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By the time she joined them on the terrace, Santo had removed his jacket and was engaged in conversation with his son. Warmth spread through her as it always did when she saw the two of them together.
‘Mamma!’ Luca’s face brightened and Santo rose to his feet and pulled out her chair.
‘Mamma is joining us for breakfast so we must both be on our best behaviour.’
Fia kissed Luca and lifted her eyebrows as she saw the traditional Sicilian breakfast of brioche and granita. ‘You made this?’
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sp; ‘Not exactly.’ A rueful smile crossed Santo’s handsome face as he sat back down. ‘I ordered breakfast from the Beach Club. I want your opinion. We’re losing business to you. You’re going to tell me why. Is it the food? Is it the surroundings? I want to know what we’re doing wrong.’
Fia sat down. ‘I don’t know anything about running a hotel so I’ll be no help to you at all.’
‘But you know a great deal about food.’ He passed her a plate. ‘And given that my customers would rather eat yours than mine, I assume you’re in a position to have an opinion on that. I brought the menus down for you to look at.’
Fia took the menus from him and scanned them, wondering how honest she was supposed to be. ‘Your menu is too broad.’
‘Scusi?’ Santo’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are suggesting we don’t offer a choice? But choice is good. It means we can cater to a wide range of tastes.’
‘You asked for my opinion. If you don’t want it, don’t ask.’
He breathed deeply. ‘Mi dispiace. Carry on. You were saying—?’
‘It’s good to have a choice, but you don’t want to offer so many things that people don’t know what cuisine you’re serving. This is Sicily. Serve Sicilian food and be proud of it. In the Beach Shack we rely totally on local seasonal produce. If it’s not in season, we don’t cook it. We buy our fish fresh from the boat in the morning so we don’t even choose the evening menu until we’ve seen what is fresh.’ She reached across and took an orange from the bowl on the table. The skin was dappled dark red and purple and she picked up her knife and peeled it deftly, exposing the scarlet flesh. ‘It is the temperature variation that makes these blood oranges the best in the world. That and the soil, which is perfect for growth. Our customers can see them growing next to the restaurant. We pick them fresh and juice them and I guarantee that when our guests return home they will want to buy blood oranges, but they won’t be able to find anything that tastes like this.’
‘So you’re saying fresh and local. I understand that. But we are catering for larger numbers than you, so that degree of flexibility isn’t always possible.’
‘It should be. And what I don’t grow, I outsource from local producers. I’ll talk to my suppliers. See if they can cope with a larger order.’
Santo poured coffee. ‘I want you to look over the menu properly and make suggestions.’
‘Isn’t that going to hurt the feelings of your head chef?’ Fia handed Luca a segment to suck.
‘My concern is not the feelings of my head chef but the success of the business which, ultimately, is in everyone’s best interests. At the moment most of our guests prefer to eat with you.’ He handed her coffee. ‘Congratulations. You’ve just been appointed as Executive Head Chef, overseeing both the Beach Shack and the Beach Club.’
Fia gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘You’re a very surprising person, do you know that? All macho one minute and surprisingly forward-thinking the next. When you first mentioned marriage I assumed you were going to insist I gave up work and stayed at home.’
‘Do you want to stay at home?’
Fia picked up a napkin and wiped the sticky juice from Luca’s fingers. ‘I love being with him, but I enjoy my work, too. I like the flexibility of the life I have and I’m proud of the fact I can support my son without financial help from anyone. But I wouldn’t want to work if it meant I couldn’t see him. This is a perfect compromise and I admit it’s nice to have your chef helping out. I like him.’
‘Now you are working with me, which means you can take off as little or as much time as you like. But not until you’ve told me how to improve the restaurants. Try the food.’
Fia tore a piece of the warm, buttery brioche, automatically studying the texture. ‘I thought you’d be very traditional about a woman’s role.’
‘I think we have already established that we don’t know enough about each other,’ he said softly, ‘but that is slowly changing. Now tell me what you think of the brioche.’
‘It’s good. A little greasy, perhaps.’ She nibbled the corner, testing the flavour, and felt a glow of satisfaction because she knew hers was infinitely superior. And it should be. She’d worked herself to the ground perfecting the recipe. She kneaded and baked and tested until she was satisfied that it couldn’t get any better. ‘As we’re married and I have a vested interest in your success, I’ll share my secret recipe with your chef.’
Aware that he was watching her, she picked up her spoon and tasted the granita from the tall glass. ‘Elegant presentation.’ She made a mental note to review the way she served hers in the restaurant. ‘It’s difficult to make the perfect granita.’
‘It’s just water, sugar and, in this case, coffee.’
‘The Arabs first introduced it when they flavoured snow from Mount Etna with sugar syrup and jasmine water.’ She took another spoonful. ‘But if it isn’t frozen to the right consistency then it tastes all wrong.’
‘And does this taste wrong?’
‘It’s not bad—’ This time she scooped granita up with the brioche and tasted both together. ‘I’ve had worse.’
