“Two nieces. They have two and four years.” He said their ages the French way—“I have this many years.” “Here.” He took his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his photos. The one he settled on was the three of them together, both girls sitting on his lap and giggling. He was looking at the older one and grinning. My heart skipped a beat. There was so much love in that photo.
He leant over the table and pointed to the screen. “Abigail—Abby—and Alice.” “Ah-leese”, he’d said—also the French way.
“They’re so sweet,” I said, handing the phone back. “They obviously love their Uncle Jean-Luc.”
He laughed, his affection for them dancing in his eyes. “It is mutual. They are fun. Lots of energy. I am like a playground. They always want to climb all over me.” I wanted to climb all over him.
“Do they live in Paris?”
“No, Lyon. One of the reasons I try to go back at least once every month.”
Seriously, is there anything wrong with this man? I thought. Oh right, he equates love with air.
At that thought, I could feel the chance of ever seeing him naked slipping away.
Chapter 11
Jean-Luc caught me up on the rest of his family as we finished our wine. I had never met them, but he’d written about them so often, I’d been fond of them from afar. He was obviously still close to his family, something we shared. Although he got to see his family a lot more than I saw mine.
And seeing how Jean-Luc’s face lit up as he talked about them made me feel a rush of affection for mine. Maybe I would look at flights to Australia when I got back to London.
“Are you hungry?” he asked as we left the wine bar.
“Starving.”
“Excellent. I am taking you to one of my favourite places here in Roma.”
“You have a favourite place? How often do you come here?”
“To Roma? Ahh, five or six times a year.”
“Wow. No wonder your Italian is so good.”
“My Italian is okay.”
“I thought we talked about false modesty. It’s a very unattractive trait,” I teased. “Uh, do you mind if we slow down a bit?” I was having to speed walk to keep up with him—one of the disadvantages of being under five-two. There are others—many others—that I won’t bore you with.
“Oh, yes. I am sorry. I just love Roma. I am excited like a little boy, but no need for jogging,” he said mischievously. We slowed down. “I should say, it is not an extravagant place, but the food! It is incredible.” “On-kwoy-ab-le”, he’d said. It was quite sexy how he peppered his English with French words. “I always try to go when I am here.”
“So, they must know you by now.”
“Ah, oui, you will see.” He grinned down at me with that gorgeous smile of his. It was impossible not to reciprocate.
It was about a ten-minute walk from the wine bar to the restaurant and Jean-Luc spent most of the time talking about some of the dishes he’d had on previous visits to this mystery restaurant.
“They must have a high rating on Google.”
“I don’t know. Peut-être. It is very small. A family place. And we are here.” He stepped to the side of a doorway, so I could go on ahead of him, but it wasn’t clear where to go. There was only a plain door.
“In here?”
“Oui.” I tentatively opened the door, and a waft of delicious smells and a burst of Italian chatter greeted us. With his hand on my back, Jean-Luc guided me into the tiny restaurant.
I counted eight tables along one side of the narrow room. A glass-fronted display case ran nearly the length of the other wall. It was in sections and looked like the counter at a particularly nice deli—cheeses, cured meats, fresh beef, two types of fish, and bowls of chopped veggies and herbs.
It was only when I saw the woman behind the counter take handfuls and scoops from various bowls and trays and combine them in a large silver bowl, that I realised the display case was her fridge. She tossed the silver bowl a few times, then threw the ingredients into a hot pan where they sizzled. It was mesmerising.
Jean-Luc led the way to a small round table towards the back of the room, which took a little manoeuvring as we weaved between the tables. As we passed by, I snuck a peek at what other people were eating. Every dish looked amazing. When we got to our table, one of only two empty ones, I sat down with a breathless, “Wow.”
He tilted his head as if to say, “I told you.”
“Jean-Luc! Benvenuto, amico mio!” Jean-Luc stood and hugged the young man in the back-slappy way men have, then turned to me to make introductions.
“Carlo, this is Catherine.”
Carlo took my hand and looked into my eyes warmly. “Welcome, Caterina. Thank you for bringing Jean-Luc back to us,” he said, seamlessly switching to English. I loved how he called me “Caterina”. My name in other languages and accents was far better than the Aussie “Caaaath-rin”.
“Oh, I cannot take any credit. He insisted we come to the best restaurant in Roma and I simply agreed.” I can be quite charming, too, sometimes.
Carlo threw Jean-Luc a look which was difficult to read. I hoped it said, “You are a very lucky man.” “Well, Mamma will be very happy to see you—both.” He turned towards the woman in the kitchen, who seemed to be making several dishes all at once. “Mamma, indovina chi è qui,” he called. A few heads from other tables lifted—one of a very attractive woman in her forties, who didn’t bother hiding her appreciation of Jean-Luc, from me or her husband.
Mamma let out a cry of joy from behind the counter and called Carlo back to the kitchen. He was left in charge while she came around the front of the glass case, both arms outstretched and exclaiming loudly in Italian. You would have thought Jean-Luc had been lost at sea for years. A quick glance at Carlo and it was clear he was just as much in his element in the kitchen as his mamma.
The woman, who must have been in her late fifties or early sixties, was tiny—way tinier than me—Gabriella tiny, only she wore her salt-and-pepper hair very short. She was unlike the glamorous Roman women I’d been crushing on that afternoon, but with her face alight at seeing Jean-Luc, she was beautiful.
She pulled him down to her for her two cheek kisses and as big a hug as a tiny woman could manage. As soon as the hug was over, she hit him with a barrage of words, which, if the finger pointing was anything to go by, was her giving him a good telling off.
He took it well, nodding and saying, “Mi dispiace,” over and over again, which I knew was him apologising. Maybe he hadn’t been in the last time he was in Rome and she’d found out. She probably had connections. Maybe she was telling him he was too thin—he wasn’t, he was perfect—but didn’t Italian mothers always want to feed everyone up?
When there was a break in her rant, he turned her around to face me. I stood; it seemed like the right thing to do. “Buonasera.” I pointed to myself, “Caterina,” I said, adopting the Italian way.
“Mi chiamo Anna,” she said, pointing to herself and smiling. I smiled back, and she pulled me in for cheek kisses. I guessed she approved of me. She looked a couple of times between Jean-Luc and me, then nodded decisively and winked at Jean-Luc. Yes, I’d definitely passed the test.