Margherita's Notebook by Elisabetta Flumeri, Gabriella Giacometti Read Free Book Online Page A

where he is.”

chapter three
    A familiar sound, one that reminded her of her childhood, just like the pink wallpaper in her old bedroom, the humming of the boiler, and the chirping of the blackbirds in the garden—reached Margherita as she lay still half asleep and curled up in the bed she’d slept in when she was a little girl. It was the click clack of the coffee machine that Armando had been setting up every morning for as long as she could remember. Margherita opened her eyes, and it all came rushing back to her: her last day in Rome, the eviction letter, Meg . . . and Francesco drunk downstairs.
    I’ll never make it. Or maybe I just don’t want to make it. I don’t want to have to endure another pathetic scene.
    Margherita got dressed and headed for the kitchen.
    â€œGood morning,” Armando greeted her, smiling. “Coffee?” He handed her a mug just as he’d always done, without waiting for her to answer.
    â€œThanks,” saidMargherita, taking a small jar of cinnamon from one of the shelves. Armando shook his head and smiled, amused.
    â€œSorry, kiddo. Five years aren’t long enough for me to have forgotten my daughter’s habits. You can kick me for that, I deserve it,” he joked.
    Margherita laughed, snapped the cinnamon stick in half, and dunked it in the coffee.
    Armando handed her his mug and she flavored his, too.
    In the sunlit kitchen, the two of them savored a moment of quiet understanding that was as warm and familiar as the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee.
    â€œWould you do something for me?” Margherita asked her father.
    â€œAre you asking me to take care of him?” Armando said, his head pointing toward the living room from which the irregular rhythm of snoring could be heard.
    â€œYes, please.”
    â€œWhat should I say to him?”
    â€œThat it’s better if he heads back to Rome, back to his Meg,” replied Margherita without hesitating. “And tell him to stay there, because I don’t need him anymore.”
    Armando nodded and made no further comment.
    â€œI’m going out for a walk.”
    â€œHave a nice one, darling.”
    Margherita smiled tensely, then she gave her father a kiss on the cheek that smelled of fresh aftershave.
    â€œCiao, Pa . . . I mean, Armando. And thanks.”

    Outside, the air smelled of approaching summer. The sun was warm, the colors were bright, and the scent of mowngrass was in the air. Everything felt new, and Margherita’s body felt like it was made of bubbles.
    I’m free.
    She strolled down the narrow streets of the town. She felt like running, jumping. For the first time in a long time, Margherita felt light, drunk with the colors and the fragrances of this place that made her feel so good, so much at home. As she walked, she recognized faces she knew well, and ones that she knew less well but were still familiar. Then, the customary stop at Serafino’s bakery.
    â€œWelcome back, Margherita! I just took this cecina out of the oven. Here,” the old baker greeted her and offered her a slice of pizza topped with cured ham. Margherita bit into it hungrily. Another reminder of her childhood.
    â€œOh, wow, I need to learn how to make this!”
    It reminded her of her mother.
    â€œIt’s an old recipe, sweetheart, but a simple one: A cup of water, a cup of chickpea flour, a few drops of oil. But remember these three secrets: you have to let it rest overnight, roll it out so it’s very thin, and bake it on a copper sheet. That’s the only way it’ll be crisp and tasty.”
    It was as if she could still hear her mother’s voice—warm, with a weak c and g typical of the Florentine accent.
    Margherita said good-bye to Serafino and continued on her way. At the very top of the town, overlooking the valley, with the sea in the distance, there was an old building with a faded sign: ERICA’S. Closed. The doors