La Rosa Gialla

Chapter 7

January 2024

"Charlie, could you make the tagliatelle?" my father asked Charles, who looked both pleased to be given some responsible task besides washing the dishes and at the same time terrified because an entire side dish depended on him. But finally, he nodded, rolled up his sleeves, and tied the apron around his waist, which I gave him just in case. The dough consisted only of flour and eggs, and for a moment I believed that even such a culinary anti-talent as Charles could manage it. That's why I dared to move away after a while and devoted myself to making tiramisu.

After about half an hour, a loud bang and cursing in French came from the kitchen. Luca, Alessandra, and Dad looked up from the work they were doing, and all their eyes were directed first at the kitchen door and then at me. "Fine, I'm going there," I sighed, placed the bowl of mascarpone on the counter, and sullenly headed for the kitchen. "Putain," Charles gritted out as he picked up a large stainless steel bowl from the floor. A bowl that previously contained a kilo of plain flour. Said flour was now everywhere except that bowl. "What on earth were you doing?" I said angrily at first, but when he looked at me, I laughed. There was flour in his hair, and on his face, and he had the most frightened look I had ever seen from him. "Are you expecting me to scold you or why are you looking so scared?" I kept laughing. "No, I expect you to kick me out of the house and never let me touch anything here again," he admitted. "I won't do that," I reassured him and reached into the corner for a broom and a dustpan. "You clean up here first, then we'll make the tagliatelle, and only then will I kick you out of this restaurant."

"Here, and this is how pasta dough is made," I pointed triumphantly at the dough that Charles was kneading with his own hands under my expert supervision. "Now let's let it rest for a while and then we can start making pasta," I smiled to encourage him even more. He still had flour in his hair, but he looked very pleased. "Thanks for not giving up on me," he said dramatically, leaning his hands on the worktop. "It was a close call," I admitted. "But everyone deserves a second chance."

"Watch your fingers," I yelled at him as he came dangerously close to his other hand with the knife. It probably wasn't the best idea because he startled, winced, and almost literally cut his fingers off. He gave me an angry look and then turned his attention back to slicing. "Well, now make nests out of them and that's it," I gave the last instruction. Charles stuck out the tip of his tongue and with incredible concentration began to form even piles of pasta. When he finished the last one, I proudly patted him on the back. "Maybe you could change your mind about kicking me out of the kitchen, what do you say?" he asked proudly. Instead of answering, I dusted the last flour from his hair.

"It was actually quite fun," Charles declared as we all gathered for dinner. Everyone present, including little Elio, looked at him in disbelief. He didn't have the flour on him anymore, but instead, he had tomato sauce splattered all over his T-shirt, two of his fingers were covered with plasters, and I had no idea how he got the scratch on his face. "I'm starting to think you're suicidal," Luca pointed out and I burst out laughing. Charles frowned and stuffed another bite into his mouth. "Thank you so much for your help, Charlie," Dad tried to save the situation. "Yeah, it's true that in the end, it wasn't as bad as I expected," I chimed in and Charles grinned at me, though it wasn't quite a compliment.

"Do you want to sleep here?" I asked Charles as the others drifted off to sleep and we were left alone at the table. He looked at me like he couldn't believe that I really asked him. "I'd like to have another glass, but I don't want to drink alone," I explained. "If you don't mind, I'd be happy to," he smiled and I reached for two glasses and a bottle of prosecco. I poured both of us up to the brim and clinked with his glass.

"I really missed this," he said when we were halfway through the second bottle.

"What do you mean?"

"Just this. You and me."

"Don't start that, please.

"Sorry," he spluttered and took another sip.

"I missed it too," I admitted after a while and smiled gently at him. He poured us the rest of the bottle and I thoughtlessly moved closer to him. I rested my head on his shoulder and breathed in his scent. He smelled completely different from that time in Riccione, but just as attractive. He smelled like tomatoes and prosecco, like home and like a faint woody cologne, he smelled like Charles and I hoped I would remember that smell forever.