Beautiful Things Never Last (15 page)

             
Surely Quinn wouldn’t fault me for taking off with Caroline if it meant getting away from my mom.

Ten

Q
UINN

I need help lugging the old cookbooks that Chef
agreed to
g
i
ve me rather than
throwing
them
out
back to Amalea’s place. They’re heavy and will probably cost every cent I have to my name to get back to the States, but I need them. So, Chef Baldassare helps carry them up the hill and into the house.
I push the heavy door open and he and I
both drop the books onto the solid wood table with a huff when Amalea walks in.

             
“Mi scusi,”
Amalea says. Her hand goes to her chest at the sight of Davide, and her face contorts into an expression
that
I haven’t yet seen on her.
Her full, red mouth is usually grinning about something, whether it’s a good glass of wine, licking the spoon after mixing a bowl of cannoli cream, or chatting with a customer in her shop. But right now, h
er lips purse and eyes squint and it’s either anger or confusion or surprise, or hell, maybe all of those things in one. But there’s definitely something in her almond eyes that s
creams
there’s something more between
she and Davide.

             
I stare up at the raw, exposed beams in the ceiling rather than look directly at Amalea. I wonder if I screwed up royally by bringing Chef here with me.

             
“Lea,” he says, dipping his head politely. His voice is different than it is in class. It’s
transformed from the authoritative, masculine bark, to something smooth and warm like a glass of
a
maretto. So much so that I cut my eyes away from ceiling-gazing to double check that Davide is still the man standing in the room.
It is him, greeting Amalea with that nickname in that low, sexy voice.

             
Amalea wipes her hands on the yellow kitchen towel and tosses it absently onto the counter top, which, from what I’ve observed of Amalea in my short stay, is highly unusual.
She isn’t freakishly organized like Ben’s mom, but she keeps things neat, especially in the kitchen. Amalea
extends her
graceful
hand in an even more unusual gesture—since from the day that I met
her,
I’ve only seen her do the whole double
-
kiss
-
on
-
the
-
cheeks bit with people
that Europeans are so found of
.

             
Chef ignores her outstretched hand
,
puts his hands on each of her upper arms and pulls her in, lightly kissing each of her cheeks.
Like a boss.

             
“Davide,” she replies breathlessly.
“It’s been a long time. A very long time.”

             
He gives her a simple, quick nod, but his eyes convey something much more meaningful and intimate.

             
Holy shit, this is like something out of a romance novel and I feel like a total creeptastic voyeur standing right smack in the middle of their moment.

             
“I should go…call Ben…” I say. I begin backing out of the room, but Amalea holds a palm up to stop me.

             
“Don’t rush off, Davide was just leaving.” Her eyes don’t
leave his as she says the words. The spark in his dark eyes fades and his brow furrows in disappointment.

             
But Chef
doesn’t wait to be told twice
.He
grabs his coat off of the back of the wooden chair with the pe
e
ling blue paint and
walks out the door.

             
“Thanks for helping with the books!” I call after him, but he’s already
too far to hear me.

             
“Did you ask him to come here?” Amalea turns to me and asks.
Her cheeks are that rare shade of scarlet, reserved only for the most embarrassing or infuriating times. I hate that I caused either.
Or, possibly, both.

             
“He was just helping me bring those cookbooks in.
” I motion to the normally clear table, now littered with books.“
I couldn’t carry them all by myself. I’m sorry?”

             
Amalea waves me off
.
“Figurati!”
             
“Sorry,”
I repeat, not knowing if she’s told me to fuck off or not to worry about it.

             
“I need a drink.” She opens the small white cabinet above the tiny stove and pulls down a clear bottle with a purple flower on it. She pours two small glasses of the liquid from the pretty bottle and sets one down in front of me before throwing t
he other back in one quick gulp. It isn’t the dainty, ladylike sips she normally takes of her liquor.

             
“Cheers?” I mutter.

             
I wrap my lips around the small glass and pour the liquid down into my throat.
I try to fight the outward cringe, not knowing if this small glass of alcohol cost as much as my rent or not. But it’s hard.
How can something that was in such nice packaging taste like such complete ass? I struggle not to
gag or
shake like my body is desperate to do as the liquid singes my throat and burns all the way down into my stomach.

             
“You want another?” Amalea asks.

             
“No,” I croak out, like a fifteen-year-old who has just taken
her
first swig of skunk beer. “What is that?”

             
“Grappa,” she says. Amalea cuts several large chunks off of a massive
wheel
of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese and pops a piece into her mouth. I follow suit and am so relieved to have
the salty deliciousness get to work
dissolv
ing
the jet fuel aftertaste
of the Grappa
in my mouth.

             
She frantically starts pulling food out of the refrigerator, the pantry
,
and cupboards.
She slices cheeses, shaves different
salamis
,
and prosciutto and spreads black and white truffle butter onto fresh bread.

             
“What are we celebrating?” I ask, admiring the incredible spread.

             
Amalea pours herself another shot and downs it quickly.
It must be an acquired taste.

             
“I survived seeing Davide,” she says. She’s normally the picture of poise and calm. But right now, Amalea looks a little wild.

             
“What do you mean
, survived
? Did I screw up royally by bringing him here? I’m so sorry.”

             
She shakes her head. “It’s a good thing. It needed to happen, and better with you here than
me all
alone.”

             
I don’t press her any further, but she continues on her own.

             
“Davide and I used to be lovers,” she says, rolling the small, empty glass back and forth in her palm.
I could have guessed that
, I want to say.
Still, I’m a little stunned by the candid admission.

             
“He seems like a pretty good catch.” I swipe a piece of cheese and dry salami while the conversation is still light—before I look like a
complete
jerk for eating while she spills her guts.
I envy the children that Davide and Amalea could have produced together. The amazing family-style meals that would be
an everyday staple
in that home make my mouth water just
imagining
them
.

             
“He was.
Is.
He should be happy.” She tosses her long, dark hair back over her shoulder.

             
“Amalea
, what happe
ned? I mean, you’re a total fox.H
e had to be
a complete moron
to let you get away. And here I had him pegged for a good guy.” I shake my head and cram the
last bite of
cheese
into my mouth.
Okay, the second to last one. I reach over and grab another chunk of
the
soft, sweet cheese. The flavors are so much more complex than I expected from a piece of cheese. It’s absolutely
delicious
.

             
“It’s Caciotta. Sheep’s cheese. Good, no?” Amalea stops to say.

             
“
It’s incredible.”

             
Amalea sighs.
“
Davide
is
a good man. I was the one who ruined things.”

             
A
girlafter
my own heart.

             
“Come on, you’re adorable, and you can cook better than anyone I’ve ever met.
Even Chef.
”
I say with a wink.

             
“I was having an affair,” Amalea deadpans.

             
“Oh, shizz, you were cheating on Davide?”
Classy, Quinn
, I mentally scold myself.