A Taste of Home by Heidi Swain (the beginning after the end read novel TXT) 📕

‘You mustn’t say anything to anyone,’ Eliot sternly told her. ‘That’s really important.’

‘I won’t,’ she pouted, before turning her sparkling eyes back to me. ‘And you must call me Bec, not Rebecca.’

‘And I’m Fliss,’ I smiled back. ‘Not Felicity.’

Louise had introduced us using our full first names, but we obviously both preferred the abbreviated versions.

‘Fliss,’ Bec grinned, side eyeing her mother. ‘Cool.’

‘I don’t understand you girls.’ Louise tutted. ‘You’ve both got beautiful names and yet you refuse to use them.’

Bec ignored this and I got the distinct impression that it was a comment she’d heard many times before.

‘I’m going to head into town for supplies for Eliot,’ she told me. ‘Is there anything I can pick up for you? Or would you rather come with me?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I hastily said. ‘I could do with a couple of things now I know I’m going to be staying for a day or two.’

I didn’t really need anything, but I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to get away from the farm, and Louise’s well-meant bossiness for a little while. The last few hours had been intense and some time out would give me the chance to draw breath, think things through and get my head around everything.

‘I’ll just grab my purse and phone,’ I said, rifling through my rucksack.

There was no chance to think anything through en route however, because Bec talked all the way into town and by the time she parked her battered bright yellow 2CV next to the market which was packing up for the day, she had given me a potted history of her entire life. Even though my head was spinning, her monologue had been an entertaining distraction and I was surprised to find myself feeling calmer.

She was an artist, recently graduated from Norwich University of the Arts, and in the process of setting up her own studio at home. She was currently specialising in abstract paintings. Huge canvases full of colour were what she loved most and given her outfit and sunny disposition they sounded very ‘Bec’ to me.

She was happily single, straight and hoping to travel the world, when she could afford to, to further fuel her inspiration. She was as free flowing as the river running under the bridge we’d driven over and she really reminded me of Mum.

Bec hadn’t shied away from talking about what I was going through and readily told me what she’d felt and experienced when her dad died. And, not that I was looking to form any hasty attachments to the place, but I loved her already.

‘You can tell me about yourself on the drive back,’ she grinned, when she realised, she hadn’t given me the chance to say a word.

‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ I shrugged.

‘Rubbish,’ she said, locking her car. ‘I don’t believe that for a second. Mum said you grew up in Italy. How can you have nothing to say about yourself with a start in life like that?’

I laughed and shook my head. Bec was obviously a glass half-full kind of girl, but she was right. I had had an unusual start in life, what with growing up with the Rossis and joining Mum on many of her adventures before I decided to settle, and now of course, it was about to become even more intriguing.

The plan for the trip to town was for us to stock the farm fridge, take books back to the library and pick up a takeaway for dinner, but it was still a bit early for the takeaway part.

‘How about I cook instead?’ I offered, when I spotted a smart looking deli at the opposite end of the square.

Eliot had told Bec not to be too long and if we didn’t have to wait for the takeaways to open, then we’d be back all the sooner and to be honest, I didn’t much fancy fish and chips or a kebab. I was craving a taste of home, but not Nonna’s tart. I was going to save that for a special occasion. Unbidden, my hand checked that the recipe and Mum’s letter were safe where they should be.

‘Could you?’ Bec asked, wide-eyed. ‘Could you cook?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If you think it will be okay and as long as everyone likes Italian food?’

‘What like proper Italian, rather than greasy takeaway pizza?’

‘Yes,’ I said, eyeing the stalls on the market.

‘Yeah,’ she nodded. ‘Okay. Great!’

Bec left me to source the ingredients for dinner while she went to sort everything else. I soon found that the market was local foodie heaven and as there was a fabulous fish stall, I decided to make a creamy lemon and shrimp risotto and an accompanying seafood salad.

Everyone was very friendly and I ended up buying far more than I needed, but I knew that a taste of Puglia and a few sessions at the stove would help me zen out and stop me stressing about staying at the farm. I thanked my lucky stars that Eliot was going to be there too, although I didn’t like to think how I’d react if I bumped into him half dressed in the middle of the night, especially if he was still wearing that wonderful woody aftershave. Or was it just eau de Eliot that had set my pulse racing?

I was weighed down even before I reached the deli to pick up the risotto rice and cheese and components for antipasto, but there was such a great array of ingredients on offer, including freshly made grissini and locally cured meats, that I couldn’t resist piling my basket high in there too. The olives weren’t quite up to Rossi standards, but they would do.

‘I wasn’t expecting to find such a well-stocked deli in such a small town,’ I told Thomas, the manager and owner, according to his name badge. ‘This place is a real find.’

‘We’re new,’ he told me, slipping a leaflet into a reusable bag bearing the shop logo.