Page 24 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

L’amore si misura in piatti cucinati.

Love is measured in cooked dishes.

Italian saying

A woman in an apron sailed into the room.

Her dark hair was the first feature I noticed.

In Amelia’s website photo, her hair was long and worn in a thick braid that hung over her shoulder.

She now had a short pixie cut with her bangs feathered to the side and cute, narrow bits in front of her ears.

Her expressive dark eyes and bright smile echoed her words. “Welcome. Benvenuta!”

We shook hands and exchanged smiles.

“Your home is gorgeous! I’m Claire. This is Grace.”

“Rosie is putting together a bite for you. Gio was just updating me on the unconventional pickup and the flat tire. I am so sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It was fine,” Claire said. “Did he tell you that Grace rode the Vespa the last few miles?”

“We have two available for our guests. Just let us know if you would like to use them. Not this afternoon, though. We are still planning on your cooking class, even though the other guests won’t be joining us.”

“I have been looking forward to the class more than you can imagine,” Claire said.

Gio entered the room, gave us a big smile, and said something to Amelia in Italian. She replied in Italian, and Gio reached for our suitcases. It was decided that we would follow him to our room and then return for the bite Rosie was preparing.

Gio unlocked the door with a vintage skeleton key and pushed it open so we could enter the small room first. The best feature was the large window and the breathtaking view of the countryside that seemed to roll on endlessly.

On a neighboring hill we could view another villa that had only a few cypress trees, but they were as tall as the villa.

The warm breeze coming through the open window was delightful.

I could easily fall into a pleasant napini right here and right now.

The two beds in the uncluttered room had floral comforters with an extra blanket folded at the foot.

On top of the camel-colored blanket was a neatly folded striped bath towel.

The rest of the decor consisted of a single watercolor painting of the Tuscan landscape, a square mirror by the door, and a multicolored, hand-braided rug in the center of the room.

A small table was placed at an angle in the corner next to the window and was accompanied by one straight-backed chair.

Instead of a dresser, two luggage stands were provided.

After the gold trimming and colored-glass chandelier from our room in Venice, this space felt simple. Country. Calm. I liked it.

Gio showed us the bathroom down the hall and demonstrated how the faucets worked.

Once again, we were glad we weren’t sharing the accommodation with three other guests.

He spoke to us with a questioning expression.

Claire pulled out her phone and used the translation app to let him know that yes, we liked the room, no, we didn’t have any questions, and we would be back downstairs in a few minutes.

Waiting for us in the living room was a tray with a variety of small bites along with two tall glass bottles of water.

“Acqua minerale!” we said in unison, clinking the necks of the familiar bottles. The waiter at the restaurant on Burano had assured us that it was the best, and Amelia must have felt the same way.

Claire had fun evaluating each of the cicchetti before devouring them.

She knew more about thinly sliced meats than my brain would ever retain.

Her palate seemed to be expanding its ability to recognize new foods because she identified one of the flavors as prosciutto and the other as mortadella.

I thought both tasted like ham. But nicer than any ham I had ever eaten.

“I’m still amazed at how filling and satisfying only a few little open-faced sandwiches on a baguette can be,” I said.

“Please don’t use the words ‘sandwiches’ or ‘baguette’ when we start our cooking class,” Claire said with a playful stern look. “We must learn what all these wonderful treats are and call them by their proper names.”

“Got it,” I said. “Are you interested in going exploring? I’m eager to see the pool face-to-face.”

We wandered down the main hall and discovered that the kitchen was at the back of the great house.

Rosie and Amelia were busily chopping something and talking.

They didn’t notice us, so we didn’t interrupt them and went out the back door that opened onto a large patio area.

Four lounge chairs were lined up on the right side, giving the occupants the best view of the neighboring vineyard that rolled down the hill.

In the center of the patio the glistening water in the pool called to me.

“How much time do we have before our class?” I asked.

Claire didn’t have to check her phone. She knew. “An hour, give or take ten minutes. What do you think? Should we sneak in a quick dip?”

I gave her a mischievous grin and took off at a fast trot, heading for our room.

“I take it that’s a yes?” she called out as she tried to keep up.

Our swim was exhilarating. More than exhilarating.

It was goose bump–inducing. Neither of us had thought to test the temperature of the water before jumping in.

The pool had been in the shade all morning without the afternoon sun to warm it.

If it was heated, it wasn’t set at the typical temperature of a California pool.

For the first few minutes, we didn’t care.

Paddling around and gazing at the expansive view was enough to keep our minds diverted from the reality that our teeth were chattering.

The lounge chairs awaiting us were in full sun, each of them with a luxuriously thick beach towel folded at the end. We wrapped up like two burritos and stretched out. Drinking in the view and drawing in deep breaths, we waited for our shivers to subside.

“Grace?” Claire said with a sigh.

“I know. We’re in Tuscany.”

“Yes we are. And by the way, you sure turned into the daring darling of the day with the Vespa. What was that all about? I never would have expected you to volunteer to do that. Way to be brave and try new things.”

I smiled at the memory. “You know how you said I needed to figure out how to not be afraid? I think I found a way to do that.” I waited for her to ask about my breakthrough. I was eager to tell her the verse about God not giving us a spirit of fear and about my new note to self, “Don’t be afraid.”

But Claire didn’t ask. She was quiet for a few minutes behind her sunglasses before saying, “That’s good, Grace. I’m happy for you.”

I couldn’t tell if she was falling asleep and that was why she didn’t want to hear anymore, or if she assumed my breakthrough fell into a spiritual category and didn’t want to hear specifics.

Either way, the silence that rested on us felt empty.

I was bummed. This was something important and I wanted to share it with her.

We had experienced a handful of moments like this in our long friendship when I wanted to exuberantly and openly talk about something God was teaching me.

She seemed to sense what I was going to say and always quietly affirmed that she was happy for me but quickly changed the topic.

One time I told her I couldn’t wait to share about something I was processing in my spiritual life. She said, “You can tell me if you want, but can I ask a favor? Don’t do it if you see me as your prodigal girl project and want me to pick up some kind of message from your experience.”

I held back that day. And I held back again today.

“We better get going.” Claire popped up, kept the towel around her, and headed up to our room to get ready for our cooking class.

I followed, whispering little prayers in her wake, asking that the day would come that Claire would “go in the footsteps of Christ” and we’d both be able to share fully from whatever was on our hearts.

When we were dressed and had our hair pulled back, we reported for duty in the kitchen and donned the aprons Amelia handed us.

The refreshing splash in the pool helped keep us cool as we stood at the counter with the warm air coming through the open kitchen windows.

The website showed how they had renovated the kitchen by expanding the cozy space while still keeping the original walls.

The modern appliances and large island in the center were new.

Rosie was conspicuously missing, and I wondered what she was up to.

Amelia started our class by playing a song by her favorite Italian vocalist, Andrea Bocelli.

She closed her eyes as he held the long notes at the end.

With the cutest smile Amelia said, “I invite you to make space for passion in your life. Be fully alive when you cook and when you love. You were created to experience beauty and love and passion.”

For the next few hours, demure Amelia exuded passion as she taught us how to make the same foods her grandmother had taught her to make in this kitchen.

Her English was fluent and her accent was distinct.

Her inflections carried a touch of British English and a lot of Italian intonations. I loved listening to her.

Claire was elated with all of it.

We started with a Tuscan favorite, pappardelle, a wide, flat noodle made from eggs and finely milled wheat flour that Amelia called semolina.

In keeping with her grandmother’s recipe, she insisted we add a touch of local extra virgin olive oil.

“Only use extra virgin olive oil. Not all olive oil is the same,” she said. “You don’t need much. Just a bit.”