I woke to birds outside my window and sunlight spilling across the terracotta tiles. Today the kitchen renovation began.
For three days I had planned every detail, the layout, the appliances, the workflow. Salvatore had given me complete control, which was exhilarating and slightly terrifying. A restaurant kitchen is the heart of an entertainment facility, and if this one failed the entire launch could stumble with it. I dressed quickly and headed for the vineyard kitchen determined to make sure everything started exactly as planned.
The contractors were already there. Three burly men stood over a blueprint on the counter arguing in rapid Italian. One of them, Enzo, a broad man with a salt and pepper mustache, kept stabbing a finger at the stove location while the others waved their hands and talked over him. I stepped closer and tried to intervene. “Dov’è il forno?” I asked, hoping to confirm where the oven would go.
Enzo glanced at me, said something to the others that made them laugh, and returned to the discussion as though I were a curious tourist rather than the person responsible for the project. I pulled out my phone and tried to translate what they were saying, but the WiFi flickered in and out. The translation app stalled halfway through a sentence while the men continued arguing over the blueprint, talking louder and faster as the discussion escalated.
At that moment the delivery truck arrived. The driver rolled in a commercial refrigerator that was not the model I had ordered, followed by a six burner stove that was electric instead of gas. I stared at the paperwork, trying to decide whether the supplier had made the mistake or if I had signed the wrong form somewhere between jet lag and twenty hour workdays. The contractors leaned against the wall smoking while I called the supplier and attempted to untangle the mess. By noon the kitchen looked like a battlefield. Half the counters had been removed, tools were scattered across the floor, and one of the men had started drilling into a wall I was fairly certain supported the ceiling.
I waved my arms and shouted the only word I knew that might stop them. “Aspetta!”
The drill continued screaming against the stone until a calm voice behind me said something quietly in Italian. The drilling stopped almost immediately. I turned to see Matteo standing in the doorway. He was tall, relaxed, and studying the room with an expression that suggested he had arrived just in time to watch the final act of a very entertaining play.
“Parla italiano?” he asked.
I glared at him. Matteo, the vineyard’s resident charmer and, according to the staff, a notorious flirt who seemed to appear whenever there was a chance to offer advice that no one had asked for.
“I’m a little busy,” I said, gesturing toward the chaos.
“I noticed,” he replied, stepping into the room.
He spoke quickly to the contractors and pointed to the blueprint. The man holding the drill lowered it while Enzo began explaining the disagreement that had been brewing. Matteo listened for a moment, asked two brief questions, then redirected them toward another section of the wall. Within less than a minute the argument that had stalled the project for most of the morning had been settled. The contractors returned to work without further debate. Matteo brushed plaster dust from his hands and looked back at me.
“You know, in Italy we have a saying,” he said. “Chi va piano, va sano e va lontano.”
“Meaning?”
“Slow and steady wins the race,” he said with a small grin. “You Americans rush.”
I wanted to argue, but the wall was no longer being demolished and the contractors were suddenly working in the correct direction. Matteo watched them for a moment, apparently satisfied that the situation had stabilized, then nodded toward the terrace outside the kitchen doors.
“You should take a break,” he said. “Wine, fresh air. The kitchen will still be here when you return.”
I hesitated, glancing back at the room. The counters were still half dismantled and the wrong appliances sat in the middle of the floor like expensive reminders of a long morning. But the shouting had stopped and the work had begun moving in the right direction. My hands were shaking more than I wanted to admit, so I followed him outside.
A bottle of Chianti and a plate of olives were waiting on the terrace. Matteo poured two glasses and handed one to me before leaning against the railing and looking out over the vineyard as if he had nothing pressing on his schedule. I took a long sip and felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders. Behind us the sounds of the renovation continued, but for the first time that morning the noise sounded like progress rather than disaster. As I watched Matteo calmly surveying the vineyard, a realization crept into my mind that was both reassuring and slightly unsettling. He had not simply stopped the chaos in the kitchen. He had taken control of it.
