Page 136 of When She Loves
By the time we finish our swim, it’s time to get ready for the cooking class. I pick out a cute green sundress, a pair of platform sandals, and a tiny white purse that’s just big enough for my phone.
When I come out of my bedroom, Mari scans me over and gives me a thumbs-up. “You look so cute.”
I smile at her. I’ve gotten a chance to get to know Mari better since arriving in Italy, and she’s the opposite of her bossy brother. She’s soft-spoken, gentle, and has an air of calmness about her. She’s easy to get along with.
“So do you.” She’s wearing a light-blue skirt, a cropped top, and a few layered gold necklaces.
My sisters appear a few minutes later, and we leave the house with our bodyguards following us. By the time we hike up to the place where the cooking class is, I’m groaning and sweating.
“Oh my God,” I croak. “A person needs to train before they attempt those damn stairs. Gem, I don’t know how you did it.”
My sister gives me a wide grin, looking barely winded. “I’m still doing Pilates three days a week. This is great exercise for the baby.”
I shake my head. She’s a fitness lunatic. I fan myself with my palms as we walk into the restaurant. We’re greeted by the cheerful owner. He leads us to the back and onto the terrace where a bunch of tables are set up with cooking supplies.
Vale pulls me to the bar. “We need wine,” she says to the young bartender. “Do you have rosé?”
“Of course.”
“Three glasses, please. And one sparkling water for the pregnant lady.”
“Let me get it from the fridge,” he says with a charming smile.
When he disappears, Vale elbows me. “He’s cute.”
“I guess.” Then I realize where she’s going with this, and I roll my eyes. “Oh no.”
Vale shoots me an innocent look. “What?”
“Don’t even try,” I tell her. “Just the thought of men makes me want to vomit at the moment.”
She laughs. “All right, all right. I’m just teasing.”
“Plus, I’m technically still married,” I say. “He hasn’t sent the papers.”
Vale folds her lips over her teeth. “How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know.”
She waits, coaxing me to continue with her silence.
“I guess I’m annoyed,” I say. “I don’t know what it means. He seemed so eager to end things.”
“Are you hoping he changed his mind?”
I don’t know what I’m hoping for. Each day, I oscillate between missing Rafaele and wanting to call him just so I can scream at him for tossing me away like I’m nothing. And then there is the guilt about Nero. I feel it the most at night when I’m lying in bed and sleep just won’t come.
The bartender reappears with a sweating bottle of rosé and tells us he’ll serve it at our table, saving me from having to try to give Vale an answer.
The menu for the lesson is simple—caprese salad, paccheri pasta with fish, anddelizia al limone, a mini sponge cake filled with lemon custard. The chef demonstrates how to do everything and goes around to check we’re doing it right. Despite our wine glasses being refilled frequently, the chef takes it all very seriously, correcting our technique until we’re all giggling.
“It’s very important!” he exclaims, showing us exactly how to roll the pasta dough into tubes.
Mari is the star of the class, and the chef constantly points out that her work is what the rest of us should aspire to. When my sisters and I tell him we’re Italian, just like her, he makes a big show of not believing us. We burst into giggles again.
Somehow, we manage to get through the class. The end result isn’t pretty, but it’s delicious. The chef brings out a new bottle of wine, accepts our thanks, and leaves us to enjoy our meal. The conversation flows easily. We talk about the art gallery Vale and Gemma are working on opening next year and the artists they’ve been meeting in Naples. Mari’s been trying to buy a painting from one of them for the new vacation home she and Giorgio bought in Ibiza, and apparently, the man’s been impossible to get a hold of.
“They can be quite eccentric,” Vale says, giggling. “One of the guys we’ve been talking to will only sell his work if he likes the client’s astrological birth chart.”
