Page 64 of Unrelenting
“We don’t mind,” I tell her. “Come as you are.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” She bites her bottom lip. She’s quiet for a moment and then turns to Lorenzo. “Have you seen Gabriele? I’m worried about him.”
Lorenzo sighs. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you see if you can find the kitchen? Ask Agnesca to send a tray up for my mom.”
“Of course.” I get up from the bed. “It was nice to meet you, Beatrice.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me. She knows as well as I do that I’ve been dismissed so Lorenzo can have a serious chat with her.
Beatrice seems like a lovely woman, but it’s clear there’s something wrong. She looks fragile, and she has trouble with her memory.
I wonder what scars she bears other than the one I spotted on her collarbone.
There are rumors that her husband was a total bastard. Perhaps he beat her. People say Damiano killed him, but I don’t know whether that’s true.
I head downstairs and wander along a maze of corridors, enjoying the art on the walls. Someone has a fondness for flowers done in watercolor. I like the pictures. They make the house more cheerful.
Eventually, I find the kitchen which, of course, is spectacular. Marco is there, lounging against a countertop while the housekeeper stands at a large farmhouse table whipping up some cream. There’s a stand mixer on the counter behind her, but she does it by hand.
“Agnesca.” Marco stands to attention as I enter the room. “Have you met Lucia?”
“No, not properly.” The old woman wipes her hands on her apron and comes to shake my hand. “Are you and Lorenzo together?”
“I guess so.”
“Good.” She gives me an appraising look. “That boy needs to settle down.”
I’m not sure Lorenzo is ready to settle down. I’m certainly not, but Agnesca means well so I smile and nod anyway.
“He asked if you could send a tray up for Beatrice.”
“Yes, of course.”
Agnesca hurries back to the stove to stir whatever she has cooking in a large pot.
“Something smells good.”
“It’s a simple spaghetti alla gricia. It’s Lorenzo’s favorite.”
I store that information away from another time.
“Perhaps you can cook it for him some time,” Marco says. “Did you know Lucia runs a restaurant, Agnesca? Gianetta’s, in Florence.”
It’s disconcerting that a man I only just met knows this about me. I guess Lorenzo mentioned me. The older woman turns around.
“Oh, I’ve been there. The Tortelli di Patate was to die for.” Her comment makes me smile. Most people rave about the Bistecca alla Fiorentina so it’s nice to hear she enjoyed our pasta. Agnesca shakes her head. “I wish Lorenzo had warned me.”
“Warned you about what?” Lorenzo asks as he saunters into the room.
“That your friend runs a restaurant.” Agnesca’s tone is scolding. “I would have made something better.”
“What could be better than spaghetti alla gricia?” I ask to set her mind at ease. “It’s such a treat not to have to cook.”
“Agnesca makes the best spaghetti,” Marco says.
“She does, but sadly I am going to have to miss out,” Lorenzo says.
Disappointed, I turn to him. “We’re not staying for lunch?”
