Lingua Terra: A Novel

By Leah Laiman

From the acclaimed writer of some of the most unforgettable love stories on television comes a new kind of hybrid: compelling romance, vivid guidebook and delectable cookbook all in one. After losing her Wall Street job, dumping her boyfriend, and moving back in with her parents, Claudia Davis needs a new life. Then, she reads about Le Marche, a region of Italy with breathtaking scenery, a rich heritage and a tradition of farm-to-table culinary delights. She’s never heard of it, but since it’s undiscovered it’s still affordable — and she’s got just enough to make it through a year.  On the back of a Vespa, with her handsome Italian teacher as her guide, Claudia discovers the treasures — and foods — of the region. But things get complicated when she crosses paths — and swords — with Giancarlo Russo, a brilliant but embittered chef. With his potential and her ambition, it’s clear they could build something together. But can they make room for love when there’s a Michelin star at stake?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Jun 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634135542

Book preview

Stagioni

CHAPTER ONE

Grottammare and Brodetto

When Claudia Davis opened her eyes, nothing she saw looked familiar. She was in Italy, that much she knew; more specifically, Le Marche. Beyond that, she didn’t have a clue. The room was simple, charming even. She was lying between soft white sheets on a wrought iron bed. Above her, was a ceiling of beamed wood over a floor of terra cotta tiles burnished to a shine. On each side of the double bed was a wooden night stand, and across from it, a dresser, all three covered with lace doilies that were either a desperate reach for quaintness, or something more indigenous. A round table with two chairs was positioned in front of a large shuttered window. If she had been kidnapped, there were worse places to be held hostage. She checked herself under the quilt that someone had drawn up to her chin. She was fully clothed; that was a good sign. Who would violate you then carefully re-dress you in the stale jeans and crumpled t-shirt you’d worn on a trans-Atlantic flight?

A noise at the door, made her freeze. Someone was coming in. She grabbed the quilt and pulled it to her chin as if it were protective armor, wishing it were made of Kevlar instead of dainty squares of Italian silk. She regretted every rash decision that had brought her to this point. She should have stuck to her original life plan. So what if it made her feel dead inside? At least she’d be alive on the outside.

The door swung open. "Signorina?" A woman hesitated on the threshold. She was dressed in a black shapeless dress, dark stockings, heavy shoes, her white hair in a bun. She could have been fifty or seventy, there was no telling. She looked vaguely familiar but then, dressed as she was in the uniform of Mediterranean widows, Claudia could have seen her, or someone like her, almost anywhere. She didn’t seem particularly menacing, but even benign mothers could have criminal sons. Claudia said nothing, waiting for a sign: friend or foe? The woman raised her index finger, pulsing it lightly, wordlessly commanding her to wait, then disappeared, leaving the door open.

Claudia considered making a run for it. But the woman was already back, something flat and black gripped between her bony hands, which she used to push Claudia back against the pillows, pinning her legs in place. Claudia cursed herself for filling notebooks with facts about the countryside without once ever considering really useful information like what’s 911 in Italy? She willed herself not to panic. How hard could it be to take out an old lady? She geared for action, and in that moment, the lights came on. Claudia saw she’d been imprisoned by a bed tray on which rested a bowl of soup. "Mangia," the woman said, handing Claudia a spoon.

Claudia looked at the soup. Hunks of fish surrounded by stacks of clams and mussels in the shell, floated in a tomato-rich broth. "Mangia," the woman said again, smiling. Even though it etched the lines more deeply into her face, it had the inverse effect of making her look younger.

Feeling like a paranoid idiot, Claudia put down the spoon. Thank you, she said, "Grazie. But I really need to know what happened to me. How did I get here?" The woman looked at her blankly and Claudia realized she hadn’t understood a word, except maybe grazie. Claudia searched her mind for the basic Italian she’d learned as a language requirement in college. Where...how... "Dove...? Come...?" she began.

The woman cut her off. "Mangia, she repeated. She picked up the spoon and put it back in Claudia’s hand. Brodetto."

Claudia knew about brodetto. Every article she’d read about the region talked about this signature dish of Le Marche, made differently in every kitchen, but always with thirteen species of fish, no more, no less. In this version, she recognized cuttlefish, swordfish and probably sea bass along with the shellfish but she didn’t even try to identify anything else. A rumble from her stomach loudly proclaimed her hunger. The woman nodded; this she understood. She motioned for Claudia to eat, mimicking the act of spoon to mouth, spoon to mouth. Claudia remembered her last meal had been something close to inedible in a plastic tray on a crowded plane. "Mangia, mangia," the woman insisted.

The steam from the soup, redolent of the sea, enveloped Claudia. It smelled too good to be poison. If she wasn’t going to die, it wouldn’t matter if she ate before she found out where she was. If she was going to be killed, at least she’d have tasted brodetto first. Fine, Claudia said, frustrated and famished. I’ll eat, then we’ll talk.

Claudia brought a spoonful of the broth to her lips, dotted with clumps of fresh herbs, the smell of garlic and pepper preparing her for the aromatic taste even before she put it in her mouth. One sip, and nothing else mattered. With her hands, she pulled apart the shells, then scooped up the juicy mussels along with morsels of fish and spoonfuls of soup. She dipped the bread and let it soak, then leaning over her dish, brought it to her mouth, still dripping. The woman, smiling in approval, took her leave. Claudia could only nod her appreciation because her mouth was full. When next she looked up, the bowl was empty except for discarded shells and a green sprig of thyme clinging to the side.

"Va bene? Okay?"

Claudia jumped. Mopping up the last of the broth with the last of her bread, she hadn’t noticed the woman come back. Claudia nodded and wished she had spent more time revisiting long forgotten vocabulary lists. But the woman had already looked into Claudia’s empty bowl and answered her own question. "Va bene!"

"Thank you. Grazie, Claudia said. Her fear had abated as her stomach filled. The woman took the napkin out of her hand, dropped it on the tray and prepared to whisk it all away. It was delicious. Delizioso. The woman smiled briefly and countered with rapid fire Italian. I’m sorry, Claudia said, but I don’t understand. The woman shrugged and headed toward the door. Claudia touched her arm to stop her. Please, she said, reverting to the always tried and rarely successful tactic of speaking slower and louder to make herself understood. Is...there...someone...who... speaks...English...English?" she repeated for emphasis.

Again, the response came in a jumble of words and gestures that left Claudia baffled. "Aspetti, aspetti, the woman said, seeing Claudia’s bewilderment. She put the tray back down, went to the window, threw open the shutters, stuck her head out and shouted, Giancarlo! Vieni!"

A man’s voice answered from below. "Non posso. Ho da fare!" There was a heated exchange from which Claudia gleaned next to nothing except that it sounded tense and negative.

The woman turned to Claudia and shrugged. Eh, she said, as if that explained it all. Behind her stocky body, Claudia glimpsed a picture postcard view of tile-roofed buildings stacked like steps on a hill leading down to the sea. Palm trees cast gently swaying shadows on ancient ochre brick, and the breeze brought with it a hint of the Adriatic and the smell of something sweet and floral. She could see she was in a place of great beauty. But with all her careful research and analytic googling, she still could not identify exactly which place it was.

"Mariella! Che cosa succede?" A man’s voice asked Mariella what was happening.

Claudia turned. At the door stood a movie star in the making, dark hair swept back from a high forehead, melting brown eyes, square jaw, tanned skin. She huddled a little deeper under the sheet, acutely aware she hadn’t showered in three days. A funky mix of stale airplane odor and pungent garlic clung like an aura around her. She tried to comb her fingers through the mass of copper curls framing her face, but they couldn’t make it past the tangle of knots at the nape of her neck. The last time she’d looked into the cracked mirror of a public restroom at the train station in Rome, her green eyes had been shot through with more red than lights on a Christmas tree. But Mr. Beautiful kept glancing her way and smiling as he talked to Mariella. From the shaking heads, and raised eyebrows, she surmised Mariella was explaining how this crazy woman had come to be there. Claudia waited for the translation, wondering what had possessed her to think she should come to a country she didn’t know where they spoke a language she didn’t understand, armed with little more than a hefty guide book and a paltry budget. Her plan had been to stay a year. At this rate, she’d be lucky to make it through a week.

The conversation ended in a chorus of si, si, si, and he approached her, white teeth gleaming in a brilliant smile. Unconsciously, she ran her tongue over her own teeth, hoping to dislodge any stray sprigs of parsley that might be displayed in her return smile. Excuse me...you are British? he said.

He spoke English! Claudia could barely contain her excitement. He was beautiful and bi-lingual. Thank God, she said and then continued in a torrent, lest Mariella co-opt the conversation and reinstate the language barrier. I’m American. My name is Claudia Davis. I’m so glad you speak English. Are you Giancarlo?

No. I am Lorenzo.

Oh, sorry. I just heard her...

Mariella? She call Giancarlo but he say he is busy. So I come. You want I go to the kitchen and bring Giancarlo? he asked.

No, no. I just need someone who speaks English. I’m happy to meet you, Lorenzo. She stuck out her hand and he shook it, his eyes meeting hers then tracing her body, appraising what little was visible from under the sheet. Claudia shifted uncomfortably. Can you please tell me where I am? she asked, getting them back on course. He did a double take and stared at her, unnerved. She thought perhaps she’d been talking too fast and repeated it in elongated syllables. Whe-re...aam...ay-ee...

He raised his palms and motioned for her to stop. I understand the words. But not so much the question. He tapped his finger to his forehead, indicating a possible mental state. You forget? How do you say... am-neh-SEE-ya?

It took her a minute to realize what he was saying. No, no. I don’t have amnesia. I just don’t know what place this is.

How do you come here and not know, if you are not...? He trailed off, unwilling to risk another mispronunciation and twirled his index finger in the universal sign of derangement.

Because I was going to Porto Recanati, and the guy at the station in Rome told me I had to change trains in Ancona, which I did. But he didn’t tell me I had to wait five minutes for the right connection. so I ended up here in... She waited for him to fill in the blank.

You are here by mistake? He sounded disappointed, as though she’d hurt him by not choosing to come to where he was. Wherever it was. Which she still didn’t know. "Grottammare e piu bella di Porto Recanati," he added.

"Si, si," the old lady affirmed, nodding vigorously.

Claudia recognized the word "mare and bella and guessed he’d said something about the sea being pretty in Porto Recanati. I’m sure it’s lovely, but right now, I just want to know the name of this place."

I tell you already, he said, with a benign smile. "Grow-tah-mah-ray, he repeated, separating each syllable. Is more beautiful than Porto Recanati."

Oh, she said, ashamed of her impatience. These people had come to her aid. If they wanted to talk about the scenic landscape, she had no right to complain. She softened her tone. Do you know how I got here?

Lorenzo turned to Mariella for a brief discussion. "You fainted in the Bar Stazioni. Her husband’s uncle brought you here. They wanted to get the dottore but you say no, only let you sleep."

Really? I don’t remember that. She closed her eyes, trying to conjure the memory. She saw herself lurching off the train onto the platform of the darkened station and heading into the shadowy town. After a seven-hour delay at Newark, a nine hour flight wedged between a snorer and a talker, a transfer to Rome’s Termini station plus her mis-directed train ride, she’d been awake for thirty-two hours straight by then. Keeping panic at bay by reminding herself she was still in the civilized world and there was no reason to over-react, she’d dragged herself like a zombie toward a light coming from the Bar Stazioni. In her mind, she could still see the old men in the smoke-filled room, looking up from their dominos as she stumbled inside. One breath drew the blue haze into her lungs and delivered a shot of pure anxiety in place of oxygen straight to her head. After that, there was nothing. I must have been de-hydrated, she said, because any other explanation would be too complicated. Please, tell Mariella I appreciate her taking care of me. If I can stay tonight, I’ll go to the station in the morning and find out about trains to Porto Recanati.

"Che cosa dice?" Mariella interrupted, hearing her name and wanting a translation.

Lorenzo obliged, then turned back to Claudia. Why you go to Porto Recanati?

She hesitated. I heard it was nice, she said lamely.

The corners of Lorenzo’s mouth turned down as his eyebrows shot up and he rocked his head from side to side. His hands moved in front of him, forming little semi-circles of doubt. Eh... he said, his lack of enthusiasm clearly indicated. In fact, what Claudia had heard was that George Clooney had been spotted house-hunting near the town. She didn’t expect to meet George, of course, But it stood to reason that if a man who could go anywhere in the world was even thinking about staying there, it couldn’t be too shabby. You have a man waiting for you in Porto Recanati. It was more a statement than a question. Apparently, Lorenzo could think of no other reason for her to want to go there.

No, she said. But I’ve got a hotel.

"This is a hotel. A bed and breakfast. Not big, but nice. If no one is waiting why rush away? Bellissima Grottammare. Is beautiful."

I’m sure it is. But I have plans...

Lorenzo brought his thumb and fingers together, then moved his hand up and down in front of him. It was a gesture she’d seen in countless cliches of Italian conversation, and she knew it meant, What are you talking about?

Plans! The more you make, the more you must change, no?

Well, no, thought Claudia. Not if you do it right. Which obviously, she hadn’t, or she wouldn’t be where she was right now. Still, she’d make adjustments. Recovery was possible. Thank you, Lorenzo, she said brightly. I really appreciate your help. And Mariella... Please tell her I’ll work things out tonight and settle up with her in the morning.

Lorenzo tutted sadly and raised his hands in a sign of surrender. He spoke briefly to Mariella who nodded along then turned to Claudia and asked, "Tutto a posto?"

"Si, si," said Claudia, having no idea what she was agreeing to. Her clothes were stuck to her like a plague on her skin. She was desperate for a shower to wash the grime from her body and the cobwebs from her brain. "Domani?" she pleaded, because she knew the word for tomorrow and couldn’t possibly decide anything else today.

They nodded at her and talked to each other, then echoing a sympathetic, "Si, si, domani," along with a torrent of ciao’s and buona notte’s, finally left her alone.

The minute the door was closed, she stripped off her clothes and left them piled in the middle of the floor. Behind a painted door, a small but serviceable bathroom had been carved out from a corner of the room. The shower was the pre-fab fiberglass unit endemic to budget accommodations the world over, but it was clean enough to look like it had never been used. She turned on the tap and almost cried with relief when the water came out strong and steaming. As she let it wash over her, she closed her eyes and wondered how many of the world’s calamities could be redressed by a bowl of soup and a good, hot shower?

She dried off and dressed in what was most accessible at the top of her suitcase: a boy’s Hane’s t-shirt, clean but slightly stained, leggings she’d brought to use as pajamas and the hole-y Keds she’d worn for comfort on the plane. In spite of her shower, she still felt jet-lagged and heavy from too much sleep followed by too much food. She opened the window and breathed in the night air, filled with the sweet scent of flowers. From around the corner came voices and laughter and she found comfort in the sound of normal people having fun. She felt the need to walk, to clear her head and give her context for planning her next step.

Outside, she got her first look at the building where she’d found herself. The polished stone facade was split by a wood planked door with heavy iron hinges. A small sign overhead read, La Vistamare B & B. She walked the few steps to the end of the street, searching for the promised view of the sea and found herself in a compact but open square. On one side was a restaurant, the source of the animation, which she realized was positioned directly under the window of the room she was occupying. Across from it, a vaulted colonnade of stone arches framed the twinkling lights of the town above and the moonlit sea below. The battlements of a castle jutted out over the cliff, the turrets of its tower silhouetted against the night sky. By chance, she had landed in a medieval hill town, perched above the Adriatic. The fact that it was totally unfamiliar to her made it clear her research had been far less exhaustive than she thought.

"Cloud-ee-ah! Cloud-ee-ah!"

It took Claudia a moment to realize this was her own name rendered in Italian. Lorenzo was waving at her from the midst of a group of friends seated on both sides of a wooden table covered with glasses of wine, espresso cups and beer bottles. A pretty young waitress expertly maneuvered her way through groups of gesticulating Italians at the half dozen tables pressed closely together on the cobblestone. Claudia was surprised to see Mariella, a white apron over her black dress, presiding from the doorway of the adjacent restaurant as she handed off an earthenware tureen to an old waiter. From the delectable smell drifting toward her, Claudia guessed the day’s special was the same brodetto she had eaten an hour earlier.

"Cloud-ee-ah!" Lorenzo called again, standing and vigorously beckoning her to join them.

She waved back, not wanting to be rude, but shook her head no, and with walking fingers indicated she was taking a stroll. But in an instant, Lorenzo was at her side. We go together, he said, making it sound like an invitation to something mysterious and intimate. Claudia regretted her decision to go make up-free and leave her wet hair to hang in dripping ringlets that formed water marks on embarrassingly strategic points of her chest. Following her earlier crusty appearance, it was hardly the sort of impression she wanted to make on a handsome Italian, even one she’d probably never see again. No, really, she protested. I’m just taking a look around.

I will show you, Lorenzo insisted. He preemptively took her arm, making resistance difficult if not downright churlish. She noted there was no ring on his finger, not even a tan line to indicate where a wedding band might have been -- not that she was in the market for whatever he was offering, as unspecified and enticing as it might be. He led her across the square, sounding uncannily like the voice on the headset of an audio tour as he pointed to each highlight. This is the heart of old Grottammare: Piazza Peretti. Here is the church of San Giovanni Battista, the town hall and the Teatro Dell’Arancio, named after an orange tree. We have many orange groves here.

Claudia took a deep breath and understood why the entire town was permeated with the smell of orange blossoms. Lorenzo continued his spiel: The theatre built in 1780 is one of seventy-three in the Marche region. I can take you to see them all.

Not tonight, she laughed. Even if her budgets and flow charts weren’t actually a strategy for a new life, she wasn’t about to give up all rationality because a good-looking stranger was smiling at her. Right now, I’ll settle for a nice view.

No problem, he said. He led her through the arches which formed the foundation of the theater to the parapet poised above the town, offering a panorama that included the Torrione della Battaglia, a restored sixteenth century fortification, and the remnants of Grottammare’s castle dating from the eleventh century. Along the ancient walls of the city, a road wound down through the modern town to the sea.

"Bellissima, eh?" Lorenzo prompted, and Claudia had no problem agreeing.

Even more beautiful than I expected. I had no idea you could have a hill town and the seaside so close together.

It’s not like that everywhere. But the Conero coast has a few.

Porto Recanati? she asked.

No, he said. "Recanati is a hill town, very nice, with some famous paintings by Lorenzo Lotto. But Porto Recanati is a different place, more modern, on the beach. Is that why you go there? For vacation?"

Actually, no, she admitted. I’m looking for a place to live for a while.

Really? he asked incredulous. You alone? Why?

She shrugged. Oh, you know... escaping.

Ah, he said, with a sympathetic nod. You are here for eat, pray, love. You have a broken heart.

She smiled. Not exactly.

"Then he does."

She laughed ruefully. I wouldn’t put it that way. She stopped, but Lorenzo was clearly waiting for more. He wanted to get married; I wasn’t ready. It made him angry and we split up.

It was a simplistic explanation for months of soul searching after years of certainty. She’d been sure Scott Hambro was the right one ever since they’d met at Wharton. He was fair-haired and handsome in a not-too-preppy way, already confident enough to deem himself a future master of the universe but canny enough to keep a lid on it. She saw herself as his perfect counterpart, just as ambitious, but still open-hearted. They were both smart, they looked good together, they were both headed for financial success. Her parents approved. What else did she want? Of course, she hadn’t asked herself that question. At least, not then.

Lorenzo had his own interpretation. So you didn’t love him.

No, I did, she protested. It’s just that... She shrugged, trying to make it look like an Italianate gesture of nonchalance. How could she explain it to a stranger? One day, she’d been a trend analyst living with a hedge fund manager in a pricey Tribeca loft, eating in downtown hotspots, vacationing on obscure islands known to everyone, hitting all the young urban milestones. The next day, the recession hit, her job disappeared and she’d been expected to forget about a career, get married and start a family. With work on Wall Street difficult to come by in the down-sized economy, it hadn’t been an unreasonable suggestion. But Claudia had panicked, unable, for once in her life, to be practical. And Scott, hurt by her hesitation, had delivered an ultimatum: marry him or move out.

Why? her parents had pleaded when she showed up at the door of her childhood home in Cherry Hill, New Jersey with two suitcases and a box of books. What’s the problem?

I’m too young to die, she had blurted, shocking them into silence.

"Non capisco," Lorenzo said.

She wasn’t surprised he didn’t understand. Neither had Scott. Neither did she, really. She’d been living by the rules, building a life, block by block, into what she thought was a stable tower of normality. And then, like a game of Jenga, one block had been removed and the whole structure had come tumbling down. Anyway, she hedged, If I had all the answers, I wouldn’t be here.

So why here? Rome, Paris, I understand. But Le Marche? Most people don’t even know about it.

Until I read about it in a magazine, I didn’t either. Here, I’ll show you.

She shifted her backpack and balanced it on her hip to zip it open. At Newark airport, she’d emptied her Prada tote into a hastily bought Eagle Creek daypack, eager to divest herself of an investment that was no longer working for her. She’d bequeathed the Prada to her protesting mother who had loudly noted that that you can’t change your life like you change your purse. Claudia had insisted she knew what she was doing, but rooting around with the knapsack uncomfortably pressing on her chest, she was worried her mother had been right. How much sense did it really make? She pulled out the page she’d torn from her parents’ AARP Magazine and had been carrying around with her like a talisman. She smoothed out the folds and handed it to Lorenzo. The article was entitled "Paradise Found: Ten fun, affordable, stunningly beautiful places to retire abroad." She’d skipped the summaries of Panama and Costa Rica, saving only the section on Italy. She pointed Lorenzo to the highlighted paragraph and read aloud.

"So where’s the ‘next Umbria’? We located it one region east: Le Marche (pronounced ‘lay MAR kay’), bordering the Adriatic, is a lovely land of vineyards, snow-capped mountains, and splendid beaches (which you won’t find in Umbria)... Nature lovers will get more pristine beauty for their money in Le Marche than anywhere else in central Italy.. It also prides itself on some of the best food in the country."

Lorenzo nodded along as she read. Is true, he said, but his intonation implied as much skepticism as pride. But from only this?

"Actually, what sold me was the next line: ‘Excluding the cost of housing, a minimum annual income of $20,000 is feasible.’ After I worked it out, I figured I could make it through most of a year."

You are brave, he said.

Claudia didn’t feel brave. She felt stupid. Not really, she said. I did the research, but obviously... she trailed off. It was as though she’d come up with a brilliant theory, only to find that basic errors in her excel spread sheet made all her conclusions invalid. But there was nothing attractive about a pitiful woman, even to herself. Anyway, it’s worth a year of my life to improve my Italian.

Stay here and we do like ‘Eat, Pray, Love’; morning we talk Italian, afternoon in English.

Don’t you have to work? she laughed. She wished he wouldn’t keep associating her with the cliched lonely American, but she was still flattered by his attempt to keep her in Grottammare.

Is not the season.

For what?

For anything.

What do you do when it is the season?

I am location manager for movies but that is in Rome. Also I am a guide. I did the tourism course.

So what are you doing in Grottammare?

Rome is expensive. When I don’t work, I stay here with my family.

Family? She squelched the surge of disappointment and reminded herself she was not here to find a knight to rescue her. If she’d made her life a fiasco, she was quite capable of fixing it herself.

My grandfather, he said quickly, as though he’d divined her thoughts. His house is here and he can’t be alone anymore. My parents have a store in Fano so they can’t come... He shrugged and threw his hands up in a what-can-I-do gesture.

It’s very nice of you, she said.

I am just off a film. And I like it here. There is not much at night. But there’s the beach during the day, and I have friends. And now, there’s you.

Who said I’m staying? she asked.

"Cloud-ee-ah?" he coaxed, and she realized how much more she liked her name said the Italian way.

Recipe for Brodetto

(Serves 6)

Ingredients:

4.5 lbs. fresh seasonal fish and seafood (clams, mussels, shrimp, scallops, halibut, cod, crab, sea bass, cuttlefish, sea bream, langoustine, flounder, or any other available fish or seafood up to 13 different kinds)

1 1/3 cups Extra Virgin Olive Oil

5-6 tablespoons wine vinegar

2 cups fish stock or water

3/4 cup tomato paste

1 cup chopped onion

1 or 2 cloves minced garlic

Salt and lots of freshly ground pepper

Directions:

In a large pan, sauté the onion and garlic in the olive oil until slightly browned, then add the tomato paste blended with the fish stock or water plus salt. When most of the liquid has been reduced, add the fish, starting with the ones that are larger or have a meatier consistency which will take longer