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‘Hmm... What do you think? The duck sounds amazing—especially with the crushed pink peppercorns—but I’m not sure about adding cilantro in as well. But it could work. The starters look good too—though, again, I’m still not sure about fusion recipes.’
A small gurgle of laughter interrupted him and he glanced across at her.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t have you down as a food buff. The lumberjack look didn’t make me think gourmet.’
‘I’m a man of many surprises.’
In truth, food was important to him—a result of his childhood. Alphonse’s toughening up regime had meant rationed food, and the clichéd bread and water diet had been a regular feature. His stomach panged in sudden memory of the gnaw of hunger, the doughy texture of the bread on his tongue as he tried to savour each nibble. He’d summoned up imaginary feasts, used his mind to conjure a cacophony of tastes and smells and textures. Vowed that one day he’d make those banquets real.
Whoa. Time to turn the memory tap off. Clearly his repressed memory banks had sprung a leak—one he intended to dam up right now.
The arrival of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and once they’d both ordered he focused on Holly. Her cerulean eyes were fringed by impossibly long dark lashes that contrasted with the corn-gold of her hair.
‘And do you cook? Or just appreciate others’ cooking?’ she asked.
‘I can cook, but I’m not an expert. When I have time I enjoy it. What about you?’
Holly grimaced. ‘I can cook too, but I’m not inspired at all. I am a strict by-the-recipe girl. I wish I enjoyed it more, but I’ve always found it quite stressful.’ Discomfort creased her forehead for a second, as if she regretted the words, and she looked down. ‘Anyway, today I don’t need to cook.’
For a stupid moment he wanted to probe, wanted to question the reason for that sudden flitting of sadness across her face.
Focus on the goal here, Petrelli.
He leant forward. ‘If you accept my offer of a deal you could eat out every day. You need never touch a saucepan again.’
‘Nice try, but no thanks. I’ll soldier on. Truly, Stefan, nothing you offer me can top the idea of presenting Il Boschetto di Sole to my father.’
‘That’s the plan?’
‘Yup.’
‘You’ll sign it over lock, stock and barrel?’
‘Yup.’
‘But that’s nuts. Why hand over control?’ The very idea gave him a sense of queasiness.
‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’
‘If Roberto Bianchi had wanted your father to have the grove he’d have left it to him.’
Something that looked remarkably like guilt crossed her face as she shook her head. ‘My father has given his life to Il Boschetto di Sole—I could never ask him to work for me. I respect him too much. If the Romanos are to own the grove then it will be done properly. Traditionally.’
‘Pah!’ The noise he’d emitted hopefully conveyed his feelings. ‘Tradition? You will hand over control because of tradition?’
‘What is so wrong with that? Just because you have decided to turn your back on tradition it doesn’t mean that’s the right thing to do.’
His turn to hide the physical impact he felt at her words—at the knowledge that Holly, like the rest of Lycander, had judged him and found him wanting.
No doubt she believed the propaganda and lies Alphonse had spread and Stefan hadn’t refuted. Because in truth he’d welcomed it all. To him it had put him in the same camp as his mother, had made the guilt at his failure a little less.
‘So you believe that just because something is traditional it is right?’
‘I didn’t say that. But I believe history and tradition are important.’
‘History is a great thing to learn from, but it doesn’t have to be repeated. It is progress that is important—and if you don’t change you can’t progress. What if the inventor of the wheel had decided not to bother because traditionally people travelled by foot or on horseback? What about appalling traditions like slavery?’
