‘There are two types of zucchini flower,’ Elena explained. ‘The male and the female. You must use the male flowers for this dish.’
Lucy wiped some batter from the corner of her mouth. ‘How can you tell the difference?’
‘The male has a stem with a yellow flower. The female has a stem attached to a small vegetable. They must be picked early in the morning, before the flower opens, and cooked on the same day you buy. These were picked this morning.’
Looking at the sumptuous, mouth-watering dish before her, Lucy felt like a child in a sweet shop, not knowing what to try next. The bright colours, flavours and textures of bruschetta, bakedarancini, artichoke hearts, anchovies, roasted red and yellow peppers, stuffed olives and sun-dried tomatoes were irresistible, crying out to be drooled over, tasted and appreciated. Never before had she felt such sensual pleasure in the look, the feel and the smell of such simple ingredients.
And so Lucy’s love affair with Italian food and wine began. She wanted to get to know it better, its origins, its creativity. Was the amazing taste of the sea bass heightened by the fact that she had hauled it up from the little boat, driven by the weather-beaten Luigi who had caught the fish moments before? Did knowing thezucchini flowers had been freshly plucked in the early hours of that day and that the cheese was produced in the family’s factory, give the dish extra character? She was no wine connoisseur, but the grapes being indigenous to the slopes of brooding Vesuvius added a hint of mystery to every mouthful. Here, food and wine had a backstory, something that had been sadly lacking in Lucy’s weekly online Tesco shop she’d shared with her parents.
‘In Italy we say “a tavola non si invecchia”.’Elena put down her napkin and lit a candle. ‘This mean “with good friends and family at the table you do not grow old”.’
With that, she turned her head away, swallowed hard, took a tissue from her apron pocket and quickly dabbed her eyes.
Lucy gingerly touched her arm. ‘Are you okay?’
Elena turned to face Lucy, eyes brimming with tears. ‘I was waiting until I felt stronger to tell you something, something which…’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t want to tell you before, because I didn’t want you to feel you were entering a house of sadness. Naples is such a vibrant, crazy city and I want you to feel happy here, free from care.’
Lucy looked searchingly into Elena’s watery, melancholic eyes.
‘You may be wondering where is Stefano’s father, my husband, Giancarlo.’ Elena drew a shaky breath. ‘We had been married nearly seventeen years and we were so happy.’
As she described the horrific night that had changed their lives forever, her tears spilled over and Lucy’s eyes too began to water. She gently laid her hand on Elena’s.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Emotion lurked in her voice. ‘Life can be so unpredictable and unfair. But you don’t have to worry about protecting me. I’m glad you told me, and though you don’t know me very well, I am here for you if you want to talk about it some more. Giancarlo sounds an amazing man, and I’d love to hear moreabout him, but only when you feel ready. And if you need time alone or to go out with your friends, I’m always happy to look after Harry Potter.’
‘Grazie,Lucy. I believe Giancarlo sent you to us.’ Elena smiled through her tears. ‘Now, let’s have some more wine and toastla dolce vita.’
‘I have something to tell you too,’ said Lucy. ‘The story of what led me here.’
Chapter Seven
Elena waved as the sky-blue Vespa spluttered up the hill, leaving a trail of dust behind it.
Being a Sunday the schools were closed, so now that Dario and Stefano had left for a kickabout and pre-match picnic, Elena and Lucy drove into the city. It felt more serene today, less frenetic. Chinks of sunlight peeked through the tall, close-packed buildings onto the narrow, dusty streets. Church bells rang out as young parents, pushing unwieldy buggies, scrubbed-faced children in tow, weaved their way past elderly townsfolk, arm in arm, dressed in their Sunday best on their way to Mass.
Elena parked up and they walked the short distance to the basilica. There, in the shadow of the church doorway, purple cassock fluttering in the gentle breeze, was Italy’s answer toFleabag’s Hot Priest.
‘Benvenuta,Elena,’he said, arms wide, his broad smile exposing gleaming white teeth. He then bowed his head, clasped her hands and whispered a few solemn words.
Elena nodded, flicking away a rogue tear. ‘And this is Lucy, our new English language teacher. Lucy, this is PadrePaolo.’
‘You are very welcome in our church,’ he said in his to-die-foraccent. Lucy’s lips stuck to her teeth as she attempted a smile, and with her knees about to buckle, she found herself giving a little curtsey. As she straightened up, their eyes locked momentarily. Her heart speeded up.
‘Scusi,’ he said, dashing to the aid of an old man wheezing and wobbling his way up the steps.
Lucy found the drop in temperature inside the church a godsend.
The two women each lit a slim, tapered candle and placed them in the tray of sand. Elena bowed her head, crossed herself and murmured a prayer. Lucy quietly asked God to watch over Elena and Stefano, and to forgive her for having had flirtatious thoughts about a man of the cloth.
They took their places in a pew near the front, Elena nodding and smiling to various members of the congregation.
‘Who is Santa Maria della Neve?’ Lucy whispered, studying her order of service.
‘She is Our Lady of Snow. Her statue was found in the sea on fifth August in the fourteenth century. It is believed she blocked the lava from Vesuvius when it erupted in 1822.Allora,every year the fishermen carry her from the harbour through the town, so we may give thanks.’
‘Such a beautiful story.’ Lucy sighed, studying the ornate ceiling. Perhaps because it was all new to her, but everything in Naples seemed to be steeped in mystery, fascinating history and tradition. Were the roles reversed, what could she tell Elena about her hometown? That Robert Burns, a famous poet, was born there, that his most revered work involved a drunken man’s dream of witches pulling off his horse’s tail, that Scotland’s national dish is made from the liver, heart and lungs of a sheep, and burly men in skirts toss heavy poles for sport? Hmm. These stories didn’t have quite the same ring of romance and mystery, did they?
‘Nel nome del Padre e del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,’began Padre Paolo, his come-to-bed eyes raised heavenwards, the sea of candles before him highlighting a small vertical scar which bisected his left eyebrow. Lucy found herself wondering what had caused the injury. Perhaps he’d heroically rescued a child from a vicious dog, or a pensioner from a group of opportunist thieves.
