Page 30 of Luca
An hour later, I’m smiling and trying to take in all the sights. The air in the outdoor market is already warm enough to turn the scent of tomatoes and basil into something heady and intoxicating. The crowd presses in from all sides, tourists snapping photos and vendors shouting prices over the clatter of crates.
Rosa keeps up a steady pace, her shopping basket hooked over one arm. Paolo trails behind us in his dark sunglasses.
"Where do you want to start?" Rosa asks, pulling out a shopping list.
"Wherever you normally go. I’m tagging along."
Rosa stops at a tomato stall, and I let my gaze drift over the produce like I’m just another bored wife. The vendor, an elderly man with impressive arm muscles, eyes us like he's calculating exactly how much he can overcharge.
"Good morning," Rosa says politely. "I need tomatoes for sauce. What's fresh today?"
He shows her a basket of tomatoes that look decent but not spectacular. "These are very good.”
Then he names an outrageous price for tomatoes that aren't even perfectly ripe.
"Those look beautiful," I say, stepping closer. "But they're not quite ready."
Rosa glances at me, surprised.
His eyes narrow. "The lady knows tomatoes?" he asks.
"A little. These will be perfect in two days. But for sauce today, you'd want something like..." I scan his stand and spot a basket he's got tucked behind the counter. "Those."
They're uglier, misshapen, with blemishes, but they're perfectly ripe. He follows my gaze and his expression shifts to grudging respect.
"The lady has a good eye.”
He knocks the price down only a bit. I offer less, lowering the price more.
Rosa's staring at me now. I realize I'm haggling with a vendor like I'm at a market in Bangkok, not buying groceries as the wife of a mafia don.
But now he’s nodding at me. "Final price."
"Deal."
As he bags up the tomatoes, Rosa leans close to me. "How did you know about the different types of tomatoes?"
Damn. Sofia wouldn't know the difference between sauce tomatoes and slicing tomatoes. She probably buys whatever looks prettiest.
"I've been reading," I say quickly. "I want to learn how to make proper Italian food on special occasions for Luca."
It's not entirely a lie. I did learn about tomatoes from reading travel blogs and cooking websites when I was trying to figure out how to eat cheaply in different countries.
We move on to the herb vendor, where I manage to keep my mouth shut while Rosa buys basil and oregano. But when we get to the spice merchant, my resolve crumbles. He's got saffron that's clearly been sitting there for months and cardamom pods that look like they were harvested sometime last year.
"The saffron's old," I tell Rosa quietly. "See how it's more orange than red? Fresh saffron should be deep red with just the tips being orange."
She stops, studies my face. "Where did you learn about spices?"
"You know what? I think I've been reading too many travel magazines," I say with a laugh that sounds forced even to me. "Making me think I know more than I do. I’ll try not to be so bossy next time. Don’t pay any attention to me."
Rosa doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go.
We finish shopping in relative silence. Rosa picks out the rest of her ingredients while I try not to comment. But she’s watching me. I need to be more careful. Rosa isn’t my friend. She’s a trusted employee of Luca’s and that’s it.
When we're walking back to the car, arms full of bags, she finally speaks. "You're different than the time I met you before the wedding,” she says quietly.
"Different how?"
