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Chapter eighteen

Isabelle

“Hey Belles,” Mom chirps as I walk into the kitchen. I give her a sleepy smile as I beeline for the coffee maker.

“Morning.”

She sips from her own mug as I doctor mine, then turn to lean against the counter as I inhale that perfectly delicious aroma.

“I was thinking we could hang out this morning if you want?” she asks, and it’s then I realize she’s not dressed for work like she usually would be at this time.

“I didn’t have any meetings booked, so I decided to take a half day.

I know you’re going to Piatti to cook with Gianni this afternoon, but maybe we could go for a hike? ” She sounds hopeful.

I nod quickly. “I’d like that.” And it’s the truth.

I have been wanting to get out and explore some more.

The coastal mountains are so close, and so beautiful, and I know there are some amazing trails.

I had planned to go for a swim today, but a hike with my mom is even better.

After all, spending time with her is the main reason I decided to stay in Vancouver all this time.

Kai and the team went away for a long series in the Midwest two days after our night together. I’m trying not to think about how much I miss him. Spending a morning with my mom, and an afternoon in the kitchen with Paul and Gianni, is the perfect distraction.

Piatti is closed on Sundays, and we have a plan to swap recipes. Gianni wants to teach me how to make pasta e patate, and he practically begged me to show him my version of risotto alla milanese.

Since there’s not much I love more than being in the kitchen with another food lover, it wasn’t hard to get me to say yes.

“Great. What do you want for breakfast? I was going to make a veggie scramble. Want some?”

“Sure.”

We move around the kitchen easily, slipping into old habits from back before I went to college.

When it was just the two of us, living in tiny rental apartments.

We cooked together a lot back then, Mom teaching me the basics, and then letting me have free creative control when she realized how much I loved being in the kitchen.

Soon, we’re in her car, driving toward the mountains.

“So, what are you most looking forward to when you go back to Italy?”

Her posture is casual, her body relaxed as she drives, but I know Mom. And I can hear the nervous tension in her words. I put my hand on her leg.

“Mom, we don’t have to talk about Italy.”

“Honey, you’re my girl. My ride or die. I want to talk about everything that’s important to you, including Italy. You know that.”

I sit back in my seat with a nod. I do know that. Ever since I moved, she’s never shied away from wanting to know about that part of my life.

“I guess I’m looking forward to seeing the restaurant and being back in the kitchen,” I answer half-heartedly.

I can’t say the truth, that I miss my dad and all of my family.

Just like when I’m home, I don’t talk all that often about how much I miss Mom.

Even though they’re good now, and have a perfectly friendly relationship, it feels weird.

“Is the plan still for you to take over ownership someday?”

I nod, then realize she’s watching the road and can’t see me.

“I’d love to, someday, but I don’t know when that would happen.

Vito is nowhere near ready to step down, he loves that place too much.

” I smile fondly, thinking of the burly Italian who took a chance on me and gave me my first job in a kitchen.

I know I’ve more than proved I was a good hire, but I’m still grateful to him.

“But that’s still the dream, right? To own your own restaurant?”

“That’s the dream.”

We stop at a red light, and she looks over at me. “Does that dream have to be in Italy?” The light turns green, and she looks forward again before rushing on. “I’m just saying. Are you at least staying open to the possibility of reaching that goal somewhere else, say, here?”

I hold back my sigh and turn to stare out my window.

Sometimes it feels like I go round and round in circles with my mother.

We’ve had almost the exact same conversation several times before, but I know she’s hoping to get a different answer from me eventually.

We’re winding our way up the road to one of the local mountains now, where Mom says there’s a nice two-hour hike.

“I’m open to anything, Mom. But opportunities to work in or take over, or heck, even open successful restaurants are not exactly plentiful. Right now, Vito’s offer is the best possible option I’ve got.”

Mom doesn’t bother to hold back her sigh. “I hear you, Belles. And I’m sorry if I’m coming across as pushy. I just hate having you so far away. Video chats and a couple of visits a year just isn’t enough.” She sniffs, and I look over to see her eyes are glassy.

“Mom. Don’t cry.” I want to reassure her, but I don’t know what to say. It’s too expensive for either of us to fly back and forth more than once a year, and I don’t normally have a lot of time off from the restaurant.

“Sorry, honey. I’m fine. Sheesh. You’d think the hormonal mood swings would be over by your forties, but nope, they just get worse.

Perimenopause is a bitch.” She forces a laugh as she swings into a parking spot.

Once the car is turned off, she rotates fully in her seat to face me.

“Besides. We’ve had an awesome time these last couple of months, and we still have another couple of months to go.

No need to get emotional.” She swipes away her last few tears with another shaky laugh. “C’mon, let’s hike.”

Sometimes I feel like the worst daughter ever. I know she didn’t mean to, but the hike with my mom, and our conversations, brought all of the guilt I’ve felt about leaving her for Italy back to the surface.

And now I’m staring at my phone, where a text from my dad is waiting for me.

DAD: Miss you piccola mia. How is your mama? Nonna says make sure you get enough to eat. She is worried you no eat pasta each day.

ISABELLE: Hey Dad. Miss all of you too. I’m getting plenty of pasta, please tell Nonna not to worry.

I quickly attach a photo from the hike I just was on and send it over.

DAD: Bellissima. You are having fun?

ISABELLE: Yes, I am.

I tap a button to call him, and seconds later, his deep voice fills my ears.

“My Isabelle. You are okay?” His richly accented English is so comforting. It’s funny how even after only knowing him for eight years, he’s very much my dad, and I’m his little girl.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just missed talking to you, that’s all.” I rest my head on the headrest. “How are your olive trees?” I’m teasing, and his deep chuckle is exactly what I expected as a response.

“They are growing. I think we have a good crop this year.”

“As good as the year you met me?” I smile as his answering laugh is even louder this time.

“That was the best year, piccola mia. Never to be beat. The year I met you was the year the heavens shined down. Wine was never sweeter, olives were never richer. And I was never happier.”

My eyes start to feel damp at the love in his voice. “Not everyone would have been as quick to welcome a surprise adult child as you were.”

“They would be idiots not to,” he replies sharply. “You are a gift, Isabelle. The biggest surprise and the biggest blessing. We missed many years together, but we have many more to come.”

“I love you, Dad.” I sniff, swiping away a tear.

“Oh my beautiful girl, why you sad?” he croons, and I let out a shaky laugh.

“I’m not sad. Just…” God, how do I explain it? The guilt over not seeing Mom as often as I want to is always a struggle when we visit. But this trip it seems to be hitting even harder.

Perhaps because it’s not only Mom that I’ll miss when I go back this time.

“Just missing you,” I finish lamely. It’s half of an answer, but Dad doesn’t seem to pick up on that. “But you can tell Nonna that Mom and I found a local trattoria that makes tiramisu almost as good as hers.”

“Ah, she will not like that,” he says fondly. “I will tell her you find good food. But not the tiramisu. She is very secret of that recipe, you know.”

“That’s true. Okay, don’t tell her that part. But I should go, I’m actually at the restaurant now, the chef Gianni and I are going to cook together.”

“Bene, bene. You need the kitchen. It is your soul.”

I nod, even though I know he can’t see me.

“You call me again if you need to talk, yes? I can tell your heart is not completely happy, piccola mia.”

“I will,” I half whisper, swiping away another dang tear. “But I promise, I’m fine. A little homesick is all.”

“Okay. Ti amo, Isabelle.”

“Ti amo, Dad.”

We end the call, and after pulling myself together for a minute, I pocket my phone and climb out of my car, grabbing the bag of ingredients from the back seat as I try to shake off my melancholic thoughts. It does no good to wish my family didn’t live on opposite sides of the world.

The back door to Piatti’s swings open, and Paul gestures at me with a wide smile.

“Hey Isabelle, good to see you. Maybe now Gianni will stop ranting about his missing cheese.”

“You are asking me to substitute Asiago for pecorino and they are not the same, Paul!” Gianni’s voice booms from the depths of the kitchen.

I giggle as Paul rolls his eyes, ushering me in as he shouts back a response. “I offered to go to the store, you said no!”

Gianni appears, his black apron already dusted with flour.

“Because you do not understand the nuances of a good cheese, mi amor . No, we will adapt.” He turns to me, pressing a kiss to each of my cheeks in turn.

“Bella. You’re here. I hope you’re hungry.

” Taking my hand, he leads me to the kitchen where one surface is already filled with an array of dishes.

“Gianni, what is this?” I say. “I thought we were cooking for each other.”

He waves me off. “Yes, we are. I am very excited to try your risotto. But I wanted to test some other recipes, and your visit was the perfect excuse. Even Paul could not argue it was a good reason to spend the day in the kitchen.”

Paul wraps his arms around Gianni’s waist, pressing a kiss to the other man’s cheek. “And that’s different from every other day how, exactly? Now, why don’t you write down exactly what kind of cheese you want and where I should go. I promise to send you a photo before I buy it so you can confirm.”

I see Gianni’s smile as he turns in Paul’s arms and kisses his lips softly. And my heart pangs. Their love is what romance books are written about.

“Thank you, mi amor . You are an angel. Even if you have terrible taste in cheese.”

He dances out of the way of Paul who tries to swat his ass, taking me in his arms instead and moving me to the food.

“Now, Bella. While my darling husband saves the day, you have to try some focaccia. I wanted to try a new version with sun-dried tomatoes and olives on top, but it’s missing something. ”

He dips a chunk of bread in some olive oil that is dusted with herbs and lifts it to my mouth.

“Mmm,” I moan around the bite as the flavours explode. “That’s incredible.”

“Yes, yes, but what is it missing?” Gianni asks, handing me another bite. “You must help me, Bella. Your palate is the only one that comes close to mine.”

I grin at his arrogance. Somehow, it’s amusing and not annoying. He reminds me so much of Vito and my dad, heck, all of the men in my family back in Italy. Overly confident, yet still charming.

I take the second bite dutifully, this time not getting carried away in the rich taste and texture.

Instead, I try to analyze it. “Hmm. There’s a lovely balance of sweetness from the tomatoes and the tang of the olives, but yes, it does need something.

” I think for another minute before turning around and searching for what I want.

Spying the dish that holds the large grains of salt used to garnish certain dishes, I snatch up another piece of bread, dip it in the oil, then put the tiniest pinch of salt on top.

Popping that in my mouth, my eyes close.

“Yes? That is it? Salt? Mio dio. How could I be so stupid? Of course!” Gianni immediately copies my steps and takes his own bite of the bread, now with salt sprinkled on top. “Ah, perfect. You are a genius, my bella. A genius.”

He twirls me around with excitement, then brings me to a stop. “Please show me the magic of risotto. What do you need? I have everything.” He pauses and tilts his head to the side with a smirk. “Except pecorino. But we’ll have that soon enough.”

I shake my head in amusement. “I don’t need pecorino. I brought the ingredients, but I hope you have a suitable pan I can cook in?”

Gianni looks offended, raising his hand to his chest. “Bella. Must you wound me? Do I have a suitable pan? Of course, I do! My kitchen is your kitchen. Whatever you see, you use. Please.” He gestures over to the stoves that line one wall and then pivots me so I can see a rack that was hidden from where we were before. A rack full of gleaming pots and pans.

I rub my hands together in glee. “Let’s get cooking.”

“My three favourite words.”

“Mine too.”