Page 56 of My Lemon Grove Summer
‘Giuseppe!’ I call out.
He’s sitting in his office, looking stressed.
‘Zelda, my dear, come in.’ He smiles when he sees me, then stands and opens his arms to kiss me on each cheek. Luca follows me in, having parked the moped on the street outside.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
‘Yes, yes . . . Still trying to work out how we can put some money back into the town’s coffers. But there is nothing. Another balcony collapsed last night, narrowly missing one of our slower-moving elderly inhabitants. It’s dangerous. We need to start renovating these buildings or the whole place will collapse in on us!’ He sighs.
‘We’ve had a few Airbnb clients,’ I tell him, ‘but they’re few and far between and they never stay for more than one night. But I brought you this to say thank you for the clothes.’ I hand him the bottle of limoncello. ‘I made it. I thought we could serve it at the street party. We’re going ahead with Lennie’s idea. Luca’s going to open the restaurant and serve gelato outside. And Ralph and Barry are going to barbecue.’
‘A street party! Excellent news!’ says Giuseppe. ‘Grazie, Luca,’ he adds.
Luca nods. ‘My father will just think I’m opening the restaurant that evening. But I want to try and help. It is good to have Zelda and the others here,’ he says, and my stomach does that flipping-over thing again and my thighs burn like they’re still on the moped, the wind on my face, flicking up bits of hair from around my helmet, my chin resting against his shoulder.
‘I think we should all have a glass of this,’ says Giuseppe. He goes to a dark-wood cabinet, which opens with a creak, suggesting it’s been some time since it’s been used. He comes back with three shot glasses.
‘If it’s any good, maybe I could serve it at the wedding,’ I say, and swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
‘It is from the recipe you found in the handbag,sì?’
‘Sì,’ I say.
‘This,’ says Giuseppe to Luca, ‘is your nonna’s recipe.’
He begins to pour the yellow liquid into the glasses, and I see him looking at Luca, who raises an eyebrow. He hands round the glasses and we raise them and say, ‘Saluti!’ Luca nods his approval at my attempt at Italian.
We all sip, and then I look at them and wait. It tastes better than when I first tasted it. It’s improved, but still nothing special.
‘It’s . . . wonderful,’ says Giuseppe hesitantly.
I turn to Luca.
‘It’s good, but . . .’
‘There’s a “but”?’ I feel devastated. Is nothing going to turn out right for me here? I can’t even follow a simple recipe!
Luca looks at Giuseppe and smiles knowingly, then turns to me.
‘This is good, but it’s not how we make limoncello here.’
‘No?’
‘Do you have the recipe?’ He holds out his hand, smooth despite the work he does in the lemon grove every day.
I take the postcard from my bag and hand it to him.
‘Ah . . .’ A huge smile spreads across his face. ‘It’s fine, but it’s notexactlyhow Nonna made it,’ he says.
‘Or her mother before that,’ joins in Giuseppe, and they are both smiling as if they’ve had a visit from Nonna herself.
‘These are just the quantities, the measures. There’s something missing,’ Luca tells me. ‘I watched my grandmother make this many times.’
‘Something’s missing?’ I scan the recipe, but the words are all jumbled up. I try again, moving my finger under the words to help me focus on them.
Giuseppe laughs. ‘You won’t guess it. Tell her, Luca. Put her out of her misery.’
‘It’s the verdello,’ he says rolling the ‘r’. I watch his tongue fall on the ‘lo’, and to my shame, I realise I’m transfixed. I snap my gaze away, catching Giuseppe’s eye.
