Page 28 of Secrets of the Brother
So it had been a pleasure to learn I didn’t just enjoy cooking, I was actually quite good at it. In many respects, a well-crafted meal was an expression of art.
I looked forward to gathering up some fresh, local ingredients and making my favorite autumn dish,Cacio de Pepe. I could practically taste the rich, creamy sauce with its salty earthiness from the black pepper clinging to each delicateal dentenoodle.
After the last few days, I could use a few comfort carbs. Plus it was the perfect excuse to move about the market, quietly asking questions.
So far, I had learned that I had missed nothing by skipping out on Enzo and Renata's wedding.
Apparently, it had been a rather morbid affair. There was even talk of a fight between Enzo and Renata over her flirting with the male guests. Some overheard them yelling and Enzo was seen later with bruised knuckles.
I was also pleased to learn, although I hated to admit it, there was gossip they slept in separate rooms. A woman who sold old clothes and rag linens said her granddaughter worked as a maid in the household and she usually had to clean two bedrooms, not one.
There was also almost universal consensus that Enzo was the one who killed Renata.
The villagers seemed to calmly brush off his heinous actions as acceptable.
Not surprising, since the Cavalieris practically walked on water in this area of Italy, especially the eldest son, the heir to the throne.
But also, it had to be admitted, because neither my sister nor my parents had many friends in the village. People tended not to mourn the deaths of those who thought they were above common kindness and decency.God’s willand all that.
I pulled my hat down a little lower. I was wearing a tight black pencil skirt with a fitted black sweater. I had concealed my hair with a red, black, and white silk scarf, knotted in the back and topped with a large-brimmed, black straw hat. I had completed the look with a pair of large, dark glasses that obscured the top half of my face.
If anyone recognized me as Bianca Moretti in the midst of the bustling market crowd, no one said so.
Adjusting the soft wicker handles of my market basket on my forearm, I headed to the market stall sellingporchettasandwiches.
I had always loved the simplicity of the pork, slow roasted with savory fennel seeds, sage, and rosemary and served on a small roll. With its crispy edges and salty, anise flavor, it was a taste of home and the ultimate street food.
The popular New York hot dog, which spent who knew how long bobbing about in a foul-smelling soup of tepid water before being placed on a bland white flour roll and covered with sugary tomato paste and raw onions, didn’t even come close in my opinion.
Seeming to wait patiently for my turn, I watched skewers ofarrosticinisizzling over an open flame while I stood slightly behind the other customers to listen in on their conversations, hoping to glean some information or gossip.
Dios mio!
I was shoved so violently from behind I lurched forward.
With the market basket blocking my arms, I was unable to raise them in time to prevent my falling face-first onto the hot grill surface.
Time seemed to slow as the hot, glowing coals inched closer to my face, their radiating heat scorching my neck and cheeks.
My sunglasses fell off onto the grill. I could smell melting plastic and smoke as the brim of my hat caught fire.
At the last possible second, a strong arm swept across my shoulders and pulled me back.
I was spun around, and powerful hands gripped my upper arms. A man swept the burning hat off my head.
“Are you okay?”
I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I swayed as I dropped my market basket. The contents spilling out onto the smooth cobblestones to be trampled under the onlookers' feet. The terror of the near miss caused the blood to pound a harsh cadence of a drumbeat in my ears.
I stared up at him, trying to focus. The bright sunshine was at his back, throwing his tall frame into shadow.
He placed his hands on my face. “Answer me, beautiful. Is English better? Do you not speak Italian?”
I blinked several times. How odd, he thought I was a tourist. Slowly, rational thought was fighting through my startled near-death fog. I nodded.
He lifted his head. “Stand back, give the lady some room to breathe,” he commanded in an authoritative voice.
He released his grip on my face and I swayed slightly.
