Page 80 of The Best Worst Mistake
I do a double-take, trying not to laugh.
“And the pants?” Silas asks, raising a brow at him, half amused.
I bite my upper lip, locking in a laugh.
“Oh, those are up here with me too,” Andy adds, somehow maintaining a somber expression. But he quickly turns his back to fetch the pants.
I roll my eyes at Andy with my back still turned to Silas, doing my best to stifle a full-blown giggle from escaping my lips.
“I’ll get those both right to you, sir,” Andy adds, waving one hand through the air.
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath. “You are too much.”
“Thank you,” Silas says offhandedly, as if he’s still clueless to the little charade that Andy is playing out quite skillfully here, but I doubt it.
When Silas turns to head back to the bedroom, Andy winks subtly in my direction before pursing his lips into a tiny grin.
“Just like your dream,” he mouths, then chuckles to himself.
“You are wild,” I mouth back, shaking my head.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear,” he drawls, waving his hand into the air between us again. Then he starts whistling innocently as he grabs Silas’ perfectly pressed pants off a wooden hanger near the galley. “But, as I was just saying before that man came out here all practically naked and standing a mere six inches from you, I dunno if you’ll have to kiss this level of luxury goodbye, m’ dear. Some things just stick. Even if they don’t seem that way at first.”
“Real amusing,” I say, smiling, but still shaking my head.
“Now, do you want to bring these to him? Or should I?” He taps me on the shoulder with the hanger as he walks past, laughing quietly before disappearing into the suite of rooms where Silas is still waiting to get dressed.
Chapter 37
“That’s right,bambola,” Nonna Lisi whispers behind me. I smile to myself, dropping the raw eggs into the mound of flour piled high on the thick wooden butcher block counter in front of me.
Then I turn my knuckles over, mixing the raw, eggy concoction with my bare hands, kneading the freshly ground flour and creamy yellow yolks ever so slowly, just like Nonna Lisi showed us how to do a few minutes ago. The mixture grows slimy and smooth between my fingers so I tuck in more flour before turning the dough in on itself, again and again.
“You’re a natural,bambola,” she says, patting my forearm appreciatively, leaving a handprint of fine white powder clinging to my skin. Then she turns to Silas to inspect the pile of floury egg in front of him.
“Yours still needs some work,uomo bello,” she says to him, her eyes sparkling. Then she grabs a hold of his forearms and shoves his hands deeper into his slimy ball of dough on the same countertop, grinning over at me as she does.
Nonna Lisi’s weathered face is beautiful, as faces that have the good fortune to age during a long life built on a foundation of happiness tend to be. Like each smile has left its mark. Her eyes crinkle in long lines all the way back to her hairline when she smiles, and her mouth looks as if it’s been stuck in a permanent grin ever since she was just a little girl. I loved her the moment I saw her, and haven’t stopped smiling since we arrived at her house to make our pasta.
I watch Silas work the dough, his fingers lithe and capable, pushing into the soft mound before pulling it back from the wooden countertop, kneading it into submission with precise rhythm and skill.
Is there anything he’s not good at?
I think Nonna was just giving him a hard time to make me laugh. Watching him work the dough like that is making me feel hot under the collar, so instead, I tear my eyes away to look out the stone-framed windows. Settling on the breathtaking view of the shoreline and similar stone houses neighboring this one.
I amin love. And not just with Nonna Lisi, who is everything I hoped she would be, but with her home — the stout little house that we’re standing in overlooking a view of Italy’s infamous Amalfi coastline.
Since we were delayed last night, we came here after landing at the private airport in Pontecagnano, taking off from the tarmac in an old Rolls-Royce convertible that took us here to Amalfi for a late lunch, and then Nonna Lisi’s home. It’s perched atop a rocky cliffside overlooking the sea, surrounded by a vibrant grove of green-and-yellow lemon trees. The cobblestone walkway leading up to her house was cracked in a thousand different places with each piece of stone settled deeply into the ground, colorful and worn, like painted concrete. It’s as if the earth itself had simply grown in around them. Then, when Nonna Lisi had answered the door, I’d practically melted into the pavement myself too, seeing her for the first time.
Her face shows decades of sunshine and laughter. She’d greeted us at the entrance of her property under a smooth, stone archway. Crystal, nearly translucent, blue eyes, like two teal pools cut deep into an old leather cloth, shined up at us, ushering Silas and I into her humble abode which, like her, is weathered and worn and comfortable in every way.
I imagine we’re two of a thousand guests or more who’ve made their way into this very house, into this very kitchen over the couple hundred years it’s been here.
And then when we got to the worn wooden countertop, it was Nonna Lisi who had instantly made us feel the most at home, even more than our surroundings. It’s as if she’s anancient fixture of the room itself, surrounded by a dozen or so clay pots and bowls without a single measuring spoon or plastic cup in sight.
“Who needs a measuring spoon when it’s all in here,” she’d said grinning at me, while tapping her heart. “I’ve been making pasta in this kitchen since I was a little girl with my own nonna. And now, I show you.”
The three of us had quickly tucked ourselves into Nonna Lisi’s kitchen lined with big square windows cut into the stone, surrounded by chestnut shutters, thrown open to let the hot rays of the evening sun inside.
