Downstairs in the kitchen of Giardino dei Fiori, the men were already awake, Samuel sitting with a mug of black coffee on one side of the wooden table and Henrik on the other, his foot up on a chair.
‘Well, good morning to you both!’ Lara squeezed Samuel’s shoulder gently and was more than touched when he raised his hand and placed it over hers, patting it briefly.
‘Good morning,’ Henrik said, looking the most cheery she’d seen him, the remains of crinkles around his eyes as though he’d been smiling and laughing with Samuel just before she came in the door. He was still wearing dark blue pinstriped pyjama bottoms.
‘I better just head out to milk the goats, then I’ll be right back,’ she said, tying up her hair to keep it out of her face.
‘We have already done it,’ Samuel said happily.
‘Oh! I was looking forward to seeing the girls again,’ she said. It had been dark last night when she and Matteo got home and Henrik had already milked Meg and Willow, able to perch on a stool to do it while Samuel assisted as necessary. Lara had heard the goats saying hello to her—meh, eh, eh, eh—from inside the barn while she’d leaned against the car with Matteo, kissing him slowly, sad that their special week had come to an end, wondering where they would go from here.
‘Well, I’ll do the milking this afternoon,’ she said, laying claim to the job. She inspected the lump of bandaging under the thick sock poking out of Henrik’s open-toed shoe. ‘Oo! Is that your second toe?’
‘Yes.’ His cheeks flared. ‘So stupid.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Lara said. ‘Accidents happen. Now, would you like some scrambled eggs? Toast?’ She went to the fridge. ‘Let’s see. What about some fried mushrooms and tomatoes, some sort of cheese, some leftover…what is that? Lentils? And what is this—’ she opened a plastic container, ‘—bacon?’
‘Pancetta,’ they both answered at once, like an old married couple.
Lara suppressed a smile, wondering when Henrik would be leaving or if he’d somehow got himself an invitation to stay. It was amazing how quickly friendships could flourish, even between the most unlikely people. ‘Pancetta,’ she corrected herself. ‘How about I do a big fry-up?’
Samuel raised his bushy white eyebrows and Henrik craned his neck to look at her over his shoulder.
‘What?’ Lara asked, bewildered.
‘Are we expecting company?’ Samuel asked, nodding towards the bounty in her arms.
‘Oh! I woke up hungry, imagining a big Aussie breakfast with scrambled eggs, smashed avocado on toast and salmon. So get ready, lads. It’s time I shared a bit of my culture with you, don’t you think?’
Samuel looked amused but wary.
Lara closed the fridge door with her hip and carried the food to the kitchen bench. ‘You both look as though you could use a good feed.’ She clapped her hands and grinned at them. ‘I hope you’re hungry!’
With both men in the house physically hampered, Lara spent a lot of the morning cleaning, which she really didn’t mind because she’d had difficulty doing up a pair of pants this morning, all that lovely cheese nutrition in storage for the harsh winter ahead.
She was changing the bedding in Samuel’s room when she got a message from Gilberta.
We make pasta tomorrow, sì? xx
Lara sank onto the edge of the bed, thinking. She really wanted to keep this feast a surprise for Samuel, so she’d need him out of the house while the tutorial was going on. But what could she do? Matteo was back at work today and Henrik—who she’d originally thought might be the one to get Samuel out of the house—was off his feet.
Gilberta couldn’t come here; it wouldn’t work. Mind you, she probably wouldn’t simply turn up after all these years anyway.
That would be great. Is it okay if I come to your house? I want to keep it a secret from Samuel.
My lips they are solved! xx
Lara wedged her phone back into her pocket, smiling.
For morning tea, she continued to break food routines in the house and instead of serving pastries she made real English scones, taking her time to rub in the cold butter with her fingers until she had a really fine crumb, stirring in the fresh goat milk and egg and pulling it together, patting it out and using a glass to cut out the rounds. She brushed them with extra beaten egg and milk and set them out on the tray to slide into the warm oven.
This morning’s goat milk had been settling in the fridge for a while and the pale yellow cream had risen beautifully to the top. Lara took exquisite pleasure in scooping it off into a delicate glass bowl to serve with the scones. Then she rummaged in the larder and found a jar of apricot jam, though she was momentarily disappointed it wasn’t homemade—she’d been spoilt on her little tour of artisan food producers.
Samuel and Henrik had been reading in the large living area, silently, companionably, but both started to make some noises once the aroma of the scones drifted out to them.
‘What are you making?’ Samuel called.
‘It’s a surprise,’ Lara called back.
‘It smells wonderful,’ Henrik added.
‘It’s my mother’s recipe,’ she said, squatting to peek through the oven door and watch the scones turning golden.
Her family didn’t have anywhere near the rich food traditions she’d unearthed in every corner here in Italy, but she did have her mother’s scone recipe, which was probably just an everyday workman’s recipe, but still it was known by heart by all three of the Foxleigh women. Lara had even employed it as an activity to get the twins learning some kitchen skills, more to manage their boisterousness than impart family tradition. But the effect was the same, she supposed.
She set the dining table with plates and knives and the little bowls of cream and jam, then told the men to come to the table.
‘Coffee?’ she asked. She’d have preferred a big pot of tea but she hadn’t seen either a supply of usable tea leaves or a teapot in the house. Henrik and Samuel came in with their walking sticks and eased themselves into the chairs at the round table, their eyes taking in the beautiful cream and deep orange jam.
‘The moka pot is on the stove,’ she said, placing coffee mugs in front of them. ‘And I’m just getting the scones out now.’
Their eyes followed her hungrily to the kitchen, where she pulled out the tray and slid the scones into a tea-towel-lined basket, trussing them up to keep them warm and soft. This step should never be omitted, according to her mother. Eliza said she could always tell when someone had failed to do this, as the scones were tough.
Lara delivered them to the table like Red Riding Hood and then finished making the coffee. ‘Henrik, how long will it take for your toe to heal?’ she asked from the other side of the fireplace that sat between the two rooms.
‘The doctor said I should keep it strapped up for at least three weeks. It might take longer, but it is more pain management than actual bone management. Not like Samuel’s wrist,’ he said. ‘That is a real broken bone. Mine is just…embarrassing.’
‘You’re not the first person to break a toe,’ Samuel said generously.
‘And you won’t be the last,’ Lara added, bringing over the moka pot and a jug of milk. ‘How much longer do you have here in Italy?’ she asked.
Henrik looked crestfallen. ‘I can’t work at the goat farm now,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if Domenica will hold a place for me, as the dairy will be heading into some quieter times over winter.’
Lara remembered Matteo saying that Henrik wasn’t too helpful on the farm. ‘Maybe you could find a job in the village.’ She unwrapped the scones and passed the basket to Samuel.
‘I would like to stay longer,’ Henrik agreed, ‘even if I am not studying on farms. I like it here.’
‘I do too,’ Lara said.
There was a moment of thoughtful silence while cream and jam were passed around.
‘Do you eat scones in Sweden?’ Lara asked, spreading a half centimetre of apricot jam on her scone.
Henrik nodded, his mouth already full, then swallowed and licked his fingers. ‘Ours are heavier and thicker, more like a brick on your plate. These—’ his eyes widened, ‘—are light as a feather.’
‘Thank you.’ Lara beamed. ‘It’s so simple, really. Lots of people put all sorts of things in their scones, like sugar or lemon juice or raisins, but I think the scone is just the canvas for the cream and jam.’
‘They’re wonderful,’ Samuel said. ‘I honestly can’t remember the last time I ate scones, let alone ones straight from the oven.’
‘Would it have been in England?’
‘Quite likely.’
‘Did your mother make scones?’ she asked, sensing there were some memories there.
‘She did. But growing up we had food rationing, so it was difficult without butter.’ He smiled wryly. ‘My mother used to encourage us to dunk them in tea to soften them. You could break all sorts of social rules while rationing was on.’
Lara enjoyed the morning tea with Samuel and Henrik, feeling very much at home. It was a new but undeniably pleasant feeling, and again it made her wonder what the future held.