“Oh, we’re just beginning,” Ruby said, arching an eyebrow before gliding from the room, her skirt billowing behind her.
Ariana stared after her, wondering what Ruby was planning.
Chapter 7
Rome, 1952
* * *
“I’m worried they won’t like me,” Ruby said, biting her lip. They were just outside the door to the building that Niccolò and his family lived in. He’d invited her for dinner, and they were to help cook.
“They’re going to love you. You’re an American principessa,” Niccolò added, kissing the tip of her nose.
Ruby followed him up a staircase that opened into a second level flat, where a delicious aroma wafted through the door when he opened it. Opera music from a record player filled the air.
Niccolò called out to his parents while Ruby took in her surroundings. Late afternoon sunlight poured through tall windows draped with burgundy velvet and caught with gold-threaded ropes and tassels that reached the wooden floors. Low-slung sofas and upholstered chairs gathered around a large fireplace, and a staircase led to an upper level. But the most striking element in the room was the artwork that lined the walls. Ruby took a step toward a pastoral lake scene painting as tall as she was.
“This is a stunning work,” Ruby said. Once, her mother had taken her to Dallas, where they’d stayed with one of her mother’s childhood friends who’d married and moved to the city. Her mother had taken her to a museum. You need some culture in your life, she’d told her. This oil painting could have been on display alongside those she’d seen in Dallas.
“You have so many paintings,” she said, glancing around the room.
“My father is an art dealer,” Niccolò said. “My grandfather founded the business when he was a young man, so most of the paintings in this room have been in the family for a long time. They’re all from Italian artists, but this one is my favorite. That’s Lago di Como, a beautiful lake in the northern part of Italy. I’d paint it if I could, but I didn’t get the gift. Instead, Papa plans for me to run the business with him someday.” He gazed at the painting. “The scenery is even more stunning than you see here; it’s truly a magical place.”
She peered closer. “What a sweet little village on the tip of that point.”
“That’s Bellagio. And my mother’s family has a home right about there in Varenna,” he said, pointing to a stand of palm trees close to the lake’s edge. “We often spend holidays there.”
Ruby was utterly enchanted. The artist had depicted clusters of tile-roofed houses surrounding a deep blue lake. Flowers and trees grew in abundance on green hillsides, and snow-capped mountains rose into cloudless blue skies. “It’s hard to believe a place like this truly exists.”
“It’s even more beautiful than that.” He grinned at her. “You should visit before you leave Italy.”
“I don’t think I can.” She needed to bring home as much of her salary as she could.
“Do you have to go back so soon?”
“It’s not that.” She shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed over her situation. Her parents hadn’t said anything, but she’d overheard them talking. Money was tight this year. “I can’t afford to travel very much.”
“What if you could?”
She gazed into his brilliant blue eyes and then at the painting on the wall. “I’d love to see this.”
Niccolò folded her into his arms and kissed her cheek. “Let’s go meet my parents.”
She nodded, swallowing hard against the jittery feeling in the pit of her stomach. What would they think of her? Compared to them, she was an uncouth Texan who had more experience on dusty ranches than in the cultured world of Rome. In her home, the record player would be playing Johnny Cash or Jimmy Dean, not Italian opera. Niccolò couldn’t possibly understand how she felt.
He took her hand, and she followed him past a dining room with gilded mirrors. Baroque? She was trying to learn new terms, but there was so much she didn’t know. Her head was stuffed full of new words that swirled in her mind. Every time she heard a new word, she’d write it down in a little spiral notebook she carried and look it up later. Only by promising she’d study Roman history and architecture and visit historical sites had her parents allowed her to come.
Niccolò’s mother stood by the stove in the kitchen, wearing an apron over a pretty cotton dress. She greeted her son in Italian with a hug and cheek kisses. “Mamma, as I told you, I’ve brought my friend Ruby for dinner tonight.”
His mother turned to them, and her youthful face broke into a welcoming smile. “Ciao, Ruby. What a lovely name. Come stai?”
“Molto bene, grazie, Signora Mancini.” Ruby was surprised at the warm welcome.
“No, no, no,” Niccolò’s mother said, waving her finger. “Call me Carolina. We’re modern here. Signora Mancini is my mother-in-law. My husband will be home soon, and I know he will be happy to meet you.”
“Carolina,” Ruby said. Niccolò had mentioned that his mother had spent part of the war years in England, so her English was excellent. A large pot simmered on the cooktop, and sliced carrots and potatoes sat to one side, along with sprigs of rosemary and thyme and other fresh herbs. “Whatever you’re making smells delicious.”
“Grazie,” Carolina said. “Osso buco is one of Niccolò’s favorites.”
“Ruby doesn’t believe I can cook,” Niccolò said. “To prove it, I want to make the Caprese salad and risotto.”
His mother’s eyes lit, and she patted his cheek. “Assolutamente, grazie.” Nodding upward, Carolina added, “The tomatoes are ripe. Would you bring down a few?” She handed him a basket.
Niccolò led Ruby upstairs and onto a terrace with a spectacular view overlooking Rome. “We’ll probably eat here tonight,” he said, gesturing toward a table and chairs. An umbrella stood nearby, and all around were planters and raised beds of vegetables, herbs, and flowers. “My mother loves to garden, so she’s taken over the terrace.”
“So many types of tomatoes,” Ruby said. Niccolò pointed out several, though she knew them by different names. Plump cherry tomatoes, fat beefsteaks, and ripe Roma tomatoes. A lacy grapevine and a lemon tree were also heavy with fruit.
At the ranch, her parents grew as much as they could before winter set in. She’d often helped her mother make strawberry preserves and peach marmalade. They pickled okra and cucumbers, canned fruit and vegetables, and bagged pecans and walnuts.
Working together on the terrace, Ruby and Niccolò picked the ripest, juiciest tomatoes and pinched off basil leaves, which smelled zesty and sweet.
“We use basil in the Caprese salad and as a garnish,” he explained, showing her where to pluck the best leaves before moving on to the oregano.
“You sound like you know what you’re doing.”
He looked surprised. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Not many men cook where I’m from.” But then, her father worked hard on the ranch, and her mother took care of the cooking and housework. Women’s work, her father called it. However, Ruby liked helping her father. She preferred feeding chickens over making beds because she could be outside. She’d often take eggs to town and trade for flour and sugar.