Dimi had promised to keep an eye on Gemma for him, fate had stepped in to change Dimi’s life, too. The day that Vincenzo’s father had gone on a rampage over his disappearance and had searched the countryside for him with the help of Dimi’s father and the police, Dimi had realized the danger in staying at the castello. That very morning he’d left with his mother and taken her to her family’s property in Milan, where they’d be safe and out of the way.
On his own, Dimi had searched for Gemma, but that path had led nowhere, either.
The thought filled Vincenzo with such profound sadness, gripping him to the point he couldn’t throw it off. Echoes and whispers from a time when he’d known real happiness with Gemma haunted him and made his disconnect with the past even more heart wrenching.
His friends looked up when he entered. They must have heard his footsteps on the intricate pattern of inlaid wood flooring. Before he sat down at the oval table, Vincenzo’s silvery-gray eyes—a trait of the Gagliardi men—glanced at the wood nymphs painted on the ornate ceiling.
Twenty-eight-year-old Vincenzo found them as fascinating now as he’d done as a little boy. One of them had always been of particular interest, because Gemma could have been the subject the artist had painted.
“Mi dispiace essere in ritardo. I was on the phone with Annette.”
The savvy real estate woman he’d been involved with before leaving New York had wanted to plan her vacation to be with him for the opening. Deep down he knew she was hoping for a permanent arrangement. But since Vincenzo had stepped on Italian soil, memories of Gemma had had a stranglehold on him. He knew he wasn’t ready to live with anyone, let alone get married.
Maybe after the opening he’d be able to relax and give it more thought. He enjoyed Annette more than any woman in a long time. But he had work to do and had told her he would call her back when he had more time to talk. The disappointment in her voice when he said he had to hang up because he was late for a business dinner spoke volumes. It was the truth.
Cesare smiled at him. “Non c’e problema.”
Greek-born Takis grunted. “Maybe not for you, Cesare, but I didn’t eat lunch on purpose, and now I’m famished.”
Vincenzo nodded. “I held back, too. Tonight is the night we make decisions that will spell the success or failure of our business venture. Let’s get started.”
“Just so you know, a fourth pastry chef applicant has created a sampling of desserts for us this evening.”
“A fourth?” Vincenzo frowned. “I thought we were through with the vetting process.”
“I thought so, too, but this one came in at the last minute yesterday with amazing credentials, and I decided to take a chance.”
Takis groaned. “So we have to eat two sets of desserts?”
“That’s right, so don’t eat too much of any one thing,” Cesare cautioned them.
On that note Vincenzo used his cell phone to ring for dinner. Tonight was the final night in their search to find the perfect executive chef and executive pastry chef for their adventure. The right choices would put them on the map as one of the most sought-after resorts in the world.
They’d narrowed the collection of applicants down to three in one category and now four in the other, but they were cutting it close. In one month they would be opening the doors and everything would have to be ready.
Their recently hired maître d’, Cosimo, came up on the newly installed elevator and wheeled in a cart from the kitchen with their dinner. If tonight’s food was anything like the other two nights, they were in for a very difficult time choosing the best of the best. The battle between the finalists was fierce.
For the next half hour they sampled and discussed the main course and made the decision that the French applicant would become their executive chef.
With that accomplished, Vincenzo rang for the desserts. Cosimo brought in the tray of delicious offerings from the third pastry chef.
“Remember,” Cesare reminded them, “we have one more round of desserts from the fourth pastry chef to sample.” He passed them a dish of water crackers. “Eat a few of these now so you’ll be able to appreciate what’s coming.” They drank tea with the crackers to help cleanse their palates.
Cosimo wheeled in the last offerings of the night. As he placed the tray on the table, Vincenzo took one look at the desserts and thought he must be dreaming. All of them were Italian, and there were so many of them! They made up the parts of his childhood. He couldn’t decide what to try first.
Unaware of his friends at this point, he started on sfogliatelli, his favorite dessert in the world, layered like sea shells with cream and cinnamon. When he’d eaten the whole thing he reached for the puffed dome of sweet panettone, the bread his family had eaten on holidays. When he couldn’t swallow another bite, he lifted his head. His friends were staring at him like he’d lost his mind.
Takis nudged Cesare. “I believe we’ve found our executive pastry chef.”
“But first we must get Vincenzo to a hospital. He’s going to be sick.”
Their smiles widened into grins, but he couldn’t laugh. All these desserts were too good to be true and tasted like the ones prepared by Gemma’s mother years ago. But that was impossible!
He eyed Cesare. “Who made these?”
“A graduate from the Florentine Epicurean culinary school.”
Vincent shook his head. “I need to know more.” At this juncture his heart was thumping with emotion.
Their smiles receded. Cesare looked worried. “What’s wrong?”
“Tell me this person’s name.”
“Signorina Bonucci. I don’t remember her first name. It’s on her résumé in my office.”
The name meant nothing to Vincenzo. “How old is she? Early sixties?” Had Mirella, Gemma’s mother, seen the advertisement and applied for the position?
“No. She’s young. In her midtwenties.”
How could anyone reproduce desserts identical to Mirella’s unless she knew her or had worked with her? If that were true, then perhaps she could tell him Gemma’s whereabouts!
“What’s going on, Vincenzo?”
For the next few minutes he told them about one of the cooks at the castello years ago. “Her pastry was out of this world. She had a daughter who was a year younger than me. We grew up together on her mother’s sweets. She was my first love.”
“Ah,” they said in a collective voice, clearly surprised at another one of his admissions.
“I have no idea what happened to either of them. In fact, over the years I’ve spent a large sum of money trying to find them, with no success. I want to meet this applicant and find out how she happens to have produced the same desserts.”
He jumped up from the chair and hurried out of the room to the elevator at the end of the hall. Once on the main floor, they walked through the lobby and congregated
