“She didn’t say. Just suggested that Rick and Neil said not to trust the man.”
Michael turned, leaned a hip against the counter. “Not a problem since the man isn’t here.”
“I guess.”
The back door to the villa opened, catching both their attention. Ryder stepped into the living room, half-winded. “Utah has nothing on this place,” he said.
“Sparkling water and ocean breezes . . . I have to agree.” Michael opened a cupboard and removed a cup. “Coffee?”
“Love it. Morning, Meg.”
“Good morning.”
She opened the second envelope. This one didn’t have an off-island address.
My mother is a dictator in the kitchen . . . fair warning.
Val
“Damn.”
“What?”
She’d forgotten about the cooking lesson. “I-I have a debt to pay.” She glanced at the clock. She still had time for a shower. Makeup and polish would have to wait.
Without thought, she gathered the mail and rushed from the room.
A quick shower, a pair of shorts, and a little mascara, and Meg fled the villa.
Simona Masini wore an apron and already had Val’s kitchen brimming with fresh tomatoes, flour, and eggs when Meg arrived.
The scene was out of a horror movie. Well, Meg’s idea of macabre, in any event.
“Sorry I’m late,” Meg apologized as she walked in through the back door.
Mrs. Masini offered a placating smile. “I have all day.” The older woman handed Meg an apron. “Put this on.”
“All day?” Meg wrapped the thing around her waist, asked herself if she’d ever worn an apron before. Nope.
“Don’t look so glum, Margaret. You appear to be a bright woman. I’m sure I can teach you the basics of pasta.”
Mrs. Masini opened a huge rubber container and dumped several cups of flour right on the smooth counter. “We start with the pasta so it can dry while we prepare the sauce.”
“When you start with dry pasta, you’re ahead of the game.”
It was hard not to laugh at the older woman’s scowl. “I will show you first, and you will follow. Wash your hands.”
Meg moved to the sink on autopilot, did as she was told. “I have to warn you, Mrs. Masini. The kitchen and I are sworn enemies. Even my cookies come from a bag.”
“Doesn’t your mother cook? Make anything from scratch?”
Meg thought of the potted marijuana plants and the drying racks her parents used even before it was legal. “She dried her own herbs.”
Mrs. Masini wasn’t impressed. She made a fist and stuck it in the middle of her pile of flour and started cracking eggs into the center of her mini flour volcano. “Pasta is the most basic of foods. The recipe easily memorized.” Her hands whizzed over the flour, added a dash of salt, and something else. “Why are you standing there watching?” She waved a messy hand to the other side of the counter. “Start with the flour.”
Meg tried to mimic her teacher, dipped her hand into the center of her mound a little too much and realized that if she were to add an egg the thing would blow through the side like Mount St. Helens. She repaired the side of her mountain and cracked an egg.
The first egg went in perfectly; the second took part of a shell, which Meg pulled out before reaching for the third egg. Meg glanced over at Mrs. Masini, who silently watched.
“This isn’t that hard.”
The third egg toppled over the edge of the flour and spilled onto the counter. Meg tried to stop the flow with the palm of her hand only to find the rest of her mountain crumbling. “Oh, no.”
The more she tried to stop the lava flow, the bigger the mess became.
Mrs. Masini wiped her hands on her apron and removed a trash barrel. With the help of a paper towel, the entire mountain found its way to the garbage.
“Start again.”
The second volcano didn’t erupt until after Mrs. Masini showed her how to mix the egg into the flour. The third attempt was next to perfect.
Or at least a passing grade.
Mrs. Masini chatted while they cut the pasta, rolled it into tiny strands, and placed it on a rack to dry.
Mrs. Masini brought out a bottle of cabernet once all the tomatoes were cut, along with onion and fresh garlic, and handed it to Meg. “Open this.”
Meg was starting to like Mrs. Masini’s idea of cooking. “Where are the glasses?” she asked once the bottle was uncorked.
Mrs. Masini rolled her eyes, took the bottle from Meg’s hand, and poured a splash into the sauce they’d mixed from raw ingredients and put into a pot.
“Oh.” Meg glanced at the label with disappointment. “This isn’t your son-in-law’s wine.”
“He’s not my son-in-law!”
“Yet.”
Mrs. Masini grunted.
“I take it you don’t approve of your daughter’s choice.”
She hesitated. “The man won’t look at me, doesn’t meet my eyes.”
“You think he’s hiding something?”
Mrs. Masini didn’t agree or disagree. “What man presumes to fall madly in love, then leaves his intended for weeks at a time? He has yet to introduce Gabi to his family. Who are his people?”
Meg thought of her own family. “Not all families define their children.”
“True, but marriage is more than simply two people coming together. How can I approve his family if I’ve not met them? I don’t trust him.”