Selena Kitt - Letters to the Baumgarters

Both of them clearly loved food and talking about it. Gianni spent fifteen minutes telling us about changes on the menu, letting us know what he got fresh at the market just that morning. When they got into discussing wine, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I knew I had to be a mess-there was only so much I could do without a mirror.

I surveyed the damage as best I could in the little mirror over the sink, adjusting my dress at the top where my bra strap was still showing, touching up my makeup, running a comb through my hair. Satisfied that it was good enough, in spite of the flush still in my cheeks, I returned to the table to find Gianni and Nico sharing a complimentary glass of port from a fifteen-year-old bottle, laughing about something as if they were old friends.

“Salute!” Gianni offered me a glass, smiling as he raised his own and gave a popular Italian toast. “Possa tu vivere cento anni!”

“Salute!” Nico agreed, and we clinked glasses. The port was smooth and reminded me of cherries.

“I’m not sure I want to live a hundred years though,” I commented as Gianni went off to get our antipasti.

“And why not?” Nico raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t life good to you, bella?”

“Sometimes yes.” I shrugged one shoulder, glancing over at one of the other couples. They were older, in their fifties, but they still smiled at each other and touched hands, offering each other bites of their food. It was a lovely sight and made my heart hurt. “Sometimes no.”

“So tell me.” He leaned closer, those dark eyes inquiring. “What has broken your heart?”

I shook my head, glad Gianni had returned with our antipasti- cappesante, canestri, carote e lemongrass — a delicious appetizer of scallops in cocoa butter and carrots puree with thyme and lemongrass. Gianni served as waiter and cook, describing each dish in loving detail.

“Delizioso!” Nico pronounced. I just moaned in response, closing my eyes in pleasure. Gianni went to serve another table, leaving us to fight over the rest of our antipasti, and we did-down to the last buttery bit.

“You are so sexy.”

I smiled, dabbing my mouth with the napkin and lamenting the butter I lost on it. If it wouldn’t have been impolite, I would have licked my finger. “Eating here is like having a food orgasm.”

“Several,” he agreed. “That was just the antipasti. We have primi, secondi, and dessert left to go.”

“Dessert!” I groaned in anticipation. “You spoil me.”

“You deserve to be spoiled.”

“No.” I took a sip of port and looked out the window where the sun was setting, melting into the water, turning it to liquid gold. “We humans aren’t entitled to anything you know. Life is just a gift, not a promise.”

“Agreed.” He cocked his head at me. “And you’re a gift to me.”

“No,” I countered again, but he leaned in to quell my protest and I let him, as if one kiss could wipe the slate clean and I could start over, right here, right now. For a moment, with his soft lips against mine, breathing in the musky, male scent of him, I thought it might be possible.

“Young love.” Gianni put our primi course on the table. I blushed but Nico laughed, taking a bite of the fettucini con ragout and praising the chef’s skill and presentation. Gianni beamed and went on to tell him about his technique, an artist talking about his work, while I took a heavenly bite of my own primi course, a perfectly cooked risotto with two types of clams.

Our secondi course was impossibly better than our primi. Nico’s was a John Dory with a fava bean puree and turnip tops in chili pepper. He had ordered the calamaro ripieno de patate for me, knowing my love of seafood-squid stuffed with potatoes, prawns and scampi. Both were fresh, delicious, and meticulously and beautifully plated. The entire meal was an artful, luxurious experience, and I didn’t think it could get any better-until Gianni brought dessert.

Nico ordered pistachio flan, which was fabulous, but for me there was a white chocolate and basil iced mousse and a sorbet made with green apple and wild fennel. I shared it reluctantly-I’d never tasted anything like it. Gianni received high praise from us both for the night and he asked us to come back, although I had a feeling we wouldn’t be for a long while, considering the bill. I glimpsed it when Gianni brought it out along with a complimentary plate of cookies and chocolates and knew just how much Nico had spent on our extravagant dinner.

The evening was cool but we walked the streets anyway, holding hands and watching the sun set over Venice. It was probably the most romantic scene I’d ever stepped into-it could have been written in the pages of a book-and Nico’s hand in mine made it perfection. If I’d learned anything in the past few years, it was to enjoy the moments, and this was one I knew I’d remember long after I’d departed Italy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a meal quite like that,” I admitted.

Nico smiled. “If you thought that was good, you should let me cook for you.”

“I’d like that.” I swung his hand, pondering. “Of course, that could prove a little difficult. There’s no kitchen in my flat.”

“We could use mine.”

I hesitated before saying, “It’s really your mother’s, isn’t it?”

“I live there too.”

“Nico…” I sighed. “Do you ever want a place of your own?”

He didn’t look at me. “It’s complicated.”

“I just wonder about a man who’s twenty-five and still living at home with his mother.” I knew immediately I shouldn’t have said it, but it was exactly what I was thinking. And I think he knew it anyway.

“She needs me,” he said simply.

“You could still help her, financially I mean, if you had a place of your own.”

“But then I’d be paying rent somewhere, wouldn’t I?”

“I suppose.”

We turned a corner and I knew then where we were headed. My stomach fluttered and my limbs felt tingly. I wanted him-I always wanted him. It had become a constant.

“I think we feel differently about family in Italy than you do in America,” Nico said.

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Perhaps we care more.” The silence that followed his statement was telling to both of us. “That didn’t sound right.”

“Americans aren’t all selfish and narcissistic you know,” I reminded him stiffly.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did.”

He pulled me close, sliding his arms around my waist and bending his head to kiss me. I turned a little, deflecting, and he kissed my cheek, my ear, my neck, sending a white hot pulse through my veins.

“Come upstairs,” he whispered, pressing his hand to the small of my back, letting me feel how much he wanted me.

“No.” I shrugged out of his arms. “I don’t want to get in your mother’s way.”

“Bella…” He reached for me again.

“Stop calling me that!” I backed away from him, hugging my arms across my chest. “Just… please stop calling me that.”

“I don’t understand you.” He lifted his hands, helpless.

“That makes two of us.”

He took another step toward me. “Please come up?”

I shook my head, feeling tears welling and fighting them. “I think maybe we need to spend some time apart.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“I think I’m making perfect sense.” I glanced up, seeing the square of light above where his mother was peering out, looking for us. “I can’t be with a man who puts his family before me. I can’t do that. Not again.”

“Again?”

I turned away, blinking fast. I couldn’t bear to explain. “It’s a very long story, and I’m too tired to tell it tonight.”