It Happened in Tuscany

by Gail Mencini

  “Can’t Isabella or her mother cook?”

  He laughed. “Isabella and her mother, she told me, have a philosophy. Her line is, ‘We make divine love, wine, and dinner reservations.’ ”

  Niccolò confirmed his relationship with Isabella with that quote about making love. Sophie stood and stepped away from the bench and the man’s magnetic pull.

  I want to help Margherita. I’ll buy a box of pasta and a jar of sauce, toss a salad, and presto—a Tuscan menu.

  Despite her tendency toward false confidence and claims of expertise, Sophie had doubts.

  “What time do you think Margherita will leave? She’ll be able to get me started, won’t she?”

  “Perhaps.” He gave her a skeptical, crooked smile.

  67

  Sophie tossed and turned all night. She devised her game plan.

  At four o’clock in the morning, she got up and showered, knowing full well that if time allowed, she wanted to shower again before the guests arrived.

  The entire time the cold water poured over her, she kept reminding herself of Niccolò’s words about the guests having short memories. It is only one meal, and I’ll likely never see them again.

  The breakfast room was dark, empty, and absent of anything resembling food when she stopped to leave her key on its hook.

  Sophie used the flashlight app on her phone to guide her way through the dark streets. She didn’t go straight to Margherita’s but instead walked away from the hotel in the opposite direction.

  She walked downhill to a parking lot their driver passed their first day in Montepulciano. She remembered that it sat on the crest of a hill, with an expansive view of the countryside. This little detour would cost her precious time, but the peaceful vista, she hoped, would give her inspiration and strength for the day.

  She was right.

  Sophie walked to the edge of the space, where a low stone wall separated the gravel lot from a steep decline that fell away into a beautiful valley.

  The black night softened with the sunrise and the sky was a pink-hued gray. The rolling slopes and vineyards and trees took shape and color as everything brightened with daylight.

  One day. One dinner. Afterward, Will and I can leave.

  Warm light filled the kitchen in Margherita’s school. The door was unlocked.

  Sophie called out to Margherita.

  Silence answered her.

  She walked to the back courtyard, expecting to find the woman picking herbs in her garden. Joe sat at the table with a coffee cup in front of him and an unsettled expression on his face.

  “Good morning, Chef Sophie. Didn’t expect you this early, but it’s a blessing.”

  Sophie’s stomach did a somersault. His words rang of a bad omen.

  “I think I need coffee and food. Then I’ll be ready to dig in. Is Margherita packing for her trip?”

  He shook his head. He pushed up from the table. “I’ll bring you an espresso.”

  He retreated into the building for a few minutes and returned carrying a cappuccino-size cup and a small plate with a hard roll and two slices of prosciutto.

  “Eat first. Then we’ll talk.”

  “How did you make the coffee so fast?”

  “We make it on the flame, to make a larger amount at one time. I gave Margherita a double before she left.”

  “She left?” Sophie’s heart plummeted.

  “Sorry about it, but she was quite anxious to go to her mum.”

  “Did she write out tonight’s menu?”

  “Sure did. It’s inside. Ah, but I wonder if it might be a bit much for you to handle by yourself.”

  “You’re helping me, aren’t you?”

  Joe glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ll be off soon. I promised Will I’d take him for another drive today.”

  “No. No driving with Will. You need to help me with the preparations.”

  “Can’t. Margherita has two requirements of me that I must do or she will throw me out to the street.”

  He grinned and pumped one fist twice against the palm of his other hand. “That’s the first thing.”

  Sophie blushed.

  “The second,” he stood and picked up his drink, “is to keep out of her kitchen unless she is there to supervise.”

  Sophie jumped up from the table. “No. I need you.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you where things are. After that, you’re on your own.”

  The calm she found from looking out at the landscape evaporated like a ghost.

  Joe opened the refrigerator and showed her the meat intended for tonight’s dinner: wild boar chunks, marinated overnight and ready to be made into a sauce.

  “That’s it? Where’s everything else?”

  “Margherita didn’t have time to shop. She needed to call her father, her mum, the priest. Many phone calls.”

  Joe set his dirty dish on the end of the work surface along the back wall, close to a deep double-bottom stainless steel sink. He pointed to it. “This is where you wash the plates. The first bin is for soap, and the second is for the rinse. The sink with only one basin is to use for food preparation.”

  “No dishwasher?” Her voice squeaked.

  “Americans and their conveniences.” He pointed underneath the counter. “These two dishwashers are for glasses. Everything else is done by hand.”

  He tilted his head toward the doorway. “Time to go.”

  “Wait. I need an Internet password.” YouTube will have to be my guide.

  Joe’s face turned quizzical but he gave her the login information. He patted her back. “Buck up. You told me you have the skills to cook anything.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  He walked toward the door and waved. “Ciao.”

  Joe was gone before she could ask when he’d be back. He hadn’t washed his dishes or left her money to shop for groceries.

  Her lips trembled. Her eyes welled with tears.

  The entry door opened.

  “Buongiorno, Sophie.” Niccolò stood under the archway to the kitchen. He held a large bushel basket in his arms.

  “Why are you here?”

  Niccolò deposited the wicker container of produce on the counter. He turned to her and placed his palms on her shoulders.

  What’s he doing?

  He leaned in on her left side and gave her a quick kiss to her left cheek, and then a matching one to her right.

  He stepped back and gestured with his hands. “I brought every vegetable I thought you might need. Later, when the shops are open, I’ll buy fruit.”

  He studied her troubled face. “Let me guess. Margherita left before you got here.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suspected as much and I know that Joe is worthless in the kitchen. That’s why I’m here.”

  She ran one finger over a glossy eggplant, majestic in its deep purple. It’d be nice—very nice—to have Niccolò here.

  He tucked a strand of hair that had fallen over Sophie’s face behind her ear.

  In a husky voice, he said, “How about we start cooking?”

  68

  Niccolò reached into the basket and pulled out a small wireless cylinder-shaped speaker. He put it in the center of the butcher-block counter. In moments, the sound of a tune Sophie loved filled the kitchen.

  “Is this OK?” he said. “It’s one of my favorites. I figured we needed something that would give us upbeat energy to tackle the cooking. I’ll pair your phone, too, and you should pick the next artist.”

  “I love this song.”

  He sang along and rummaged through the under-counter storage baskets until he found aprons for them.

  “Joe showed me the wild boar that we’re supposed to use for the sauce.”

  Niccolò grabbed knives off a magnetic strip on the back wall. “We better get that boar simmering, or it’ll still be like shoe leather at dinner.”

  He directed her without being obvious. “How about you dice the carrots, and I’ll do the onions and cel
ery? It’d be a bad start to the day if I made you cry so early in the morning, right?”

  He pulled the carrots out of the basket, put them in a colander in the single bottom sink, and rinsed them with the large flexible spray arm. He left them there, grabbed a peeler, and in rapid strokes peeled each one, leaving the peelings in the colander.

  Next, he washed and trimmed the ends of the celery and diced one stalk into quarter-inch cubes. “Does this look about the right size to you for the mirepoix? We’ll want the vegetables all the same size, and I want to make sure that I dice these the same as you do with the carrots.”

  Sophie had no clue what mirepoix was, but Niccolò explained what to do and how to do it without making her feel like a dummy.

  He pointed to the even cubes of celery with his knife. “Italians call this onion-celery-carrot dice, which is sautéed in olive oil, soffritto, which sounds more playful than mirepoix, don’t you think?”

  Sophie laid a carrot on the butcher-block counter, next to where Niccolò stood.

  How should she hold the vegetable to prevent it from rolling? It’d be bad form to slice her finger instead of the carrot.

  OK. I can do this. It’s just a carrot. Sophie cut off the ends first. Then she grabbed the large end and lowered the knife lengthwise down the middle.

  “Stop!”

  The urgency in his voice made her freeze.

  His hand covered her knife hand and raised it away from the carrot. “I know a trick to make this easier and safer.”

  Sophie’s face reddened.

  He explained his movements during the process. “First, trim off one long side, to create a stable base. Then, with the flat side down, cut the carrot crosswise into about two-inch lengths.

  “Next, cut the sections into strips as wide as the dice you want, flip them on their sides, and as they’re too thick, you can slice them this way.” He repeated cutting the smaller sections lengthwise until he had square strips of carrot.

  He created the small dice by holding the carrot strips with his fingers and, using his knuckles as a protective guide, chopped the strips into small pieces.

  She diced the carrots, but not nearly as fast or smoothly as Niccolò. He handled the onions and the remainder of the celery. Piles of tiny, even squares sat before him.

  Niccolò teased her in a gracious manner while he taught her the technique.

  “You know a lot about cooking,” Sophie said. “How did you learn?”

  “Both of my parents are physicians in Milan. My grandmother picked me up after soccer practice. I loved being in her kitchen—it smelled heavenly, she let me steal food, and she talked nonstop.” Niccolò grinned.

  “When I started college at Northwestern, I was lonely and homesick. I craved the warmth of her kitchen. I decided to recreate my favorite Italian dishes and bring a little bit of Italy to Illinois.

  “I asked my grandmother to mail me her recipes, at least the basic ones. I read cookbooks, too, to supplement what I learned from watching her. I practiced every weekend at an upperclassman’s apartment. I cooked, and my friend and his roommates bought the ingredients, including the wine.

  “When I want something, I go after it.”

  He poured some olive oil into a Dutch oven, turned the heat to a low setting, and added the vegetables. “We’ll let this soften before we add the meat.”

  He hummed along with the newest song as he gave the soffritto a quick stir with a wooden spoon.

  Next, they worked on the pasta—wide pappardelle. Niccolò used a scoop to measure and transport flour to the wooden counter. He made a white pile that resembled a mountain more broad than high.

  “Something isn’t quite right,” he said. He stood back and studied the mound. “I know.” He patted the flour on the sides, with no noticeable difference in the shape after he finished.

  Niccolò reached one floured hand toward her and patted the tip of her nose. “That’s what it needed.” He laughed.

  Sophie stuck two fingers into the flour mountain and returned the favor of flouring his nose.

  He grabbed his phone off the counter and encircled Sophie’s shoulders with his other arm. He pulled her snug against his side and snapped a grinning selfie of the two of them with their white noses.

  Niccolò turned his face toward hers. His dark eyes tugged on hers like a siren’s song.

  Her lips tingled. She jerked herself away and pretended to cough. Sophie rubbed her hand over her nose, to rid herself of the flour and, hopefully with it, her attraction to him.

  She couldn’t fall for him. He was Isabella’s fiancé.

  What is he doing? How can he cheat on Isabella, the sexy Italian goddess?

  Niccolò was flirting.

  Sophie loved every second.

  I can handle this. Enjoy the attention and know this for what it is—flirtation that is going nowhere.

  69

  The day of cooking with Niccolò flew by. The wild boar braised all day in the Dutch oven. Its luscious aroma filled the room.

  He taught her how to mix the eggs into the pasta flour with a fork, and how to knead it until it reached the proper elasticity. Niccolò explained why the pasta needed its rest. He declared when the pasta rested, they should rest, too.

  He raided Margherita’s wine cellar and came back with a bottle of Vernaccia di San Gimignano. “Look what I found. This lively white wine received the first Italian DOC designation.”

  “A glass of that sounds perfect.”

  After Niccolò poured the wine, he cut a few slices of Salame Toscano and washed a handful of ripe figs.

  Sophie and Niccolò stood by the kitchen island. They snacked on the food, sipped their wine, and chatted about recording artists they enjoyed.

  “Did you move back to Italy right after college?” Sophie asked.

  “I went to grad school in Chicago. I had no plans to return to Italy until I started doing strategic planning and business development for the winery owned by Isabella’s father.”

  Isabella is not only gorgeous but wealthy, too. By marrying Isabella, Niccolò not only gets a bride but potentially future ownership of an Italian winery.

  “I needed this wine break, but now we should finish preparing tonight’s dinner.” Sophie hand-washed their wine glasses to make sure there would be enough clean for the evening.

  Niccolò made sure all the food items were prepared before they left to dress for dinner. He walked Sophie to her hotel, and then left for the winery.

  Back in her room, Sophie hugged herself in the shower and thought of the easy camaraderie she shared with Niccolò.

  The thought of serving Isabella, her father and mother, their VIP guests, and Niccolò unnerved her, yet Sophie believed in herself. She could handle it.

  She only needed to plate the food and carry it in. Even the salad sat ready to assemble. Sophie had prepped the table, complete with fresh flowers and candles, before she left.

  Niccolò stopped along the way to her hotel to buy biscotti to serve with Vin Santo wine. He thought of every detail. Sophie knew she could never have pulled off this dinner without him. He shouldered all the real work.

  He did this all without being asked.

  Sophie allowed her wet hair to fall to her shoulders in its natural wavy curls. She chose her outfit, a short black skirt, ballerina flats, and a white peasant short-sleeve blouse.

  She inspected her image in the mirror. Not Isabella, but not bad, either. Her blouse could be worn on top of her shoulders or pulled down to bare them. Definitely down.

  She straightened her skirt to align the side seams with her body. I don’t remember it sliding off-center before. Sophie stuck her hand inside the waistband along her hip. The last time she wore this, a few months before the trip, the garment fit too tightly to accommodate her hand.

  Thank you, Francesca. Our search for you up and down the Montepulciano streets toned me up around the waist and hips.

  At the cooking school, she finished the last preparations: chilled
liters of bottled water placed on the sideboard, candles lit, and appetizers ready to serve as soon as the guests sat down and the Prosecco had been poured.

  Sophie finished with fifteen minutes to spare.

  She heard the sound of a motorcycle cut its engine outside, next to the kitchen.

  Niccolò walked in. He wore a black short-sleeve, crew-neck shirt and black jeans.

  He nailed it. He created a look both sexy and fun-loving. The twinkle in his eyes tops it off.

  Niccolò gave an appreciative wolf whistle.

  She blushed and reminded herself that Italian men considered flirting an art form. Niccolò’s actions don’t mean anything. He’s got the hottest girlfriend around.

  “You look beautiful. Not at all like you’ve been cooking in a hot kitchen all day.” He walked over to her, touched the cap of her shoulder with one hand, and gave her a kiss on each cheek. “I came early to see if you needed help with anything.”

  His light clasp sent shivers through her body. She smiled and stood her ground, so close she could lean forward and kiss him. Her lips prickled with the thought.

  Sophie smiled. “Thank you. On both counts. I think I’m OK, but maybe that’s because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “The dining room looks great. The flower arrangement is perfect—casual, yet festive.”

  “Thank you. You did the hard part. You picked out the flowers and greens.”

  Niccolò looked at her with a quizzical expression. “You’re modest. I like that.”

  She laughed. “Sometimes. Look at the trouble I got into when I told Joe I cooked.”

  His hands flew up to punctuate his words. “I won’t touch that one.”

  Voices outside the door grew louder. Their guests had arrived.

  Niccolò’s hands cupped her cheeks. His lips touched hers in a soft, quick kiss. “For luck.” He smiled, turned, and retreated to the arched, open entrance.

  What am I supposed to do now? He definitely kissed me. Sophie stayed in the kitchen, to allow Niccolò to meet the dinner party outside while she tried to compose herself.

  Sophie stepped into the small, walk-in refrigerator and closed the door behind her. Maybe this will cool me down. It didn’t erase the thrill of Niccolò’s touch. She exited the cooler with a bottle of Prosecco in her hand. Sophie set it on the counter, took a deep breath, and went to meet the guests.