A Shadow of Guilt

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Gio clutched the phone, suddenly feeling panicky. If she hangs up … ‘Go on, Valentina, what is it?’

He heard her sigh audibly and then she said, ‘I need you to give me a job.’

‘I don’t have any formal training—I’ll work in the kitchen … I’ll work wherever you want.’

Gio schooled his expression, but his chest tightened at the pride in Valentina’s voice. She’d come to him today, the day after she’d phoned, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt. Hair tied back in a low ponytail. Face pale. Avoiding his eyes. She must hate this.

Something piqued his curiosity. ‘Where did you train?’

Valentina looked at him then and he had to keep an even more rigid control on his control.

‘You remember my nonna?’

Gio nodded. He had a vague memory of their grandmother, a small woman with sparkling brown eyes. She’d been at the grave that day too, a wizened matriarch who should never have had to see her grandson buried before her. Gio fought down the predictable tightness in his chest, and Valentina continued. ‘She was a cook for a local trattoria, and she was my first teacher. From when I was tiny she taught me all the basics and her secrets. When I left school I went to work with her, and then when she passed away, I worked for Marcel Picheron as a com-mis-chef.’

Her mouth twisted minutely. ‘My parents had pooled all their resources into—’ She stopped abruptly and the name hung silently in the air like an accusation—Mario. Then she looked away for a moment before continuing through the thick tension in the air. ‘They had no more money to send me to college, but I heard about Marcel’s open days when he would audition unknowns so I auditioned and got in.’

Gio remembered well how Mario’s parents had put every cent into his education. And yet Valentina had never shown any signs of being bitter about her own education being neglected. She’d been as proud as they had.

He could only imagine how good Valentina must have been to impress the cantankerous old French chef who had more Michelin stars than any other chef in Italy and who ran the most exclusive restaurant on the island. It had a waiting list of six months.

Valentina glanced at Gio again. ‘I worked my way up to sous-chef but I found that my forte was in devising menus and creating hors d’oeuvres.’

Dryly he remarked now, ‘You probably have had a better training than most people out of a cordon bleu school in Paris.’

Valentina shrugged, her cheeks going pink. ‘I set up my own catering company with two friends a year ago. We come up with menus for events, and then we hire outside chefs to come in and cook. I make all the canapés. In general I supervise everything, and step in to chef if I need to.’

Gio recalled the small part of the reception he’d seen a few weeks ago. He could remember the intricately delicate canapés, how appetising and original they’d looked even though he’d had no appetite for them, his gut too churned up to be there in the first place.

He got up from behind his desk and stood at the huge window with hands in his pockets, observing but not really seeing the hive of activity out on the racecourse. He turned back to face Valentina, who was sitting in a chair. She looked as delicate and brittle as spun glass.

‘The annual Corretti Cup race meeting is coming up in three weeks. It runs for three days with the Corretti Cup race on the last day. We provide a full entertainment package here, including a set menu for lunch every day. I’d like you to come up with the menu for that main luncheon each day, and also look after catering for the evening champagne receptions.’

His words took a minute to sink in. Valentina stood up, feeling a little shaky and disbelieving. She’d imagined Gio telling her she could work on the lowest rung of the ladder in his kitchen. Not that she could be handed the entire catering job for the Corretti Cup! Suspicious now she said testily, ‘I’m not a charity case.’