she said seem more interesting.
“Well, I’m glad to have met you, and thank you for your help today,” Juliette said as she tucked her mozzarella into her bag.
“It was my pleasure, Juliette. Hopefully I’ll see you here next week.” Odessa’s natural warmth added to the invitation and Juliette felt like she’d made a potential friend. As she walked away, she wondered why some people were immediately drawn together with an instant sense of familiarity and companionship while others could be known for eons and yet remain distant. She instinctively knew Odessa was the former and that she’d be back to see her again.
She left the stall and worked her way around the market picking up artichokes here, bread there, flowers, soap, milk, tea and coffee. As the sun began to sink and the air to cool, she had two items left on her list and an aching shoulder from the weight of carrying everything she’d bought. She still needed olives and olive oil. She hadn’t seen any stalls selling either, so she stepped into a corner store with a window display touting several olive oil varieties. When she emerged with her shopping complete, the square was emptying out. She saw Odessa from afar and gave her a smile and a wave, which was returned, as she headed towards her apartment. Then she saw the chef as well, talking and laughing with other local men. She smiled, wondering about him. He seemed nice, she thought. But, as she rounded the corner on her way back to her cozy home, her contemplation ended and she returned to her new kitchen to make dinner and unpack.
Juliette woke with a start. In her dream, the car was speeding towards them and she knew she couldn’t stop it on time. She sat up covered in sweat, light shining in the window. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet and for a fleeting moment she had no idea where she was. But then she looked around the tiny apartment and a small glimmer of excitement replaced the initial confusion and emotional pain. She rolled over, liking the slightly coarse, foreign feeling of the starched white sheets. She stretched and peeked out the window from her bed and saw clear blue skies. She inhaled deeply, threw off the duvet, and stepped out of bed, pleased to be somewhere new instead of facing the same four walls she’d been bleakly staring at for the previous seven weeks. Her bare feet met the cold floor and she scrambled to the bathroom.
While she showered, she purposely shoved thoughts of the accident into a corner of her mind where she could squelch them as much as possible. Denial was her plan during her time in Italy. She hoped it worked.
Once she was out of the shower, Juliette dressed in comfortable-but-cute faded jeans and a long-sleeved casual tee shirt—her preferred “uniform” for the first day of cooking school so that splatters of food would be nothing to worry about.
Walking around Lucca the previous afternoon had been interesting. She felt like a veritable giant compared to the Italian women. She could just see her mother and her grandmother fitting in perfectly among the population of this country, whereas at home they were tiny. In California, Juliette’s five foot seven was nothing remarkable, but here it was quite tall.
She stepped into her diminutive sun-filled kitchen and put on the kettle to boil water. The strange coffee press that came with her apartment was more medieval contraption than coffee maker. Juliette spent about ten minutes trying to take it apart and figure it out and even then she wasn’t sure that it was going to work, but she gamely spooned in the coffee grounds she had picked up from the market, put them in the top part, which looked like some tiny version of an old-fashioned percolator and drenched them in the scalding water. She steamed some milk and mixed the two together creating a passable caffè latte. An unabashedly heaping spoonful of sugar made it complete. Heady from her small victory, Juliette leaned against the counter and took the first large sip, then turned one of her chairs to face the window and sat down to enjoy her coffee.
She wished she had made the leap of faith to leave her job and pursue her dream of Italy and cooking school under better circumstances, but she believed her mom would have been proud that she had either way. She hoped her mom would have been happy she’d gone to Italy alone to at least make something good happen from something terrible.
Juliette glanced at the box of letters she’d brought with her. She had been intrigued by them from the moment she had opened the lid. Juliette planned to read them while she was in Italy, where her nonna had grown up. She was looking forward to getting a glimpse into her grandmother’s past.
Because she’d woken at the crack of dawn, she was way ahead of schedule and was tempted to slip a letter out of its old, faded envelope, but she decided to wait until later when she could take her time with the Italian. Instead, she finished her coffee and blew her hair dry, then twisted it back in her standard work-style knot. She knew a few strands would undoubtedly escape by the end of the day, but at least it was secured to start. She put on a little makeup, and after eating her breakfast was ready to walk to the school. She knew from looking at the map that it was just inside of the ancient walled section of Lucca. The photo showed a white limestone building, with an arched entry. It looked to her like it was simply the first in a larger row of shops and businesses but she would know soon enough.
Juliette ventured out, map in hand, toward the address of the school. Along the way she peeked into numerous cafés with patrons lined up at the bar, sipping espressos out of tiny cups. The women were fashionable and the men were as coiffed and heavily scented as the women.
She turned a corner and came to an abrupt stop.
“Uh oh,” she murmured, because she was sure she had walked by the same street before.
I hate this about myself, she thought. Why do I always get lost? A familiar sense of panic lodged itself in her chest.
Juliette looked at the street signs and studied the map. She had thought she was on track, and couldn’t figure out where she had gone wrong. She took her bag off of her shoulder and set it down next to her while she leaned against a building to try and sort it out.
She finally saw where she had missed a turn so she started walking again, but decided to pick up the pace.
Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket to check the time, Juliette willed herself to remain calm.
What’s the worst thing that could happen? she asked herself. She might be late, but it wouldn’t be the first time and she would live through it.
Turning the corner, she saw the sign ahead for the street she was looking for and exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. One more turn and then she would be there. Checking her phone again, she realized she had seven minutes left before class started, so she slowed her pace to a casual stroll to give herself time to stop panting before entering the classroom.
As she passed through the front door she was dazzled by a gleaming industrial kitchen with two long tables—one per side, set at angles, and surrounded by stools. The cooktop was set into a counter between the two tables and had a huge mirror hanging above it, so students could easily see the techniques being demonstrated. In addition, there were a few rows of stadium-type seats facing the kitchen, to allow for larger groups to view the cooking exhibitions. It was decidedly different from the old-fashioned kitchen she had expected, but she was delighted with it. If the instruction was as stellar as the equipment, she knew she was in for a treat.
Others had already arrived, so she followed suit and chose a seat next to a woman who looked about her age. She presumed she was a fellow student and nodded to her.
As soon as she settled into her seat, the door opened again and the teacher entered. Juliette immediately recognized him as the man whom she had seen in the cheese stall at the market the day before.
She surreptitiously snuck another peek, wondering how old he was. She had a difficult time determining the age of Italians. They all seemed more sophisticated and somehow more worldly than Americans, which she associated with being older.
“Buon giorno, il mio nome è Roman Capello, e saro il vostro insegnante,” he said in brisk Italian.
Juliette’s pulse raced. She realized that she understood less than she anticipated. In an instant, she feared that the language was going to be more difficult than she had expected. She picked up the fact that his name was Roman Capello