Path of Love

by M. L. Buchman

  That’s what was supposed to be happening here, but nothing was talking to anything.

  And then she’d started to look at the scope of Conrad’s holdings and tried not to be awed by how much the polite old man in the olive grove was worth. Or that she could theorize he was worth, it was hard to tell with the mayhem here.

  In her spreadsheet of spreadsheets, she began categorizing the holdings. Two major and a dozen minor properties in England, clearly set up by three distinct accountants with very distinct styles—none of which she liked.

  Italy—the olive grove and a vast area of grapes were but one tiny sliver of his holdings. They’d all been tracked using the same method…scanned longhand notes clipped together in an electronic binder.

  He had interests in a major cruise line; Vancouver Island, Canada; Africa; and as far away as New Zealand. French holdings included Mediterranean fishing and a castle tucked away deep in the heart of the country.

  Some had data going back only a few years, but a Scottish island went back centuries—records that had been laboriously keyed and heavily annotated from some clan’s ledger. Germany. Austria…

  “What’s this one?” Erica asked Bridget as she walked up. She consistently arrived with an uncanny sense of timing that was so good Erica had been tempted to ask if it was witchcraft. Bridget dropped into the chair next to her and handed over half a grapefruit already sectioned in the rind and sugared.

  She glanced at the screen. “Oh. You should ignore that one.”

  Erica squinted her eyes at Bridget.

  “What are you on about?” Bridget poked up a section of bright pink fruit.

  “Out of all this mess, that’s the one that’s done right. The only one, I think. But there’s no label on which property it’s associated with.”

  “Really?” Bridget popped forward to peer at the screen more closely. “Well, blow me down and call me a Welshman.”

  “Welshwoman.”

  Bridget saluted her acknowledgement of the correction with a spoon before digging into her own grapefruit half. “That one is me and Hal’s B&B here.”

  “If we standardize everything to that, would it make your life easier?”

  That made Bridget stop. “You can actually do that?”

  Erica shrugged, “It will take a bit. But I’ve got a handle on most if it.”

  “I had no idea you were that good.”

  “What, you just thought you were being kind to a poor American by giving her an excuse to not pay for her room and board?”

  Bridget might be English, but she had the Italian shrug down—neither admitting nor denying anything.

  Hal came by and dropped off a Pellegrino—the orange flavor she’d grown particularly partial to. His tie—which was becoming a hobby for Erica, she never wanted to miss a day’s tie—was all grapevines. They all seemed relevant somehow, but that one passed her by.

  “What have you found?”

  “That your system has deep-seated schizophrenia, but I may be able to cure it.”

  Hal’s belly laugh surprised her.

  She hadn’t really meant to be funny. But then Ridley had often laughed at her non-jokes as well.

  “No, it does. It was pasted together in so many different layers and methodologies that it really is—”

  Hal rested a hand on her shoulder. “Never try to explain a good joke. It takes half the fun out of it.”

  Ridley had always just smiled when she did that, letting her try to explain why she’d said what she said. It had often earned her a second laugh, but it also earned her a nod because he saw why she’d said what she’d said.

  Forcing her thoughts away from him, she plunged deeper into the data and another hour or more slipped painlessly by. Painless was good at the moment and counted as a victory.

  She looked up to see Max, the gelato shop owner standing across the table from her with his fists on his hips.

  “Buongiorno, Max.”

  “Buongiorno. Buongiorno you say to me. Not even friendly ciao. Buongiorno!” he turned to the room and gestured to several of the locals. “Like I am city person standing here.”

  Erica didn’t know what to say. Now that she thought about it, she did hear ciao far more often among the locals.

  “I ask: Max, where she hiding?” Max was clearly upset about something. “I now—”

  “Be nice, Max,” Bridget cut him off as she delivered a plate of steaming pasta to a nearby table. “She’s going to fix my accounting system for me.”

  “Ah! Bene! That is good. Bridget, when she work on little computer, we all stay very much away.”

  There were several nods of agreement around the room. Then he glared at Erica again.

  “But it still no explain why you stop coming to see me and eat my gelato. Eh?” He was back to the two fists on his hips.

  Erica almost hung her head to let her hair slide forward. She hadn’t had gelato since that day on the Via dell’Amore because she didn’t want to be reminded of her and Ridley’s new-flavor-every-day game. She started to hang her head, but it didn’t feel right anymore. New Erica wouldn’t do that—at least not as often as the old one.

  So instead, she looked up at Max and made him wait a moment. It had the unintended result of making the other patrons take interest and go quiet as well.

  Oh well.

  “I’m sorry, Max. I’m a very bad girl. I have been seeing another gelato vendor.”

  He slapped his hand to his heart and looked mortally wounded as translations rippled around the room and laughter erupted. Knowing how to work a crowd, he held the pose like an operatic hero until the noise died once more.

  “Tell me, I no too late. Wait! Wait!” He reached for a small container he must have set on the counter when he came in. It was a small paper cup with a gelato of the palest yellow, and had a small plastic spoon stuck in it.

  “For me?” She didn’t have to pretend the surprise. He’d actually come to find her and entice her back to his shop. It was awfully sweet. As if one customer more or less really mattered. No, as if she really mattered.

  “Sì,” he held out the cup and then stood there, leaning forward and looking more worried than some supplicant wondering if he was to be beheaded at the Queen’s whim.

  Everyone was watching her, but she knew most of them. Claire from the leather shop in for her teatime treat. Cedric, the carpenter who had come to Corniglia on school holiday forty years before and never gone back to Wales. Vanessa the baker, who was one of the most beautiful women Erica had ever seen. She was the perfect Italian that every woman wanted to be: long dark hair, lovely smile, and perfect dark-honey complexion on a baker-strong body. Bridget had whispered that she was actually several years older than Erica—which was hard to believe—and that many of the men had tried courting her with little success over the three years since her arrival in Corniglia. There were rumors of a sworn pact with a lost love, a broken heart, an offer of marriage by a king—none of which the thoroughly pleasant Vanessa had confirmed or denied.

  Erica knew these people. She’d always been a behind-the-scenes business gal and she’d liked it that way. But now she knew more people here than she did after a decade in Boston. At least it seemed that way.

  So, if it was to be an Italian-style show, she discovered that she was willing to play it that way. Definitely New Erica all the way.

  She took the cup reluctantly, as if it was a snake that might bite her. After inspecting it carefully, she leaned forward and sniffed it carefully, earning her a small laugh.

  “It is Corniglia specialty,” Max wasn’t able to restrain himself. “Only here,” he jabbed a finger toward the ground.

  That earned him several ahs of acknowledgement, but she still didn’t know.

  Taking the tiniest spoonful she could, she eyed and sniffed it again for show.

  “Miele di Corniglia.” She didn’t know that word.

  She took the taste. The cold creamery. The smooth texture. Then the flavor slowly bloomed
to life. But she’d taken too small a bite and couldn’t identify it before it slipped away.

  Erica took a bigger scoop—careful not to be too forceful and break the tiny spoon, a real beginner’s mistake.

  Cold. Smooth. Then the flavor unfolded like a spring morning until it overwhelmed her other senses and her eyes slid closed. Honey. Warm, lush honey, swirled deep in the cold gelato. It made her sigh with happiness.

  But the continued silence told her that the drama wasn’t over yet.

  She reopened her eyes and saw that everyone was waiting for her reaction.

  Old Erica was predictable.

  New Erica ran the hills of Italy, worked on complex reporting systems, and had taken a handsome playboy for a lover. That she’d fallen in love with him and was having a hard time falling out of love with him was a different problem.

  But New Erica lived here. Even if only for this moment, she had come to life in Corniglia.

  So, rather than paying some sincere compliment, she set the little cup down and rose to stand in front of Max.

  “I’m yours!” she cried out. “I will never stray again!” And she threw herself at him.

  He crushed her into a big hug and spun her once around so that her feet cleared the floor. The room echoed with applause.

  He made a show of kissing her on both cheeks even as he held her aloft.

  “Ahh, if you not love another man so much, mia amore,” he whispered before giving her a final squeeze and setting her back on her feet. He kept her pulled close against his side as if they really were sweethearts, waving and bowing to the applause of his friends. Their friends. Her friends.

  Erica had to blink hard to keep the tears back.

  She wasn’t sure if it was for the sake of finally having friends.

  Or for the man she still loved despite himself.

  * * *

  Ridley stood in the shadowed doorway of Emilio’s restaurant and gazed over at Il Cane as another roar of applause and laughter rolled out into the evening light.

  He barely recognized the woman at the center of it all. Her hair was back, her face showing. She was the center of attention, yet she didn’t retreat or hide. Instead she glowed with a radiant smile somehow even brighter than that first time he’d seen her.

  And she was laughing.

  Laughing as if she was on the verge of tears.

  He double checked. She wore the necklace. It was definitely Erica, just some form of her that he’d never imagined. It bothered him that he couldn’t quite read the emotion on her face. It was so clear, but he didn’t know what it was.

  Emilio tapped him on the shoulder and gave a slight tug to head him into the restaurant. He closed the door.

  “Chiuso,” he declared.

  Ridley knew that one. The door was closed. The physical one here. The metaphoric one there. But he could only stare at the aged wood in front of him. This one he could open with a simple gesture. The other one…

  He closed his eyes against the brutal pain. His palms were blistered and every muscle ached from the week he’d spent repairing that one terrace. But it was good. God he wished Bibi could have lived to see it. She’d have loved it.

  And he wished Erica could see it. Even if he wasn’t there. Even if she didn’t know he’d done it. He just wanted her to see that perfect bit of vineyard brought back from the edge and given a new lease on life.

  “Hey!” Emilio called to him. “Ristorante chiuso.”

  “Perch?” But Emilio just looked at him strangely. Of course he wouldn’t get the joke. “Perché?”

  Emilio began listing off names and pointing as if they were sitting around a long table. Conrad’s was the only one he recognized. Then Emilio yanked out a cell phone, dialed, and shouted into the phone, “Ciao, Bartolo,” and that was the last Ridley understood. He made hand signs for Ridley to rearrange the tables into a single long table down the middle, then disappeared into the tiny kitchen in the back while dialing someone else.

  By the time Ridley had the tables rearranged, shuffling several chocks under different table legs to keep them stable on the old stone floor, the front door swung open.

  Someone he didn’t know came in, carrying two bottles of wine. Unable to understand anything past the first word, he responded in kind.

  “Ciao! Pleased to meet you. I’m Ridley.”

  “Tomas,” the man tapped his own chest. He was just another version of Emilio. A little more round, a little less weather-beaten, but ageless and with a welcoming smile.

  Soon he was reduced to, “Ciao!” Chest tap. “Ridley,” as he struggled to catalogue each new arrival’s name. Each brought at least one bottle of wine that was added to the collection lined along the center of the table. Almost all whites, almost all young. But there were some older dusty bottles—the type saved for special occasions. He wondered what the occasion was. It couldn’t just be his clearing one measly little wine terrace of the vast array fallen into neglect.

  “What are you guys doing here?” he asked the pair of reds that had somehow slipped into the crowd. Old, French reds.

  “Either basking in the warmth of their brethren or huddled in fear for their very corks,” Conrad remarked from his elbow. “I always like to bring a few reds from my own winery to keep the conversations interesting.”

  “Oh, thank god. Someone who speaks English,” he shook Conrad’s hand. “I’m so out of my depth here. Can you at least tell me who these guys are?”

  Some were standing and chatting as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, or maybe it was as if they were just picking up a conversation from earlier in the day. Either way, the small stone restaurant was echoing with rapid Italian. A few went back to help Emilio, which was good—Ridley had been feeling guilty about not going to assist, but he could barely cook pasta.

  “These guys as you call them,” Conrad looked around the room. “Are the vintners of Cinque Terre. It looks as if all of them were able to join us.”

  “So quickly?”

  “Oh, Emilio put out the word this morning that he’d be cooking for them tonight. He does this on occasion, or one of the other chefs. There are three of them here who should have Michelin stars, in my humble opinion, except they prefer to be more rustic than would be required.”

  Michelin star? And he’d been thinking of offering to help? He felt less guilty now for staying out of the fray back in the tiny kitchen.

  But as he watched them, he began to see that these were definitely men of the craft of winemaking. There were certain gestures that were universal: the cutting of a bunch, the twist of a bottle, the sighting through a refractometer for assessing sugar content. Even though he couldn’t follow any of the conversations among the dozen men in the restaurant, he could soon tell who was discussing the vine, who the processing, and who the flavor.

  He’d talked his way into a couple of wineries in France. But it was always just him and the vintner. These men might command fewer bottles among all of them than an average French or American winery, but they were all together in this one room and he could hear their shared passion.

  For the first time since that awful morning along the Via dell’Amore, he felt like laughing. And he felt like crying because Erica wasn’t here to share the moment with him.

  And that’s when he finally understood the expression she’d been wearing at the center of the crowd in Il Cane. Filled with joy, yet impossibly sad in the same moment.

  Which meant…

  A shout sounded from the back of the room and the three chefs who’d been shouting Italian in the kitchen loudly enough to be heard over the other conversation—it sounded like a brawl—began sending out the first of a whole string of platters. They looked amazing as they were passed hand-to-hand and set on the table.

  “Do you think these dishes even have names?” He made sure to grab a seat next to Conrad.

  “I would conjecture that they would all have the same name: Chef’s Special.”

  The closest platter had a
sea of spaghetti. It smelled of garlic and olive oil and mounded on top were mussels, crayfish almost the size of a Maine lobster, and shrimp with the heads still on. Next to it was a platter of artichoke hearts and olives in some sort of marinade. The next platter to hit the table was a massive pan-fried fish. Farther down the table, tortellini were slathered in pesto and more seafood beyond that. Loaves of focaccia were shoved into unlikely empty spaces. There was enough food for an army.

  Wine was poured down the table. This was done with care. Little more than a shot glass-worth until everybody had some.

  One of the vintner’s spoke up.

  Conrad leaned closer as he translated. “He is particularly proud of this one. It is called Cheo Percìo. Watch for notes of star fruit, pineapple, and under-ripe yellow apple. In addition to the Bosco and Vermentino grapes, Bartolo has also used fifteen percent of the less common Piccabun grape.”

  There was a long silence as everyone observed, sniffed, tasted. For perhaps the first time since grade school, Ridley was the amateur in a wine tasting room. He’d rarely worked the one at the vineyard because he had little patience with the pretenders up from San Francisco who thought they knew a Claremont Reserve from a jug Gallo, but didn’t. Most of these men had been tasting these wines and these grapes for decades longer than Ridley had been alive. There was only one other his age and two between them and Emilio.

  The finish of the wine was particularly striking. “This is just begging for something salty, like an anchovy antipasto.”

  Emilio pounded his fist on the table, then jabbed a finger in Ridley’s direction. “Acciughe!” Then he grabbed the plate nearest him and tipped it up for everyone to see.

  “Misto di acciughe delle Cinque Terre.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He calls it Mixed Anchovies of the Five Earths of Cinque Terre. They are prepared five different ways, one for each town. A traditional dish that is considered an exceptional match for this wine. You have taken the first step to proving your palate to all these good men, Mr. Claremont.”

  The others were chattering happily about his success.

  Emilio began speaking once more as the dish was served round and the eating began.