4
And then, never taking his eyes off us, Chef began his descent in a murmur of appreciation from us mere mortals in the courtyard. The man definitely liked to make an entrance, even if it reminded me of Norma Desmond making her way down the grand staircase in Sunset Boulevard. Zoe stepped up beside me. “He’s coming up on his fiftieth anniversary, isn’t he?”
I was impressed she knew it. We had soft-pedaled it a bit in the promo materials, not entirely sure how that little fact would play—virile Chef, doddering Chef, hard to say—but it had got through to this leaf-gathering teacher from Chatham, New Jersey. “He is,” I said, tensing suddenly when it looked like the descending Chef nearly missed a step. “Although Chef was already cooking professionally earlier, it was fifty years ago that his secret recipe for prima marinara debuted.”
“The culinary sensation of the year,” Zoe pointed out.
When Chef reached the bottom and bounded over to his waiting fans, the noise level increased. There were shrill questions about his poor arm—“not your whisking arm, I hope,” teased Glynis Gramm, which showed me she had some knowledge of Chef Claudio Orlandini, and when he declared with what to me sounded like crackpot bluster, “All my arms whisking arms,” a roar went up from the group. Even Zoe Campion, eyeing Chef sideways, nodded in appreciation. I alone, apparently, was left to wonder just how many arms Chef had.
New questions arose. Can we see the place where that guy got murdered? Can we see the famous recipe vault? Can we see the bathrooms? The Bari sisters emerged from the main building, tucking their chins shyly, elbowing each other not so shyly. Only Annamaria was missing, no doubt awaiting their pilgrimage to the kitchen. Like an old-time vestal virgin, keeping the holy fires tended.
I corralled Manny Manfredi as he busied himself toting suitcases to the center of the courtyard. “Where will you be staying?”
“Cousins in town,” he rattled off negligibly. “Will you be needing me before pickup on Tuesday?” He seemed half interested in the possibility.
“Probably not,” was the best I could give him. “Not unless we add something to the program that requires van transportation.”
“Eh,” he temporized, “could happen. Call me.”
“Seems a good group,” I tried, not entirely truthfully. Too soon to form any real impressions. But I was hoping he’d open up and tell me about any red flags he saw fluttering. Tidbits he’d overheard, idiosyncrasies he’d observed. “Anything you can tell me?”
For half a minute, we stood in silence, each of us gazing off into some great distance. “Glynis Gramm,” Manny announced. “Nice lady.” Which told me exactly nothing. Then Manny got a bit stern. “You should convince Robert to put his valuables in your safe. He carries too much cash and flashes more jewelry than his wife.” I aahed, struck that to my knowledge there wasn’t a safe anywhere on the villa grounds, recipe or otherwise. Note: Talk to Pete. “Jenna Bond, now, there’s a sweet kid. But sooner or later Robert will catch her eyeing him, and—and—” He gestured kind of impotently.
“She’s got a crush?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. And it’s none of my business, but—”
“Okay, I’ll keep an eye,” I said, suddenly feeling like the dean of students at a private girls’ boarding school. “What else?” I asked. “Zoe Campion?”
“Another nice lady. Carries her own stuff.” We stood nodding at nothing.
Finally: “George Johnson?” I prompted him.
“Oh. Johnson. A loner. But friendly. If you told me he’s an undercover cop, I’d say sure.”
“Well,” I said genially, “back home he’s a waiter.”
Manny lifted his shoulders. “Undercover there, too.”
“I’m guessing,” I said, “he’s George Johnson, waiter at a Brooklyn bistro, here to spend some time with marinaras.” My imagination, I had to admit, sometimes wore brown lace-up oxfords with orthotics. I sighed. So, the world according to Manfredi just deposited with us two nice ladies, a flashy husband, a sweet kid with a crush, and a friendly loner. All were here almost at the drop of a hat to learn some very focused Italian cooking skills and recipes from the best.
For reasons I may never know—oddly, this was the first time I ever had this thought—marinara means something to these five Americans. Partly, I wondered, looking at our first class, what the world was coming to. I would tell no one that back home there were days I wouldn’t go any further toward putting on the old feed bag than to trot down to the corner store to buy a jar of factory-bottled marinara to throw over some pasta. Yet here were Glynis, Jenna, Zoe, George, and Bob who had just dropped a few grand to come to the Orlandini villa to make some tomato sauce from scratch.
It was not a good time for me to doubt what I was doing for a living. I had already made the exfoliation blunder.
Five sets of eyes swiveled over to me.
“Andiamo!” I called to the group, my arms spread wide in a rare Zorba the Greek moment. I worried I was setting a tone I wouldn’t be able to keep up. “Let’s get you settled in.” I broke off with a couple of wheezes. “All right?” So far, everyone was happily chattering away. Chef, with a courtly little bow, shouted, “Alla cucina!” —To the kitchen!—and everyone watched him go like dutiful little fan girls and boys. At the heavy door into the main building—where he glanced bemusedly at the arbor of lilies—he proved a little graceless with his broken wing, trying to swing the door open just far enough to wedge his body through. Finally, he worked it out, yelling one more lusty “Alla cucina!” at us, and hobbled into the building and out of sight. Not certain whether they were expected to trot after him into the kitchen, everyone turned to me.
Pete and I widened our eyes at each other.
“Chef is speaking generally,” I extemporized with a broad smile. “We see the kitchen later.”
When in doubt, stick with the program. It was Dr. Val Valenti’s watchword and it had served him well. When Manny Manfredi honked and waved as he drove the Cucinavan off the villa property, I felt wistful, remembering the day a month ago that Pete Orlandini picked me up from the train station and brought me there on that September day when the teals and ochres of Tuscany were sharpened by a light rain, and the beauty of this rather ramshackle villa struck me.
Ramshackle back home in New Jersey usually meant a sagging frame house that didn’t have much style when it was built back in the 1920s. But here in Italy there was still a sense that ramshackle was something that had outlived bombardments and sieges and abandonments and centuries of the changing purposes of fickle humans. True monuments, with no descriptions. Even ruins had style. But on that day a month ago I had pangs of aloneness. I had signed myself on to a job at this unfamiliar place for . . . who knew how long?
Today, on the other hand, I stole a look at our five newcomers who had only four days ahead of them in this unfamiliar place. For four days, I believed anyone could rise to the occasion. It would be packed with just enough truffle hunting, mushroom picking, and sauce stirring that they wouldn’t feel the aloneness. Not at all. I would hope things like the lambent moonlight and ochre hillsides would seep into them almost without their being aware, and that they would leave Tuscany feeling they knew the place. Feeling they fit in. And were right at home. After four days, they wouldn’t even know how wrong they were. And that was a good thing.
“Glynis, Bob.” I stepped over to the Gramms. “Let me show you to your lodgings.”
“Absolutely,” gushed the wry Glynis, who gamely took the handle of her roller bag.
Her husband raised a manicured hand. “Glyn,” he said authoritatively, “leave it. It’s their job to handle our luggage.” At that, he folded his hands in front of his crotch, and looked around as though he were waiting for his porter to materialize.
His wife snorted softly at him. “Get over yourself, honey. We’re here to cook.”
I wasn’t entirely sure how that answered his luggage-toting remarks, but I liked her for it. Punctuating her point, she snapped her handle into place and smiled at me as her husband said with an edge, “You’re here to cook. I’m here to let you.” He actually snapped his fingers in the direction of Laura. “Oh, Boy. You there.”
Titters and elbow jabs went around the tight little circle of Bari sisters.
Laura squared her shoulders and, with a look like she was about to fillet a fish, headed over to us. Her walk was about as menacing as any nun could make it.
Glynis leaned in. “Bob means he’s just keeping me company. I’ve badgered the man for years to come with me to Europe for cooking classes.”
“Well,” I said diplomatically, “I hope he discovers you were right.”
She waved a hand. “To be determined, for sure,” she told me. “If he isn’t selling Lamborghinis to Floridians, he’s bored.” As her appreciative eyes took in everything we passed, she added, “Don’t know what made the difference this time, but here we are.”
I murmured something unintelligible, determined to stay professional. Glynis Gramm and I started toward the barn, her roller bag rumbling behind her. I gave her the side-eye. Glynis had game, no denying, unperturbed that her husband who “let” her come was walking on ahead. He told the long-suffering Laura that the rumbling roller bag bothered his sensitive ears, so she needed to carry it by the side handle.
For the first couple of hours, all was quiet. The newcomers were invited to rest or wander the villa grounds. I tried sitting in my office, in my desk chair, at my desk, with the door open, just to foster the impression of approachability. No one approached. There was still a faint smell of lilies in the corridor, and as I fanned my office air with the liability waivers Manny Manfredi had given me, I strolled restlessly to the window, where I caught soft blue and vermilion streaks as the day headed toward sunset. Then I noticed some activity out on the grounds. Pete and Jenna Bond were strolling in his olive grove. Glynis, on the highest bit of ground I could see, almost out of range, was by herself, turning slowly with travel binoculars up to her eyes.
No sign of Bob Gramm, who was probably connecting to the villa wi-fi and checking in with Gramm’s Lams back in Naples, Florida.
No sign of Chef, but raised voices from the kitchen located him for me.
No sign of George Johnson. The man might well be the only one of the group who had the opportunity to stretch out in the room we styled the “Dante,” for a famous Tuscan of yore. Very yore. Jenna’s room, the “Puccini,” was next door to George’s. And Zoe Campion’s, across the hall, was the “Galileo.” Standing empty, the “Vinci,” the fourth renovated room, stood empty awaiting future rich Americans. Lisa Bari, who enjoys metalworking when she isn’t singing the lowest harmonies in the sisters’ new Billy Joel cover act, had fashioned small brass plaques with the room names engraved by hand.
A knock at my open door startled me.
George Johnson wasn’t resting in his room. He was standing in my doorway.
I was startled. “How did you find me?” Not the most gracious of welcomes . . . “No, really,” I went on. “I’ve been here a month and I still have a hard time finding my way around.”
He laughed. “I found a trail of nuns. They were very clear on things like mortal sins and where your office was.”
I beckoned. “Come on in, George.”
He did. For my part, I teetered in Ardis Valenti’s cast-off Gucci slides over to my desk, where I quickly put about two hundred pounds of distressed wood between this man and me. I sat, but he stood, his hands in his pockets, taking in every bit of my office. “I keep waiting to find a secret passage.”
“Ah.” I held my coffee carafe aloft. He nodded. I poured him an espresso. “The villa’s five hundred years old. It doesn’t yield up its secret passages easily.”
“No arrows?”
“Or neon.” I watched him decide to take a seat, and went on, “The only subterranean passage I know about is a short hop to the wine cellar.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. “Past the kitchen. We’ll see it, oh—” I checked my agenda. “Tomorrow.”
He sipped appreciatively. “Your doing?”
“The wine cellar or the espresso?”
He held up his demitasse cup.
I nodded. “I like my coffee too much to entrust to others.”
“Even Chef Claudio Orlandini?” His gotcha look wasn’t at all threatening.
I bit my lip, deciding on whether to sidestep or tell some truth. “Chef’s coffee is quite good,” I equivocated. Then I actually wrinkled my nose at this Brooklyn waiter. My voice dropped. “Mine’s better.” There was an economy of motion about George Johnson that I liked. No nervous movements, no distracting gestures. It made for a kind of grace. “Just my opinion.”
He made a detour. “And tonight?”
I handed him the single sheet on villa letterhead that detailed their arrival day. At that moment the voices from the kitchen got louder. The daily Chef and Annamaria battle over one or more menu items. I felt myself stiffen, wondering how to block it, when George raised a hand. “I’m in the food service business, Nell,” he said with a tolerant smile. “Believe me, I know about kitchen histrionics.”
I relaxed. “Thanks.”
“You’re from Jersey.”
I sat back and narrowed my eyes at the man sitting across from me. “You looked me up.”
“That I did. You were easier to find than secret passages.”
“So true.”
“I’m no sleuth, Nell. The Villa Orlandini Cooking School website had your short bio.” He nodded at the papers spread out on my desk. “I’ll leave you alone.” He smiled, glancing back swiftly at the sheet. “And I’ll find some cozy nook to read up on what to expect our first evening at the Villa Orlandini.”
I decided to get into the spirit. “Oh,” I told him, “that’s just what we let you think you can expect. Here”—I smiled, feeling like I had all my own secret passages—“there are always surprises.” And no sooner had I said it than I knew, with a little frisson, it was no banter, it was a deeper truth about this place. I remembered the night not even a month ago when I stumbled over the body of another guest of the Villa Orlandini. Murdered. And it hadn’t shown up on any of our agendas.
Over free time the first day, the five of them stuck together because it didn’t occur to any of them that they didn’t have to. So when on the spur of the moment I suggested walking into Cortona, all of them clamored up to me, begged a few minutes to change shoes, and I was stuck. When we headed out of the gates of the Villa Orlandini, I passed out pocket flashlights for the walk home. It was a rumpus on feet. Some tried giving trite Italian songs full throat—“When the moon hits your eye like a bigga pizza pie”—some opened up about travel misadventures, and a few tried bellowing about their Dreams and Goals.
Where the road came close to a gentle, sprawling drop-off that lent us a panorama of the Val di Chiana, and even farther away, a streak of a meandering river, it was Jenna of all people who stepped up to the edge and shouted so hard she bent over, “I don’t want to be a barista forever.” As she turned to us, Glynis commented gently, “It’s clean, honest work, Jenna.”
Jenna put an end to that with a snort. “It’s what you have to do when you don’t have a meal ticket.”
It seemed like a slam on Glynis, who cocked her head and took a step backward.
I put in, “Maybe it’s just what you have to do when you hit adulthood, after Mom and Dad—”
“Assuming you’ve got them,” she muttered, and moved to the outside of the group.
George tried, “Well, what was your major in—”
“There was no money. No money, no college, not in any real way. I don’t want to talk about it.”
When Zoe stepped up to the edge to shout her dreams and goals to this Tuscan valley, the others went with her. Jenna was left standing close to me, but when she said softly, “My dad died nine years ago,” it seemed she was barely aware of me.
Poor kid. “I’m sorry,” I said.
Next, George stepped up, then side-armed a stone out over the drop-off, like he was skipping it across a river. For him, for him, he called, just the good luck to keep doing what he’s doing.
“Cop-out,” sneered Bob Gramm.
Glynis spoke up. “I know what he means. I love what I do. I love my boutique.” She gave a happy shrug and didn’t even need to blast it out across the Val di Chiana.
Bob shoveled his wife a sour look as he strutted to the drop-off. “Penny-ante stuff, Glyn.”
She was merry. “I brought in more than Gramm’s Lams did last year.” Turning to the rest of us, Glynis went on, “Apparently more tourists would rather buy high-end jewelry made by local artisans than an imported sports car with a base sticker price of two hundred grand.”
“I would,” agreed Zoe.
“Why not both?” quipped George.
Bob raised a hand and gave rather a shopworn explanation. “Imports hit tough times a few years ago—”
“Ah.” That was me and was about the extent of my interest.
But Bob wasn’t finished. “Over two years we got rid of all the chaff.”
“Rhymes with staff,” offered Glynis, meaningfully.
“And hired a strategic consultant—”
Out of the side of her mouth, Glynis translated, “Bankruptcy attorney.”
Somebody tittered. Maybe me.
“What about you?” George Johnson put me on the spot. He jerked his inscrutable head in the direction of the drop-off. “Come shout your dreams and goals, Nell,” he declared with false heartiness. This was met with some unwanted enthusiasm, like that moment at summer camp when all the other girls in your cabin are flapping around in sixty-four-degree lake water, eyeing you, the last one to take the plunge, shivering alone on the dock in the windy gloom.
I demurred, which may be the first time ever I got to use that word. “No, no, no, this is your drop-off, your Tuscan valley, your”—here I started shoveling it—“wishing well. No coins required.” I had learned the art of airy demurrals at my father’s Ace-bandaged knee. Occasionally someone in his studio audience would shoot him a tough question, like has he ever smoked weed or cheated on his wife. It was Dad’s opportunity to deflect in a way I came to think of as shrink sleight of hand. Zoe, Jenna, Glynis, Bob, and George all nodded, just as happy, it seemed to me, to get moving toward town and the Bar dell’Accademia and a shot at some refreshments that had nothing to do with wine.
I noticed two things as I loped to the front of the group. I might not have a five-year plan I wanted to share with this group, but I could at least assume a mantle of leadership. When out of the corner of one eye I saw George unobtrusively thumb his phone, I had a strong feeling he was recording us. Out of the corner of my other eye, I saw Jenna Bond shivering alone on the edges of the group.
She might just as well have been in last year’s worn-out bathing suit on a day of windy gloom up in Canada, staring into the frigid lake water. In that moment, I felt close to her, but couldn’t tell her why. I sidled over and took her hand. “Let’s go to the head of the class,” I said, feeling only glib and small, my throat tightening up from what I recognized as my life spent saying within the earshot of anyone only as much as I needed to in order to move things along.
I could walk hand in hand with her, I thought, sliding a look at Jenna. But at the end of the day, the plunge was the only way off that stuck place on the dock.