Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  “You deserve the best.” Gianni placed his black Prada duffel bag into the overhead bin. “Is this yours?” he asked, pointing to the L.L. Bean tote sitting on the seat.

  “Yes. My grandmother gave it to me.”

  He swung it into the bin next to his own bag.

  Fifteen minutes into the flight, Georgia realized how difficult it was traveling with someone she barely knew and with whom, she was discovering, she had little in common. Once the industry chatter dried up (no, she didn’t know Padma Lakshmi; no, she didn’t know Gordon Ramsay; and, no, she hadn’t been on Iron Chef), silence descended. Until she made the mistake of asking how he’d got into wine. Launching into a seventy-five-minute monologue that might as well have been entitled “Gianni: The Man and His Wine,” he proceeded to lecture her on seemingly everything he’d learned about grapes including what, when, where, and sometimes why. At least she liked wine.

  Despite the cloudless skies, unlimited Pellegrino, and the tastiest chocolate truffles she’d ever bit into, the flight was a bit of a letdown. If she’d followed her gut, she’d be nibbling gnocchi—alone—in Maremma. Instead, she’d got spooked by spinsterhood and seduced by Sicily and was now on a weekend jaunt with a womanizing wine wonk. She checked her watch: forty-seven hours to prove she’d made the right choice. Or not.

  As Gianni promised, the hotel was magnificent. An eighteenth-century palace that was now an opulent five-star hotel, the Palazzo Lazzaro was the perfect place for an indulgent, romantic weekend. Georgia toured the junior suite, a sumptuously appointed bedroom, spacious sitting room, and an even larger bathroom, while Gianni unpacked his bag. A bellboy delivered a complimentary bottle of bubbly from the hotel’s general manager, and Gianni pressed a twenty into his palm.

  “Prosecco?” he sniffed, rolling the bottle in his hand. He put it back in the wine cooler.

  Georgia kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the king-size bed. “I could get used to this,” she said, clicking on the plasma TV.

  “You should.” He climbed on top of her and took the remote out of her hand, turning off the TV and turning on some ambient music with a few clicks. “Isn’t it romantic?” he whispered. “You, me, Sicily. I’ve been dreaming about this since you agreed to come with me.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

  Georgia murmured something unintelligible and Gianni began unbuttoning her top, running his hands across her breasts, expertly unhooking her bra. She swept her hands under his shirt and ran them up his sides, pushing up the shirt and pulling it over his head.

  The phone rang—a loud, old-fashioned brrrring. They stared at each other, amazed at the audacity of that ring. “Merda,” he said, climbing off her.

  Georgia propped herself up on her elbows. “Don’t get it.”

  On the third ring, Gianni’s cell phone joined the booty-busting brigade. Scowling, he grabbed the hotel phone, almost jerking it off the night table.

  Though she could only hear one side of the conversation, she got the gist. They were due at dinner, downstairs, thirty minutes ago. Twenty minutes late was accepted practice in Italy, but thirty was pushing it.

  Gianni hung up the phone and turned to her. “I am so sorry, Georgia, but we must go.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. My clients are waiting for us and we are already late.” He ran his fingertips over her neck, kissing the hollow of her throat. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Still wearing his jeans, he climbed out of bed and walked to the bathroom.

  “I’ll hold you to that!” she called after him.

  “Over here, Gianni,” a round man with stumpy arms and a wobbly double chin called as they entered the Lazzaro’s fine-dining restaurant.

  Gianni steered Georgia to the corner table where two men in sport coats and open-collared shirts sat. A burgundy carpet with gold fleurs-de-lis covered the floor, and an ornate chandelier dripping with crystals hung from the ceiling. Waiters in white dinner jackets circulated with silver-plated serving trays. One of the men stood as they approached the table, and he and Gianni kissed on both cheeks. He pulled back a clunky gold chair and gestured for Georgia to sit.

  “You must be Georgia. Please, sit. I am Luigi Monserno, general manager of the Palazzo Lazzaro.” Luigi had tiny eyes and sandy brown hair that he wore in a comb-over. He introduced Georgia to Mervi, his assistant, who carried a yellow legal pad and jotted notes while his boss spoke. “We hear that Claudia Cavalli brought you all the way from New York to open Trattoria Dia.”

  “Something like that,” Georgia answered.

  “You must be a great chef.”

  She smiled. “Well—”

  “She’s the best,” Gianni interjected. He threw his arm around her shoulder and drew her into his chest. “Truly the best.”

  “How do you like Italy?” Luigi asked.

  “Amazing food, wine, countryside, people, what’s not to like?”

  Luigi chuckled. “Good to hear.”

  “And this is a lovely hotel, Luigi.”

  “I’m glad you think so, that’s important.”

  “It is?”

  “Would you like some wine, Georgia?” Gianni picked up an empty bottle, which stood next to a carafe filled with red wine. “A 1990 Solaia. From your private cellar, Luigi?”

  Luigi nodded, and Gianni filled Georgia’s glass and then his own. “Now this is wine,” Gianni said. “An Antinori masterpiece. Hints of mint, berry, a touch of lead pencil.” He stuck his nose in the glass and inhaled deeply.

  “Why don’t we get right to the point, Georgia,” Luigi said. “Otherwise our friend Gianni will bore us with his wine wisdom all night.”

  “Sure,” she said. “What point is that?”

  “We’d like to hire you as our head chef here at the Palazzo Lazzaro.”

  “You would?” She looked at Gianni, who was studiously chewing his wine. “Why?”

  Luigi gestured to the half-full dining room. “We were once not only the finest hotel in Sicily, but the finest restaurant in the region. Now, as you can see, people go elsewhere.”

  “Right, but—”

  “With a new chef, one with your skills and talent, we could again be the best restaurant in all of Sicily. And opening Trattoria Dia gives you the experience, the credibility, the name to run an Italian restaurant. The publicity alone—”

  “It’s perfect for you,” Gianni interrupted. He’d finally swallowed his first taste.

  “How are you involved with this, Gianni?” She sipped the wine. “Wow. This really is delicious.”

  “I’m partnering with Luigi and an investment group to buy out the hotel. As an owner I’ll be here all the time. We’ll be able to be together. Plus, I know you are an amazing chef. I have tasted your specials, remember?” He winked.

  Luigi laughed. “Sounds like you’re more interested in the chef than the restaurant, Gianni.”

  Georgia’s face burned behind her wineglass and she tried not to smile.

  “Tell her what you’re offering,” the assistant said. It was the first time he’d opened his mouth all evening.

  “Money, of course. An apartment here in the hotel. Carte blanche with the menu—you won’t even have to think about food costs. A staff of your choosing. A complete renovation of the dining room and the kitchen, under your direction. However, all this will take time, which is why we ask for a two-year commitment.”

  Composing her thoughts, Georgia took another sip of wine. “This is a very attractive offer, Luigi. It’s extremely generous and extremely flattering, but it would be a huge move for me. I’ll really need to think about it.”

  “Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

  “Thank you for understanding. And since Gianni and I just arrived, I’m a little tired. I’m afraid I won’t be the best dinner companion. How about sending up a bottle of wine, maybe one of these”—she pointed to the carafe—“and a plate of something to nibble to our suite?”

  “Of course.” Luigi summone
d a waiter.

  Georgia stood and the three men followed suit. “Shall we, Gianni?”

  He sucked the last drop of wine from his glass and they left the restaurant. “I can’t believe you got Luigi to part with another Solaia,” he said under his breath. “You really are amazing.” They stepped onto the elevator, and when the doors closed, he picked up her hands. “Are you really not sure about the job or are you playing hard to catch? It’s a great offer, Georgia.”

  “It is a great offer. But I wasn’t planning on staying in Italy after opening Dia, and definitely not for two years…” Her voice trailed off. “I’m not sure what to do.”

  When they reached their suite, a room service cart holding bottles of wine and water and several covered dishes was parked in the sitting room. The breakfast table had been set with silver, napkins, glasses, even a pair of candles.

  “Luigi sure works fast,” said Georgia.

  “So do I.” In one motion Gianni swooped her up, carried her into the bedroom, and dropped her onto the bed. Before she could open her eyes, he’d removed all her clothing and was wriggling out of his own. He kicked off his black briefs and climbed on top of her, running his hands down the length of her body. He stopped for a second to put on a condom, then rolled back on top of her.

  “You’re so beautiful, Georgia,” he said, attempting to run his fingers through her hair. He gave up and began smoothing it instead.

  Georgia closed her eyes and smiled dreamily. “And you, Gianni, are well worth the wait.”

  He kissed her eyelids and began working his way down with his mouth, first her chin, then the hollow of her throat, her breasts, the swell of her belly. She pulled him up to her lips and they kissed, long and hard, before he slid back down. Finally, it was going to happen: no more minds changed, no phone calls, no interruptions of any sort, just pure, unadulterated sex with a gorgeous Italian who clearly knew his way around a king-size bed. Georgia wrapped her fingers in his curls, sighing happily. She closed her eyes and concentrated on what his skin felt like, what his lips felt like, what his body felt like pressing into hers. Then she thought about what she felt like, then she stopped thinking altogether.

  Afterward, Gianni fell on top of her, kissed her lips, and flopped back on his pillow. “That was amazing.”

  “It was,” she said, her eyes still closed.

  “And you are incredible,” he mumbled, kissing her hair.

  “You are too.” She nestled into the crook of his arm. “But you definitely don’t work fast.”

  “And that is a good thing?”

  “A very good thing.”

  Thirty seconds later he was snoring. Too excited to sleep, Georgia extracted herself from his grasp and walked into the bathroom, trying to stifle the silly grin on her face. She’d done it. She’d had sex with someone who wasn’t Glenn. It had been even better than she’d hoped, without a glimmer of the awkwardness she’d feared. She sat down on the toilet and forced out a splash of pee—there was no way she’d risk a urinary tract infection after sex like that.

  She wrapped herself in the Pratesi robe hanging on the door and moved to the sitting room, where she sipped wine, ate caponata and arancini, and laughed out loud while watching a Saturday Night Live rerun, which was much funnier in dubbed Italian. By the time she slipped under the covers next to her still-snoring bedmate, she’d decided that eating, drinking, and laughing—alone—in a luxurious Sicilian hotel room after having terrific sex with a gorgeous Italian wine geek was not the worst way to pass an evening. Whether it was the best way to pass two years of evenings, she wasn’t so sure.

  Limpid water lapped at her legs, and Georgia wriggled her toes in the silky sand beneath her feet. If she squinted hard enough, she swore she could make out the African coast shimmering in the distance—Tunisia? Algeria? She swished her hands through the water, startling a school of yellow fish who darted past her knee. A cerulean sky loomed above her, a blanket of white-sand beach stretched behind her. The scene had all the trappings of a Harlequin novel: the exotic Sicilian locale, the deserted beach, the bikini-clad heroine. All that was missing was the hunky stud who would stride out of the water Fabio-style, pecs rippling, long hair cascading down his back.

  Instead, Mervi, his face smeared with sunscreen, a straw hat pulled low over his ears, sat perched on an oversize towel, his zinc-coated nose stuck in a self-help book. Since Gianni and Luigi had a meeting with the hotel investment group, Luigi had offered Georgia Mervi’s chauffeuring services. He suggested an outing to the Vendicari Nature Preserve, an unspoiled stretch of coastline a few hours away, and she was soon riding shotgun in a lime-green Smart car emblazoned with the hotel’s logo. The spellbinding scenery—olive and orange groves, craggy coast, lush greenery—had more than made up for the less-than-luxe ride.

  “So, Georgia,” Mervi said, walking up behind her, “are you seriously considering this job offer?”

  “I am. I’d be crazy not to, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged.

  “The chance to create an amazing restaurant, plenty of money, an apartment—”

  “With maid service,” he threw in.

  “With maid service,” she repeated. “How could I not seriously consider it?” In addition to all the perks Luigi had mentioned, there was also the chance to check out of her New York life and check into beautiful, tranquil Taormina. Throw in a sexy winery owner who rocked in bed, and the offer was almost too good to refuse. Except for one thing: she liked her New York life. Not all of it, but big, substantial chunks of it—Central Park, her friends, sushi, poppy seed bagels, the New York Times, Sunday-afternoon shopping trips, supersize iced coffees… and Sally, sweet, sweet Sally. The obvious thing missing from the picture was the gorgeous guy. But she’d been around long enough to know that not all summer romances translated into lasting relationships. Sometimes a fling was just meant to be a fling—fun and carefree and fleeting.

  Mervi dangled his foot in the water. “It’s freezing. I’m not going in.” He returned to his towel and his book, smearing extra sunscreen across his bald chest.

  Georgia took a few steps forward so that the water barely covered her knees. Grammy would scoff at her tentativeness. She used to dive into Silver Lake’s icy waters—chilly even at the tail end of August—without so much as dipping in a toe first. Good for the heart, she’d say as she emerged from the lake, her torpedoed bosom leading the way, her chartreuse skirt-suit circling her thighs.

  Even after Grampy’s early death forced her into single motherhood, Grammy never lost her zest for life. As she told it, she could have remarried in a heartbeat. There’d been plenty of suitors—including the town doctor—but that would have been the easy way. Instead she devoted herself to building her bakery from scratch, working seven days a week so she could provide for Dorothy, her only child. By the time Georgia was born she was ready to throw in her rolling pin. She’d missed out on raising Dorothy, but in Georgia she saw her second chance, and she was determined not to miss a thing. If you want to be happy, Grammy always said, stay true to yourself and work hard enough so that you never have to ask what-if.

  A batch of wispy clouds passed over the sun, and Georgia felt goose bumps rise on her arms. The ocean and the sky were almost the same color, and she stared at the horizon trying to determine where they met. Her future was out there somewhere. She reached her hands overhead, clapped her palms together, and dove headfirst into the salty sea.

  Georgia slid the key card through the lock and pushed open the hotel room door. “Gianni? Hello?”

  The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner, which she swore she’d shut off before leaving for Vendicari that morning. Mother Earth did not approve of running the AC all day, especially when no one was home, so she turned it off to make up for wasted energy. She kicked off her sandals and flopped onto the bed, noticing a tiny vase of white freesia propping up a cream-colored envelope on the night table. The envelope was addressed to Signora Giorgia Grigio, her name translated
into Italian, which sounded much prettier to her American ears.

  “Dear Georgia,” she read aloud. “I will be back at five to take you to my friend’s winery. Dress is relaxed. Until then, Gianni.”

  Leaning back into the pillows, she tried to envision her life as the head chef at the Palazzo Lazzaro and the girlfriend of the hotel’s owner—because there was no way Gianni would have her as one and not the other. In the early stages, when she was first settling in, she could imagine a succession of dinners and winery visits and alfresco lunches and nonstop sex. Then later, when they moved from planning to execution, she’d start working around the clock and he’d start wondering what happened to the up-for-anything girl who used to jump him every chance she got and who now dropped like a brick the second she got to bed. Which begged a bigger question: Did she want to dedicate two years of her life to opening someone else’s restaurant? Or did she want to go back to New York and do it for herself?

  A quick glance at the clock cut short her introspection. She’d have just enough time to rinse off and choose her best “relaxed” outfit, which she interpreted as a sundress and sandals. She stepped out of her clothes and into the shower, wondering if providing a dress code was a Gianni thing or an Italian thing—and thinking probably a bit of both.

  The sun pushed down from above, relentless even in the early evening. Mount Etna, snowcapped and mammoth, loomed in the background. Every once in a while, a hot wind rustled the vines, a reminder of the legendary scirocco that blew into Sicily from the Sahara, bringing with it swirls of dust and sand. Georgia and Gianni walked down a row of vines plump with purple grapes. Her brow was damp with sweat, and her hair, shellacked with product, was scraped back in a bun—the frizz factor in these conditions was off the charts.

  “Isn’t this place amazing?” Gianni said.

  “It is.” The drive from Taormina alone—through sunbaked hills, chestnut groves, the remains of a centuries-old town carved from lava—was worth the trip to Gianni’s friend’s winery, which sprawled across the southern slope of the volcano.