“No family?” Bronte repeated, splashing water into the cups then drawing a bottle of milk from the fridge.
Isabella shook her head. “I was adopted. That didn’t work out. I went into foster care, but moved around a lot.” She shrugged, as though admitting that wasn’t part way to killing her. Especially here, surrounded by the evidence of what families were meant to be, proof of all the love she’d missed out on.
“And you?” She pushed, not wanting the sympathy she knew she’d find in Bronte’s response.
Bronte looked tempted to offer it anyway, but then she followed Isabella’s lead. “Smaller than this, but very loud and loving. My sister just got married, so our family got a bit bigger. And Luca and I are adding to the ranks soon ourselves,” she patted her stomach, her cheeks flashing pink. “But don’t say anything, please. It’s still early. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I’m so excited –,”
Isabella smiled warmly. “I won’t mention it, I promise. That’s wonderful news; congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
The doors to the kitchen swung open and four staff members – three women and one man – strode into the room, each wearing a crisp white apron.
“Looks like the serious work is about to begin. Shall we go sing the carols?”
Isabella looked at Bronte, not wanting to be rude, but desperately wishing she could stay where she was comfortable: here, in the kitchen. Just for a moment, while she regrouped and drew breath.
“I see,” Bronte nodded with obvious amusement. “You want to roll up your sleeves.”
“Just for a little while,” she grinned. “Do you mind?”
“Knock yourself out.” She reached out and squeezed Isabella’s hand. “We’re so glad you’re here with Gabe. He seems – so different. He’s actually happy.”
Isabella’s smile dropped as soon as Bronte turned her back. If Gabe was different, the change would no doubt be fleeting – as their relationship was. Or perhaps his alteration had nothing to do with Isabella; maybe it was just a coincidence. She hoped that the latter was true – then the differences might be lasting. She wanted, more than anything, for Gabe to be truly happy. He deserved that. Seven years of hating himself was more than enough penance – not that he needed to pay any, in any event.
“Can I help you, signorina?” One of the women approached, a rounded woman with short brown hair and twinkling eyes. She spoke with a German accent, her fingernails so short they were just rounded tips of her fingers. Her lips were thin, her cheeks ruddy.
“Oh,” Isabella nodded. “I was hoping I could stay and help for a little while.”
The woman harumphed. “I see. You like to cook?”
“I love to cook,” she admitted. “And I’d love to observe and learn. What can I do?”
The woman – who introduced herself as Christel – handed Isabella a potato peeler and a large sack of Colfiorito potatoes with their distinctive rust coloured skins. Isabella peeled very happily, listening to the chatter in the kitchen. By virtue of the fact the staff were from different countries – Germany, France, Italy and Greece – they spoke in English, making it easy for Isabella to listen and occasionally interject. Each seemed to have a different role. Stavros, the man, worked on sweets, cooking elaborate pastries which Isabella recognised as primarily Greek. Christel cooked over the stove – a ragu and a soup. Anna-Maria, the Italian chef, worked at breads and Marion cooked at a separate stove to Christel, creating cheese sauces.
As time passed, Isabella grew more confident, and began to ask questions – about their experience, first, then about their favourite recipes. She confessed she was working on a recipe book and asked if they had any regional favourites they thought should be included.
When Yaya walked in an hour later, it was to see Isabella had abandoned the potatoes and was busy with a notepad and pen instead, making copious notes as each chef spoke. The appearance of Yaya though silenced the room. It was not a silence brought about by intimidation so much as admiration and affection.
Yaya inspected each station and Isabella watched, her attention to detail obvious as she lifted spoons and sampled each dish, nodding at times, or alternatively making quiet little recommendations to the chefs.
She came to Isabella last. “For your book?” She pointed to the notes.
Isabella nodded. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind?”
“I’m sort of distracting your staff.”
“It’s Christmas eve and they have given up time with their families to come here and cook for mine. Do you think I am some kind of slave driver not to let them enjoy themselves in the process?”
Isabella shook her head. “I didn’t mean to imply –,”
Yaya cackled. “Relax, cara.” She leaned closer. “Have you seen enough?”
Isabella looked longingly at the chefs and Yaya laughed again.
“Apparently not. I’ll join you then.”
She took a seat beside Isabella, the younger woman resisting the temptation to help Yaya onto the stool. Her intuition told her the assistance would be unwelcome. A moment later, two glasses of mulled wine appeared.
“My favourite,” Yaya explained.
Isabella dutifully sipped. It was, of course, delicious. Christel was watching expectantly; Isabella smiled her approval at both women.
“Why do you cook?”
The question surprised Isabella. Not because it was strange, necessarily, but because it was one she’d never been asked before. People asked how she got into it, or when she started the blog, but the specificity and contradictory vagueness of ‘why’ she cooked was new.
“I guess because I can’t not,” she said after a beat. Then she shrugged. “My adoptive mum was a great cook. It reminds me of her.”
“She’s not here?”
Isabella shook her head. “She died when I was eight.”
“I’m sorry.”
Isabella knew Yaya understood. Even if Gabe hadn’t told her about Yaya’s own losses, she felt the other woman’s compassion and affinity with Isabella’s circumstance.
“Cooking can make us feel close to people. And places.” Yaya took a sip
