Return Of Her Italian Duke

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 in Cesare’s private office. His friend pulled up the résumé on his computer for Vincenzo, who stood next to him to read it.

Seeing her first name nearly gave him a heart attack.

Gemma Bonucci

Age: 27

Address: Bonucci Bakery, Florence Top student in the year’s graduating class of pastry chefs.

He was incredulous. His search had come to an end. He’d found her!

Vincenzo had known her as Gemma Rizzo. So why Bonucci? So many questions were bombarding him, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“This must be Mirella’s daughter, but there’s no picture of her.”

“It wasn’t attached to her application,” Cesare explained, “but her cooking is absolutely superb.”

“So was her mother’s. I can’t comprehend that she was in the kitchen earlier cooking our dessert.”

“You look a little pale. Are you all right?”

Vincenzo eyed Cesare. “I will be as soon as I get over the shock. You don’t know what these last ten years have been like, trying to find her and always coming to a dead end...”

“Do we agree she’s our new executive pastry chef?” Takis asked.

Vincenzo looked at both men. “Don’t let my overeating influence you in any way. I have a terrible Italian sweet tooth, but we need to consider the various preferences of all patrons who will come through our doors. I’m sorry that you haven’t been able to vote your conscience because of my behavior.”

“It wasn’t your behavior that decided me,” Cesare insisted. “That was the best tiramisu I’ve ever eaten.”

“Don’t forget the baba and the baby cannoli,” Takis chimed in. “Every dessert was exquisite and presented like a painting. When the guests leave, they’ll spread the word that the most divine Italian desserts were made right here.”

“Amen.” This from Cesare. “But Vincenzo, did you have to eat all the sfogliatelli before we could sample it? Cosimo had to bring us more. It was food for the gods.”

It was. And the lips of the loving seventeen-year-old girl Vincenzo had once held in his arms and kissed had been as sweet and succulent as the cinnamon-sprinkled cream in the pastry she’d prepared for this evening.

“Takis will make the phone calls now and tell our two new chefs to come to the office at noon for an orientation meeting.” Cesare’s announcement jerked Vincenzo out of his hidden thoughts.

“I’m glad the decisions have been made. As long as I’m in your office, I’d like to see the résumés of the other pastry finalists.” It was an excuse to take another look at Gemma’s.

“Be my guest,” Cesare murmured. “Those desserts finished me off. I may never eat again.”

“You’re not the only one. I’m going to my office to make the phone calls.”

But for the stunning realization that tomorrow he would see Gemma—the chef who’d turned them all into gluttons—Vincenzo would have laughed.

He walked around the desk and sat down in front of the computer screen to look at it. Her training had been matchless. She held certificates in the culinary arts, baking and pastry, hospitality management, wine studies, enology, and molecular gastronomy. She’d won awards for jams, preserves, chocolate ice cream. Mirella’s chocolate ice cream had been divine.

The statement she’d made to explain her desire to be an executive pastry chef stood out as if it had been illuminated. I learned the art of pastry making from my mother and would like to honor her life’s work with my own.

His eyes smarted as he rang Cesare.

“Ehi, come va, Vincenzo?”