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I held my breath, waiting to see if he would take the bait. If he would be the first to volunteer information. But instead, he raised his glass in a toast. There was a strange look in his eye, a glint of camaraderie, though I had no idea what secret we shared. I returned his toast, and we both drank.
"To incredible finds," he said, setting the glass down on the end table and rising to his feet. "And now, I think, we eat."
I followed him to the kitchen, hovering in the doorway as he hefted the lid of the Dutch oven and inhaled the steam that billowed out. "Ah," he breathed. "Perfect."
He set the lid on the counter, then rolled up his sleeves to the elbow and began spooning buttery polenta into two heavy ceramic bowls. "Never plates," he said, as he ladled the lamb shanks on top.
"Parsley?" I asked, nodding toward the chopping board, where a small pile of minced parsley waited.
He smiled. "If you would."
I came toward him, dipping my fingertips into the parsley as I went, feeling the aromatic slivers clinging to my skin. I sprinkled the parsley on top of each bowl, then glanced around for something to wipe the remaining bits from my hand.
"Vieni qui," Luca said. He reached for me, wrapping one hand loosely around my wrist. With the other, he drew a soft cloth over my palm.
My face went hot, and my arms broke out in goosebumps. "Thanks," I murmured.
He let go and reached for the bowls. "Your dinner, signora."
The kitchen table was rough-hewn and worn; it looked as though it had seen ten thousand meals or more. A cream-colored runner had been draped over it, and small white blossoms floated in a glass bowl of water in the center.
"This is nice," I said, placing my bowl on the table.
Luca was behind me, pulling out my chair. "Perhaps you will join me again, not just tonight."
I laughed. "Easy, tiger," I said. "I haven't even taken my first bite."
"Hm," he said, raising his eyebrows.
A moment later, with lamb and marrow melting on my tongue, and my eyes closed in bliss: "Okay, you win. I'll definitely join you again."
I heard him chuckle. "You can thank my mother."
I opened my eyes. His expression had softened, as had his tone. "We didn't have much," he said. "The farmer was kind. We never went without meat on holidays. And my mother could make something from very little, it seemed."
I smiled. "That sounds like my dad."
"Ah." He brightened. "Tell me."
"I mean." I took another bite, sighing at the richness of flavor. "It was nothing like this. Not fancy. After my mom died, he would make wontons."
Luca waited, his expression expectant. I thought of my dad in the kitchen, a towel slung over one shoulder, his knife slicing through fatty pork shoulder and green onions. He'd taught me to fold the wrappers, carefully nestling a spoonful of filling into the center, then dotting each corner with water so the dough would stick. Mine, overfilled, always burst in the pot.
"He made them from scratch," I said. "Every Sunday, all day long. He'd give them to the neighbors. I'd eat them until I couldn't move." I laughed a little at the memory, but something tugged at my heart. Theo had always been there beside me, slurping up wontons so fast that soy sauce and vinegar splattered the plastic table cover.
"They're precious, these memories," Luca said. He was watching me, his gaze clear and focused. When he moved his hand to cover mine, I let him.
"It's, um." I looked down at my plate, the heat of his broad palm seeming to spread up my arm and through my chest. "It's a really wonderful dinner," I finished, biting my lip.
He squeezed my hand and pulled away. "It is an honor to share it with you."
He changed the subject, but I felt the shift between us, some lingering intimacy that couldn’t quite be overridden by talk of local restaurants.
“…only in the evenings, though," Luca said. "Yes?"
I blinked. What had he been saying? "I'm sorry, what?"
He laughed, shaking his head. "Perhaps it is too late for questions like this."
