“I don’t understand how your past chose your present,” I said, wanting to make all the connections.
Fia stirred the contents in the pan and then opened her refrigerator and pulled out a container. She drew out what looked like noodles and added them in.
“Ah, but what follows will delight you the most. Do you know why Isabella de Rossi died?” she asked, tossing the ingredients in the skillet with skilled flicks of her wrist.
“She fell in love with a witch and refused to give up her lover,” I said, giving the short version of what Luke had told me.
“Precisely.” Fia turned off the burner and retrieved two shallow bowls from a shelf. “I am descended from that witch. Paulo Gasparotto is my ancestor and he was Isabella’s fiancé.”
She poured the contents of the pan into the two bowls and busied herself finishing the dishes with sprinkled herbs and grated cheese. Setting my plate in front of me, she poured more wine in my glass and set a plate with a hunk of bread in between us as she sat down at the table.
I leaned over and drew in the delicious scent. “This smells so good. What’s in it?” I asked.
Fiametta beamed with pride. “It is a family recipe. Nothing fancy.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. There are expensive restaurants who wish they had a dish like this.” I raised my glass to toast her. “Where I’m from, we use food to show our love and care for each other. Thank you for the meal.”
Fia’s cheeks reddened, and she clinked her glass against mine. “Grazie. Now, please eat.”
I swirled some of the fresh pasta onto the end of my fork and inserted it into my mouth. “Holy hexes, that is like nothing I’ve ever eaten before,” I groaned. “It tastes very earthy.”
Her eyebrows raised in appreciation. “Very good. I’ve used some fresh mushrooms I foraged this past weekend as well as some fresh onions and garlic.”
“That’s it?” I asked, incredulous that so few ingredients could create something that tasty.
Fiametta ate some of her own dish and nodded. “Good food does not need complications. And fresh is always best. If you are here over the next weekend, I could take you into the forest to hunt for mushrooms. It can be a fun game. Which ones are edible. Which ones might kill you.”
I stopped chewing. “I’m assuming you used some good ones.”
Her eyes widened, and she dropped her fork, clutching her throat. Just when I thought I felt a scratchiness in mine, she laughed at her own joke.
“I am well trained in which mushrooms are safe,” she assured me, continuing to eat. “These are amanita caesarea, or Caesar’s mushrooms. We call them ovoli. But there are deadly varieties. You do not want to make a mistake and use ovoli delle mortali. There are many in the same species that can cause sickness or death.”
“Sounds like a dangerous hobby,” I said, digging into my pasta again.
Fia shrugged. “It makes it a fun challenge. But I know which mushrooms are like gold and which ones to avoid well enough.” She tore off a hunk of bread and paused. “Would you like to see something else that will amaze you?”
“Sure.” I busied myself with finishing my lunch, washing it down with the simple but good wine.
I heard the sound of a heavy piece of furniture being moved and scraping on the stone floor. Something fell, and a muffled Italian expletive echoed in the small house. Fia returned a little breathless, holding a small box and placing it in front of me. She set a notebook down nearby on the table.
Pushing my plate away and draining the rest of the wine, I readied myself for what was inside the wooden container. A pair of hearts intertwined on the worn surface. Someone had carved letters inside the hearts.
My fingers traced the carving. “P and J?” I asked.
“No, that’s an I. Paolo and Isabella.” Fia scooted her chair closer to sit next to me. “My grandmother said this box has been handed down throughout the generations. Open it.”
She didn’t have to ask me more than once, and I unlatched the simple hook holding it closed and pulled the lid open. The interior was lined with soft red velvet, the years having worn a few holes in it. I picked up a dried flower and twirled it in my hand. A pale ribbon wrapped around some cut hair. Other random items filled the space, but I saw nothing of great worth.
“These must be mementos of their time together,” I said, starting to place them back inside.
Fia stopped me. “But there is a false bottom. There’s a velvet tag right there. Tug on it.”
I did as she instructed, and the bottom gave way and moved. Pulling it out, I glanced at the contents it had hidden. Yellowed parchment bundled together with twine lay inside. The paper on top contained a red wax seal with an emblem stamped into it that I recognized.
“These are from Isabella,” I exclaimed.
Thunder rumbled through the air, and the light in the kitchen darkened as a storm approached. Fia flicked on the light above us and retrieved the folded papers from their hiding place.
“Yes, this is Isabella de Rossi’s correspondence with Paolo Gasparotto.” She untied the bundle. “Nonna told me tales of their great love and how it was denied by her family. It sounded unreal to me until she showed me this treasure trove of history and I deciphered through her own words.”
Fiametta unfolded the letter on top and pointed at the words scribbled in ink. “It took me ages to interpret everything she wrote. First, I had to navigate her own handwriting. Then, I had to work through her language as it
