um, wow. Do you hate my teacher?” I smirk.
“I do not hate. Hate is a wasted emotion.”
“Right. Well, I hate enough people for the both of us then. What’s the deal? Do you want to talk about it? Were you lovers gone wrong?” Amalea looks up at me, her eyes wide with embarrassment. “Wait! Is he going to fail me because I’m staying with you? I guess he wouldn’t, I don’t even think we get graded—”
“Stop it! No, Davide will not fail you. He’s a good man—”
“Davide, huh? How good is he?” I ask with a wink.
“Don’t be stupid. Anyway, you drop it, I’ll maybe teach you to make my famous sfogliatelle. You don’t, I won’t even let you taste a bite.”
“Consider it dropped,” I say smartly.
Amalea isn’t ready to make good on her offer to teach me how to make the pastry, but she does let me sit in the kitchen and watch her make the labor intensive masterpiece.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say. “How is your English so good?” I’m reaching for topics, but I really have been wondering. I assumed when I got here, I’d spend the entire month with everything lost in translation. Having Amalea as my host has really been a gift. “Do you have family in America or something?”
“No, no family. After…” Amalea tightens her apron and pauses, before rewording and starting again. “Several years ago, a couple from America moved to town. Carol was American, her husband, Benito was Italian. They came here to take care of his elderly parents, and Carol came to work in the store with me. She taught me to speak English.” I feel like there’s more to that story, but Amalea doesn’t seem keen on sharing today, so I let it go.
“Is that a family recipe?” I ask, spreading a thick layer of creamy lardo onto a slice of fresh, rustic bread. If it weren’t for Ben back home, I’m not sure I’d ever leave Spello. Or Amalea’s kitchen. I take a bite and it’s creamy in a way butter never could be and laced with rosemary and if I could marry a food this would be it.
“The sfogliatelle? Si. Passed down from my father’s side. The lardo, no. Luca from next door brought that back from Modena this morning.”
“It’s delicious,” I say, licking a glob off of my index finger.
“We will go one day. You and me. I know a man who makes il pesto modenese each morning. He will show you how.”
“That sounds incredible. Maybe someday.”
“You show more interest in the food than any of the other students I’ve had stay before.”
“Really?”
Amalea nods and I can’t help but feel a spark of pride ignite in myself for doing something right for a change.
“Did your mother cook with you a lot as a child? Is that why you have the appreciation of food?”
The flame has been blown out at the mention of my mom.
“Not really.” I leave it vague, but Amalea looks up from the dough and stares at me, as if she’s waiting for me to elaborate. “My mom and I were never really close. She has…problems.”
“Ah,” Amalea says. “Are things better now, that you are grown?”
“Not exactly. I don’t live near her and my dad. And they are really involved with my youngest brother, so we don’t connect a lot. But she’s my mom…and I love her…and why am I talking about this when you threatened my life if I brought up Chef?”
Amalea cracks a small smile. “Fair enough.”
She rounds the counter where she’s been tirelessly rolling and stretching and layering the gorgeous dough, and reaches around me to open the freezer and place the plastic wrapped dough to chill. I have so much to learn from this woman.
“I wish I would�
��ve had a mom like you,” I let the words slip out before I have a chance to consider them. How they must sound rude and creepy and strange from someone Amalea barely knows. “I mean, I wish I would have grown up with her teaching me to cook and stuff.” I shrug, hoping I’ve managed to save things.
“Sciocchezza,” Amalea says. “I’m sure your mother taught you many things.”
I am not about to delve into the fact that my mom spent the majority of my childhood in rehab, running out on my dad and my brothers and I—leaving me to cook and get my brothers up for school. I’m not going to explain how my mom turned a blind eye to my dad’s affair with our neighbor because she was too weak to do anything but look away. I won’t admit that I hid so much of my life from my friends and from Ben back then because I was so embarrassed of how things really were, and could barely admit the realities to myself, much less tell anyone else. I don’t say any of those things, but Amalea gives me a small nod, like she’s transported herself into my brain and knows all the things.
“You should be thankful for your mother’s faults.”
“Excuse me?”
“A mother’s job is to teach her children. You learned a valuable lesson from her. You learned exactly who you don’t want to be.”
I take another bite of the savory bread and consider this for a moment. I spent the better part of last year trying so hard to be nothing like my mother that I ended up spiraling out of control in signature Patricia MacPherson style.
“You remind me of my brother’s pseudo-girlfriend,” I say. Amalea raises her eyebrows at me. “In a good way! She always has these great little pieces of advice that, in her case, she probably read in a fortune cookie or under a bottle cap, but it’s nice to, you know, talk to someone who can see things in a way that you can’t. Shayna does that for me a lot.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Amalea says.
“Me too.”
“And your boyfriend? Have you talked to him?” Amalea asks.
“Not as much as I’d like,” I say. I’ve definitely called him more than he has called me, and our conversations are clipped and short, and not a whole lot is said. I don’t want to brag about the amazing time I’m having when he’s sitting at home alone. But our talks always end with an ‘I love you,’ so I guess I can’t complain too much.“I don’t know if it’s him or me, or just the distance, but whenever we do talk, he seems short with me.”
“Maybe he’s just busy.”
“Maybe.” I lace my fingers together and try to choose my words in a way that won’t leave me sounding like a jealous freak. “But he’s off of school, and his boss is out of town so he’s not working…” I think about all of the times he comes home late because he’s out taking photos, and I just know that’s how he’s spending his time with me away. Hopefully he’ll take enough that he won’t sneak out the first night I’m home.
“Sometimes, it’s easier to just accept the distance and anticipate the reunion,” Amalea says. I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, but right now, it makes a lot of sense to me.
I’m pulling a delicious single serving of Salisbury steak and something that the frozen food company is trying to pass off as macaroni and cheese out of the microwave when my phone vibrates on the counter. It’s not like I can’t eat a proper meal without Quinn around, but why bother? It’s just me, no point in messing up the entire kitchen.
“Hey, baby,” I answer the phone and shut the microwave with my other hand.
“Hey, yourself. Long time no talk.” Quinn’s voice sounds the same, but it feels different. Like the distance and time change has crept its way into her words, softening the edges, making each word more meaningful, no matter what it is.
“I’m sorry. The time change is killer, you know?” I say it, but it’s not the entire truth. Quinn is doing this amazing thing, and I’m happy for her. But part of me feels like she’s figuring out just how much she’s capable of—without me—and that maybe I just need to let her do that. She deserves it. She needs to realize just how freaking amazing she is for once without someone telling her. I know all of that, but the thought of it still terrifies the hell out of me. I want it for her, but selfishly, I don’t want her to stop needing me. It’s why I keep our conversations short. I don’t want her worrying about me, or what’s going on here, and it’s just weird knowing that she’s all the way over there, doing life changing things and I’m just…here. “What time is it there?”
Quinn yawns, “Just after three. I set an alarm so I could try to catch you when you got home. I’ve been getting pretty intimate with your voicemail, lately, so I figured I had to do something different.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say. Sometimes, the changes in Quinn catch me off guard. The Quinn I met in high school wouldn’t have planned ahead like this. And she did it for me. Maybe my stupid-ass insecurities over her finding her own way are bullshit after-all.
“What are you doing?” she asks. I can picture her stretching out in the small room she described to me when we last talked. Alone. Bathed in gorgeous moonlight.
“Not a whole lot. Cleaning some lenses. Eating a bite,” I say. I want to tell her about the offer on the photos, but I don’t want to spoil any news she may have, or take away from it. I want her to have her moment.
“Ah, did you find some hot new thing to cook for you?” she says with a light laugh.
“Hardly,” I say. “I’ve turned into a vegan since you left.”I stir the noodles again, but still haven’t brought myself to take a bite of them.
The line goes quiet. I can practically hear Italian crickets chirping on the other end.
“Ben,” she says stoically. “You know we don’t joke about serious things like that.”
We both dissolve into hysterics, and I know that she’s on the other side of the world wiping happy tears from her eyes, and that’s all I need right now.
I remember some of the crazy things Quinn has gotten me to eat since I met her, and I’d take any one of them over this right now. Even those early dates where I think she was trying to get a rise out of me by getting me to eat things like sweet breads and burgers as big as my head. I did it because I was crazy about her and I loved that she challenged the hell out of me and never stopped surprising me.
And even from the other side of the world, when I can’t stand to think about the space between us, she’s surprising me. But I swear she needs me a little less every time we talk. She’s finding that part of herself that her parents took away from her, and I just hope there’s still room for me when she gets back.
The first time I ever considered texting Quinn. I tapped my thumb on the send button of my phone like I was doing Morse code, while I debated whether or not to go through with pressing it or not. It shouldn’t have been that friggin’ hard. In fact, it should’ve been nothing but straightforward. She was just a girl, and it was just a text message, right? She had told me to call her. So, why did her maybe-rejection cause me to have paralysis of the thumb? There was something about Quinn, though, that made different. She had me thinking she was such a hard ass at first, but I saw something else in her that first day at her house. Something I don’t think she meant for me to see.
I was making it harder than it needed to be. Just needed to keep it simple. I deleted the message and started again.
To: Quinn
Hey, this is Ben. You free for lunch again today? My treat.
Send.
####
“Okay, I’ll bite, what the hell is this place?” I asked, as Quinn parallel parked her hybrid next to the rows of Harleys. I was stoked that she said yes to lunch, but hanging out with a biker gang wasn’t exactly on my agenda.
“This place is to die for! I hope you’re hungry!” Quinn said.
“I trust you.” My lips stretched across my face into a nervous smile.
I motioned to the entrance, which happened to be a huge skull with bright orange hypnotizing eyes, where the gaping mouth serving as the entryway.
The sign above said, THE VORTEX.
“Well now, that’s your first mistake,” she said, adding an adorable wink. “It’s not so bad inside, come on.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the bony face. I grazed my thumb over her soft ski, and wondered if she felt more than just my hand, if there was any possibility that she felt something more. I felt like a tool admitting to myself that I already did.
Once inside, The Vortex was a lot less intimidating. It honestly could have easily passed for a small Applebee’s. The walls were full of tchotchkes like old street signs, barber’s poles and all sorts of other kitsch. It’s was already past the normal lunch hour, so the majority of the tables were empty. Quinn walked right past the hostess stand and pulled me in the direction of the patio. She decided on a table right in front of a mural of a fire-breathing skull with pin-up style devils lounging across it. So much for the Americana theme.
“So, what’s good here?” I opened my menu and glanced up at Quinn. She quickly diverted her eyes, but I did catch her staring at my arms as she unrolled her silverware and smoothed the paper napkin onto her lap.
“You won’t need that,” she said. “I’ll order for you.” She plucked the menu out of my hands and set it on top of hers at the edge of the table.
“Okay, a little controlling, but I like it,” I said.
She flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder and leaned back in her chair.
“Ha, yeah, I guess I am.” She smiled at me, and it struck me for the first time just how completely out of my league she was.
“That’s fine. But you should know when ordering, that I’m a strict vegetarian.”
Quinn’s smile transformed into tightly pursed lips and her brow furrowed. “Wait, seriously?”
“No way, are you kidding? Bacon and I have a very deep love affair going.”
“Oh thank god. That right there would’ve been a deal breaker for sure,” she said with a laugh. “Wait, I mean, not like this is anything…”
I nodded. “Right.”
Quinn picked up one of the menus again and stared down at it.
Risk the Fall Page 56
