The Last Promise Read online

  With the exception of a Murano glass chandelier in the center of the room, all lighting was indirect, behind brass sconces that feathered the walls from mustard-gold to deep umber in the shadows. The home was immaculately kept and expensively decorated with antique furniture, both Italian and foreign. Some of it looked as if it had originally belonged to the home.

  Most impressive to Ross was the amount of art that filled the house. There were paintings or intricate wall tapestries mounted on every wall: landscapes, portraits and still lifes.

  A stereo in the main hallway softly played Mozart. After a while he walked into the kitchen. A pot of pasta was boiling on the stove, the steam rising into the black collector above it. On the back burner a smaller pot simmered with a dark, pungent sauce. Eliana was standing at a wooden cutting board, dicing pancetta with a large cleaver. When she finished chopping the meat, she walked to the stove, lifted the boiling pot of spaghetti and poured it into a stainless steel colander in the sink, tilting her head to one side to avoid the rising cloud of steam. Then she poured the spaghetti back into the pot with a chunk of unsalted butter.

  He looked around the kitchen. It was a blend of old-style decor complemented by modern accessories. Then he noticed, on an oiled wood beam above a shelf of copper pots, a neat row of empty wine bottles. He looked carefully at the labels. They were all identical, though labeled with different years. L’incanto. The same wine he had brought for their dinner.

  “Is that the wine you make?”

  She bit her lower lip. She had hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Yes.”

  “I brought you your own wine.”

  She smiled. “Yes. But that’s very flattering.”

  “It’s what the shop recommended,” he said. He put his hands in his pockets, looking slightly embarrassed. “Where’s your son?”

  “He’s watching television upstairs. His name is Alessio.”

  “How is he?”

  “He finally seems to be over his sickness, thank goodness.” She reached over and put a frying pan on the stove. “A cold takes on a whole new meaning with asthma.”

  “How long has he had asthma?”

  “His whole life, probably. But our first real episode was when he was two.” She slid the pancetta across the cutting board with her knife, pushing the meat into the pan. It started to sizzle and the smell of the meat added to the room’s bouquet. She let it fry until it was browned on both sides.

  “You don’t have to wait in here. There’s a soccer game on tonight. The television is in the room next to the dining room.”

  “If it’s the same to you, I’d rather just hang out. If you don’t mind me in your kitchen, that is.”

  She smiled. Right answer, she thought. “Of course not. Want to help?”

  “Certo. What would you like me to do?”

  “To start you can hand me the eggs. They’re behind me, on the counter.”

  Ross found a small, woven straw basket with brown eggs in it. “Do you need them opened or scrambled or something?”

  She smiled at opened. He really was a bachelor. “I need three of them mixed in that glass bowl. Just use that fork there.”

  Ross cracked all of the eggs.

  “What should I do with the shell that I didn’t get in with the yolk?”

  Eliana laughed. “The garbage is under the sink.” He discarded the shells then came back and picked the rest out of the bowl. “Sorry. I’m an amateur.”

  “If you want, I’ll teach you how to make carbonara.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She lifted the pan, poured the pancetta into the saucepan and stirred it around. “I hope you’re not watching your fat intake. It tastes better with some of the grease.” She handed him a small cup with clear yellow liquid. “Here, you pour this in while I stir.”

  “What am I adding?”

  “Chicken broth.”

  He moved next to her, lightly pressing against her. She could feel the warmth of his body beneath his shirt and she didn’t move back. She liked the feel of him close to her. He slowly poured the broth in, then tapped the cup against the rim of the pan. Eliana began stirring again. “We’ll let this heat up a little and then we add the egg and parmesan.” She looked up at him while she stirred. “This is really easy to make. Do you cook much?”

  “No. I’m still in the spaghetti-with-store-bought-sauce phase.”

  “I’ve been there.” She looked up at him. She adjusted the heat on the stove. “Did you wonder why I didn’t just call an ambulance the other night?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “A year ago Alessio had a major attack. We almost lost him while we waited for the ambulance. Rendola is hard to find.”

  “My real estate agent and I got lost the first time we came.”

  She nodded. “When I moved here from the States, the FedEx and DHL people were always calling for directions.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, does Rendola mean something? It’s not in my Italian dictionary.”

  “For most Italians it’s just a name. Rendola actually comes from Latin. It means where God meets the earth. That’s how Maurizio explained it to me when I first came.”

  “It matches the villa. It’s a beautiful place.”

  She smiled. “I love Toscana, but especially Chianti.”

  Ross took a step back and looked toward the kitchen door. “It must be difficult for you, never knowing when your son might have an attack.”

  “It’s just the hand we were dealt, I guess. God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Yes. You don’t?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t. But I don’t think God’s doing all the giving either.” Ross looked toward the kitchen door. “He’s a brave little boy, isn’t he?”

  She looked up. “Yes, he is. He’s a great little boy.” She set her spoon to the side of the range then went to the refrigerator and brought out a package of buffalo mozzarella and a bowl of tomatoes.

  “I’m making Caprese salad. I hope you like tomatoes.”

  “I do. Here, I’ll help.”

  Ross took a knife and began slicing tomatoes while she opened the package of mozzarella over the sink, letting the white milk drain from it.

  “Does buffalo mozzarella really come from buffaloes?” Ross asked.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Have you ever seen a buffalo in Italy?”

  “No. But I’ve never seen one in the U.S. either.”

  “I’d like to see someone milk a buffalo.”

  Eliana laughed, then took a knife from a drawer. “Here, the blade on that one’s dull. Use this one.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Prego.”

  Ross cut the last of the tomatoes, leaving them on the cutting board. “Anything else?”

  “No, I’m just about done.”

  Ross went to the sink and washed his hands. “You have a really nice place here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I approve of your choice of art. Especially the oil paintings. I have some by the same artist in my place. She’s really gifted.”

  Eliana hid her pleasure at his comment. “How do you know the artist is a she?”

  “I don’t really know. It just feels like it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how you can usually tell if a book was written by a man or a woman? It’s the same thing. I guess it’s a little like handwriting analysis. I tried to make out the signature but couldn’t. Whoever the artist is, he or she has a remarkable touch. I mean to ask Anna about the pictures when she returns from holiday.”

  “I know the artist,” Eliana said.

  “You do?”

  “Quite well, actually. And yes, she’s female.”

  “At least I’m right half the time. What is she like?”

  “You tell me. Analyze the handwriting.”

  “All right.” Ross walked over to one of E
liana’s paintings. “First, I think she’s older. Definitely older, maybe in her late sixties, seventies.”

  Eliana looked up with an amused smile. “Why is that?”

  “The depth of feeling. Sometimes someone young has that, but it’s rare. It usually takes a lifetime to acquire. Either that or a hard life.” He looked back at her. “Am I right?”

  She went back to slicing the mozzarella. “I’ll tell you when you’re done. Continue.”

  “Okay. This is between us, right?”

  “I won’t tell a soul.”

  “I think she’s a little repressed. She’s afraid to say all that she feels, so she limits her palette.”

  Eliana cocked her head. “Interesting.”

  Ross looked back at her. “And, wherever she is, I think she’s lonely.”

  At this Eliana stopped cutting. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because that’s how I feel when I look at her pictures. There’s a sort of quiet, beautiful desolation to them. If that makes sense.”

  Eliana was silent.

  Ross walked back to the counter. “So how’d I do?” She arranged the tomatoes with the cheese on the plate. “I think you’ve pretty much got her figured out. She’s not old—though she would tell you that she feels it.”

  “I’d like to meet her someday.”

  Eliana drizzled a thin layer of olive oil over the salad then sprinkled it with basil. “I can arrange it.”

  “I’d like to ask her something. There’s a picture in my place of a field of sunflowers. It’s my favorite of the four in my apartment. But if you look carefully, one of the flowers isn’t following the sun. I wanted to ask her about it.”

  You noticed, she thought. She turned the stove off, then opened the oven and looked inside, then shut it again. “What do you do, Ross? Where do you work?”

  “I work as a tour guide at the Uffizi.”

  His answer surprised her. “Really. So you’re not just an armchair art critic.”

  “No, art is my life.”

  “The Uffizi. That’s impressive. You must have some pretty major credentials. That’s not an easy job to get.”

  “No credentials, just dumb luck. I got in through the back door.”

  She stepped back from the pan. “Would you watch this for a minute? I need to check on Alessio. He already ate, but he wanted to say hello.”

  “Sure. Should I stir it?”

  “Yes. But gently.”

  She left the room and returned a few minutes later. “Darn, he fell asleep. He’s been asking about you all day.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He’s pretty hungry for male companionship.” She looked into the pot then took the spoon from him. “This is ready for the rest of the ingredients. You can help me here. I mixed them together in that bowl. Go ahead and pour them in while I stir.”

  “Got it.”

  He poured the mixture while she continued stirring everything together for a minute longer. Then she poured the steaming pasta into a glazed ceramic bowl that was on the counter next to the stove. “Would you mind grabbing that bowl of spinach from the counter?”

  “Sure. And where are your wineglasses?”

  “In the cupboard next to the stove. The far side.” They brought everything over to the table. “Why don’t you sit there,” she said, motioning to the seat across from her. “The Batman glass is Alessio’s. You don’t have to use it. Unless you want to.”

  She untied her apron, then folded it and laid it on the counter. She took Ross’s plate and ladled a large serving of pasta onto it, then did her own. “Primo piatto. The second course is in the oven. You do eat meat, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I baked cinghiale in umido. It’s wild boar meat marinated in red wine and garlic.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “I hope so. It’s my first time making it. But there’s a good restaurant near here that serves it and they gave me the recipe. It’s traditional Tuscan cuisine.” She straightened out her napkin. “Do you mind if I say grace?”

  “Of course not.”

  She bowed her head. He watched her, then bowed his as well. She said the prayer then crossed herself, looked up at Ross and smiled. “Okay, I think we’re finally ready. Buon appetito.”

  “Buon appetito.”

  Ross rolled the noodles on his fork and took a bite. He smiled with pleasure.

  “Is it all right?”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Thank you.” She took a bite herself. “So, where are you from?”

  “I was born near St. Louis, a suburb called Charlestown. But I call Minnesota home. Or I did.”

  “What brings you to Italy?”

  Ross hesitated. To her surprise he looked slightly uncomfortable with the question. “I guess I just needed a change.”

  She smiled reassuringly. “We could all use a little change.”

  “How about you? Where in the States are you from?”

  “You’ve never heard of it.”

  “I get around. Try me.”

  “It’s a little town in eastern Utah called Vernal.”

  Ross’s brows came together in thought. “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of Utah. What state is that in?”

  “Stop it.”

  “You’re right, I’ve never heard of Vernal. What is Vernal famous for?”

  “Famous?”

  “Every town in America has something they’re famous for. It might just be chocolate pecan pie or big potatoes or Bruce Willis slept there or something.”

  She smiled. “Vernal is famous for dinosaur bones. We have a big excavation site. It’s where they found the Utah Raptor.”

  “Dinosaur bones,” he repeated. He lifted the bottle of wine. “Wine?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He poured the red wine into her glass.

  “How long are you planning to stay in Italy?” she asked.

  “Forever.”

  She gazed at him in surprise. “Forever? So you really meant a change.”

  Ross nodded. “How about you?”

  “I’d go back to America tomorrow if I could.”

  “You don’t like Italy?”

  “I love Italy. I love Tuscany. But after six years it still doesn’t feel like home.”

  “Why don’t you go back then?”

  “My husband doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t really like America. He thinks we’re a cultureless society. What we call a melting pot he calls mongrelization. Anyway, his job and property are all here. Besides it’s all I can do to take care of Alessio most of the time.” She forced a smile. “But it’s not so bad. If you’re going to get stuck somewhere on the planet, it might as well be here. The people, the scenery and the food are all great.”

  Ross put his fork back into his pasta. “This food is certainly great.”

  “The secret to carbonara is making sure the noodles are hot enough when you pour on the raw egg. Do you usually eat at home?”

  “No, I eat in cafés or trattorias most of the time. But I’m teaching myself to cook. I bought myself a pasta machine a couple days ago.”

  “There’s nothing like fresh pasta.”

  “I’ll bring some over as soon as I figure out how to make it.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. It’s not that hard to make.”

  “You’re talking to a man who considers TV dinners a challenge.”

  “That will change here.”

  “It’s already started. I didn’t realize how serious the Italians take their cooking. My first week in Italy I was in a ristorante and I committed a major faux pas.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ordered fettuccine noodles with shrimp; then I asked for Parmesan cheese. The waiter asked what I needed the cheese for. I said, For my pasta. His eyes got really big; then he shouted out to the entire restaurant that I was putting Parmesan on my shrimp fettuccine. Then he handed me the cheese and a grater, looking the other way as he did, so he wouldn’t
be an accessory. After he left my table, the couple next to me told me that I should never put cheese on seafood. I realized then that food in Italy is a religious rite and I had committed sacrilege.”

  She laughed. “I have also defiled many a dinner.” She looked at his plate. “I’ll get the next dish.”

  She cleared their plates then brought back two plates of carefully sliced meat, garnished with rucola leaves.

  Ross speared the meat with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. Eliana watched expectantly as he chewed. When he swallowed, she raised one eyebrow. “Well?”

  “You are as fluent in the kitchen as you are in the language.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “How about a toast?”

  “Oh yes. What shall we toast? We could toast your new life in Italy. Or the wild boar.”

  “How about your son’s health.”

  Her mouth rose in a gentle smile. “Thank you.” She raised her glass. “Alla salute di Alessio.”

  “Salute.”

  They touched glasses then drank.

  “It’s good wine.” He held up his glass, turning it to the light. “L’incanto?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s it like being in the wine business?”

  “For me it’s one of the good things about being in Italy. If you’re here in October you can join us for the Vendemmia, the harvest. Then, after it’s all done we have a big feast in the winery. All of the workers dress up in their Sunday best and come by with their wives or lovers”—she stopped herself—“not both of them, of course . . .”

  Ross grinned. “Of course.”

  “. . . and then we have a big Tuscan feast.”

  “Anna was telling me about it. How long does the harvest last?”

  “It depends on the weather, but usually a couple weeks.”

  They ate a moment in silence. Ross finished his meat then laid down his fork. “How long have you lived here?”

  “In Italy?”

  “The villa.”

  “The same. We’ve lived here since we came to Italy.”

  “You seem to have plenty of room. How big is your apartment?”