This Book Made Me Think of You(47)
Pierre: Absolutely. If you’re going to be sad, you might as well be sad in the sunshine with pasta and wine.
John: Quite right. Tuscany is one of my favorite places. Buon appetito!
Lola: Have a great trip, Tilly. We’ll all be thinking of you on Joe’s anniversary xx
The others send heart emojis in reply, and Tilly smiles to herself, slipping her phone back in her apron pocket.
“Next, we crack an egg into the flour,” comes the heavily accented voice of their instructor, Constanza, a gray-haired woman who makes up for what she lacks in height in sheer presence. Tilly is a little terrified of her. Harper passes her an egg and Tilly does what she is told, watching as a yolk so bright orange it is almost red pools into the flour.
“Now gently bring the flour and the egg together with your fingertips.”
Everyone diligently sets to work. They are a small group: There is a honeymooning American couple called Tiff and Tim (Harper had giggled when they introduced themselves before realizing they weren’t joking, and disguised the laugh as a cough), an Englishwoman in her fifties called Deborah, who announced on their first encounter that she was here as a treat after a messy divorce, and a German mother-and-daughter duo, Ingrid and Emma.
Constanza walks around, a tea towel slung over her shoulder and a navy apron wrapped tightly around her waist, inspecting their work with the attitude of an army general checking on her troops.
“More flour! Abbastanza! That’s enough! When the flour and egg have come together, you must gently knead it, like this.” She demonstrates, her movements fluid.
As Tilly sets to work on her own dough, she marvels at how the mess of flour and egg has quickly become something smooth and enticing. The color is unlike any pasta she has ever eaten before, a rich gold not dissimilar to the color of the sunflowers in the fields surrounding the villa.
“Delicatamente!” Constanza snaps at Tim, who has hands the size of melons and has been thumping his dough vigorously. A blush creeps across his face.
“Now the pasta must rest,” Constanza says once everyone has a neat ball of dough on their work surface. She puts them in the fridge, and a fresh jug of lemonade comes out and is poured around the group. It is blazingly hot outside, the grass crisp and the terra-cotta tiles of the villa practically steaming. But thanks to their position at the top of the valley, there is also a light breeze that blows in and out through the open kitchen, the slanted roof above protecting them from the sun.
Once everyone has finished their drinks, Constanza claps her hands together.
“After siesta, we make pesto.”
Harper licks her lips and smiles at Tilly. “Mmm, I love pesto.”
“You haven’t tried pesto,” scoffs Constanza, “until you have tried my pesto.”
* * *
—
After a lunch of tomato salad, fresh fruit, and crusty bread, everyone retreats into the cool of the stone-walled villa, shutters closing and a hush descending on the hillside apart from the background murmur of the cicadas, bees, and the cooing hens.
Tilly’s room is plain and comfortable, most of the space taken up by a four-poster bed with soft white sheets. She climbs into bed and reaches for the book on the bedside table, her latest book from Joe, collected last week. From inside the pages of an orange clothbound book she withdraws a letter, sinking back against the pillows as she rereads.
Dear Tilly,
I remember you once saying that poems were like medicine. That whatever your ailment, there’s a poem out there for you. I hope you have been enjoying your year of books. It makes me happy to think about these books bringing you even a little bit of joy. But I also know that life can’t all be joy (oh, how I wish it could). There are the quiet moments and the dark moments too. I wish I could be there to help you through those moments now.
The Poetry Pharmacy seemed like the perfect choice: a book of poetry prescriptions to help you when you need them. I hope they bring you comfort. And I hope that the words of other people help you to see that you are not alone.
I love you.
Joe x
When she collected the book, Alfie had been alone in the bookshop. It had felt awkward at first, remembering the feel of his hands on hers and how for a mad moment she had hoped he might hug her. But the moment passed once Tilly told him about her upcoming trip to Tuscany and he started grabbing books from around the shop that were set there: A Room with a View, Under the Tuscan Sun, Diary of a Tuscan Bookshop, Still Life…
As she was about to leave, arms heavy with her next book parcel and a whole stack of his recommendations, Alfie said in a soft voice, “It’s Joe’s anniversary soon, isn’t it?”
She’d blinked back at him, stunned that he had remembered.
“When I’m in Italy.”
“I’ll be thinking of you.”
She picks up The Poetry Pharmacy and turns to the Love and Loss section. But before she can begin to read, she is interrupted by the sound of Harper’s voice in the room next door.
“I know…I’ve told you why I…Raj…”
Her sister’s voice is tight with tension, completely different from the carefree voice she has used all day. Through the wall Tilly hears a defeated sigh that sounds very much not like Harper.
“Now isn’t the right time…”
Tilly is pulled from her eavesdropping by the sound of her phone pinging on the bedside table. Harper quietens on the other side of the wall, and Tilly feels guilty for listening in. It’s none of her business. But whatever Harper and Raj were talking about, it didn’t sound like a happy conversation.