Time took on a different texture in the private suite. It was no longer the slow drip measured by the scent of antiseptic in a shared ward, but segmented by California sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, by the discreet frequency of the private nurse adjusting monitors, by the faint, distinctly "non-compliant" sounds emanating from the small, dedicated kitchenette at the end of the hall.
Lorenzo had been transferred to this top-floor VIP suite the day after his surgery. It was Elisa's doing—calm, efficient, leaving no room for argument. The suite boasted a separate living area, a bedroom for companions, and a small kitchenette, all with expansive views and excellent privacy. In her words, it was "more conducive to restorative rest and necessary visits." Of course, everyone understood the visitor list was exceedingly short, and security had been prioritized.
When Maria first stepped into the suite, the gleaming marble floors and minimalist, almost cold modern furniture nearly dazzled her. She carried a large, reusable tote bag emblazoned with the "Whole Foods" logo, stuffed to bursting.
"My goodness," she whispered to Gianluigi behind her, her eyes sweeping over the gleaming Italian espresso machine and spotless induction cooktop. "This kitchen… it looks like something from a magazine. Can you really cook in here?"
Gianluigi grunted, setting down another bag he carried, which contained his own trusted chef's knives and a heavy hinoki wood cutting board. "It's big, it's clean. Why not? Better than those flimsy plastic things."
The first conflict ignited swiftly in the "temporary kitchen." Elisa had indeed hired a nutritionist and a chef skilled in convalescent meals, who arrived daily to prepare scientifically calibrated dishes. On the first day, as the chef was precisely weighing portions of protein and fiber for a low-sodium, high-protein chicken and vegetable puree, Maria squeezed in beside him.
"Wait, dear," Maria said, patting the chef's arm and pulling a jar of her homemade, intensely fragrant basil pesto from her tote. "Just a tiny bit, for flavor. A patient needs good taste to have an appetite, no? Even an angel wouldn't eat bland boiled mush."
The nutritionist, standing nearby, adjusted his glasses, polite but firm. "Signora Costa, post-operative patients initially require strict control of fats and sodium. Homemade sauces have unspecified…"
"Unspecified? Olive oil, fresh basil, a few pine nuts, garlic, Parmigiano-Reggiano—all from my garden or the best market!" Maria's voice was low, but her hands didn't stop; she'd already scooped a tiny bit with a spoon and quickly stirred it into the chicken and vegetable mixture about to be pureed. "Just a whisper, I swear. Lighter than his pills."
The chef looked helplessly toward Elisa in the living area. Elisa, replying to emails on the sofa, didn't look up, her tone flat. "Adjust as Maria suggests. Minimal amount. Document the addition." She had tacitly sanctioned this "kitchen coup." Because she'd noticed that when Lorenzo ate the not-quite-standard puree with its hint of basil and garlic, the slight frown between his brows eased, and he managed a couple more bites than with the utterly bland food.
Thus, Maria successfully carved out a "non-compliant" corner within the professional kitchen. Her tote became a treasure chest: sun-dried family herbs, a small jar of tomato paste, even a little bag of Parmigiano rinds to add "soul" to clear broths. A delicate tug-of-war developed between her, the nutritionist, and the chef, usually resolved with excuses like "a minuscule amount," "just this once," or "he looks better today, maybe a little…" granting her localized victories. Gianluigi provided the "heavy artillery" and his handmade pasta—though the noodles were demanded to be cooked to an extremely soft, almost mushy consistency to meet dietary restrictions.
That afternoon, the tug-of-war escalated into a small domestic opera, starring Gianluigi and Maria.
The cause was Gianluigi's desire to use his small pot to make *coda alla vaccinara*, oxtail stew, a recipe he remembered as "good for the bones." The nutritionist firmly opposed, citing excessive richness and concerns that the collagen might burden the newly stabilized digestive system.
"Burden? This is my father's father's recipe! When Lorenzo broke his arm as a boy, this is what he drank!" Gianluigi's voice boomed in the quiet suite. He brandished the packet of oxtail like a battle standard.
Maria, carefully shelling a small bowl of walnuts she intended to sneak into the evening oatmeal, hissed, "Keep your voice down! Lorenzo is resting!" She lowered her voice further. "And Paolo (the nutritionist) has a point. This is about scientific care now, not your rustic family secrets!"
"Rustic? You call my stew rustic?" Gianluigi's eyes widened, his moustache bristling. "This has my heart in it! The patience of eight hours of slow simmering!"
"Sentiment isn't medicine! He needs science now, not your 'feelings'!" Maria set down her bowl of walnuts and placed her hands on her hips.
"Science? Has science put color in his cheeks? Made him eat more? Yesterday, if it weren't for my pesto…"
"Your pesto! You almost made Signor Paolo resign!"
"Good! Then we'll do it ourselves!"
"Yourself? With those baker's hands, rough as sandpaper, preparing his IV nutrition?"
Their exchange rose and fell in volume like a well-rehearsed duet. Maria flushed with indignation, Gianluigi stood his ground, neck stiff. Yet, strangely, the core of their argument always circled back to "what's best for Lorenzo," and neither truly left the kitchen area.
In the living room, Elisa's fingers paused over her keyboard. Lorenzo, propped up in bed with a tablet browsing news, was also clearly distracted.
Elisa's gaze traveled through the glass partition to the quarreling couple. Maria stood with hands on hips, yet her other hand unconsciously straightened the salt shaker Gianluigi had knocked askew in his agitation. Gianluigi, red-faced and stubborn, quickly and naturally tucked the oxtail packet back into the bottom shelf of the refrigerator when Maria turned to check the oven (where she insisted on slowly baking extremely soft apple slices), muttering, "Next week… next week when you're a bit better…"
This was not the cold calculation, the elegant detachment she was accustomed to. This was a vibrant, earthy entanglement, the cracks of their argument stuffed with unspoken care and the indestructible bond forged over decades. It was a bit loud, a bit chaotic, but… intensely real, full of warmth. Somewhere hard and empty within her was softly touched by this unfamiliar commotion, stirring a faint, almost imperceptible thread of envy.
Lorenzo seemed to sense her distraction. Following her gaze, the corner of his mouth quirked almost imperceptibly, an expression mingling resignation and deep understanding. He spoke softly, his voice still hoarse from his injuries. "They've always been like this. For forty years. Arguing over bread rise times, olive oil brands, whether to have lasagna or stew for dinner."
Elisa looked back at him. "Doesn't it… harm their relationship?"
Lorenzo gave a slight shake of his head, his eyes also on his parents. Gianluigi now sat pretending to sulk, yet he handed Maria the reading glasses she'd been searching for moments earlier. "For them, it's a form of 'communication.' The volume signifies the degree of importance." He paused, adding, "And it usually ends with my mother's 'temporary victory' and my father secretly executing his Plan B. Like that oxtail."
Elisa let out a soft "ah," looking back at the kitchen. Sure enough, Gianluigi, though seated, kept glancing at the fridge, his fingers tapping unconsciously on his knee as if planning the next "assault."
The quarrel eventually reached a temporary truce with Nutritionist Paolo's compromise (agreeing to use a minuscule amount of completely defatted oxtail broth as a special addition once that week). Peace returned to the kitchen, even a more harmonious one—Maria began asking Paolo how to apply her family secrets in a more scientifically sound way.
The privacy of the suite provided perfect cover for certain secret moments.
In the afternoon, the slanting sun warmed the living area. Under the dual influence of painkillers and fatigue, Lorenzo drifted into a light sleep. He no longer required constant monitoring; the private nurse would leave after routine checks until the next medication time.
Elisa usually used this period for work requiring deep concentration. But today, she closed her laptop, rubbing her temples, her gaze drifting inevitably toward the hospital bed.
Lorenzo slept, a faint frown still etched between his brows—the mark of persistent, dull pain. One hand lay outside the covers, fingers curled slightly.
Elisa stood and walked over silently. She didn't wake him, just watched for a moment. Then she did something utterly unnecessary, even contrary to her efficient nature—she reached out, very slowly, very gently, and brushed aside a damp strand of dark brown hair stuck to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat. Her fingertips inevitably grazed his skin, warm, pulsing with life.
Just as her fingers were about to withdraw, Lorenzo's eyelashes fluttered. His eyes opened slowly, still clouded with sleep, lacking their usual cool composure, softened into a rare, unguarded gentleness. He simply looked at her, not speaking, not moving, as if determining whether this was dream or reality.
Elisa's hand froze mid-air, her fingertips mere millimeters from his temple. Their eyes held. The air hung with dust motes in the sunlight and the distant, muffled hum of the city. The suite's soundproofing was excellent; only the faintest whisper of the air conditioning remained.
Time seemed to stretch, grow viscous. His gaze was like warm honey, slowly tracing her features, finally settling on her slightly pressed lips. There was inquiry in that look, weariness, and something deeper, darker, which she dared not examine.
Elisa's heart beat irregularly in her chest, heavy and distinct. She should withdraw her hand, break eye contact, shatter this strange silence with a question about work or recovery.
But she didn't.
Her fingertip, defying rational command, lingered for half a second more against the skin at his temple—a touch so slight it was nearly hallucinatory, a caress brief enough to be denied.
Lorenzo's Adam's apple moved almost imperceptibly. Still, he didn't move, only in the depths of his grey-green eyes, the haze seemed to thin, reflecting her image back with a clarity that unnerved her.
"Does it hurt?" she finally found her voice, soft, with a trace of huskiness she couldn't quite conceal. She withdrew her hand, tucking it naturally into the pocket of her cream cashmere cardigan as if that trespassing touch had never happened.
Lorenzo's gaze followed her hand, then slowly returned to her face. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, his voice deeper from sleep. "Better." He paused, then added, "Better than the standard nutrition."
A pointed remark, laced with faint humor. The corner of Elisa's mouth lifted into a small, genuine smile. "Maria will be pleased to hear that."
"She's already occupied the kitchen," Lorenzo stated, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Signor Paolo looked like a defeated general when he left today."
"A sweet defeat," Elisa said, leaning against the low cabinet by the window, her posture relaxing slightly. "For you."
"I know," Lorenzo said, looking at her, his voice soft yet clear.
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn't tense; it flowed with a tacit, warm understanding. Sunlight shifted across the floor, light and shadow dancing.
Just then, a soft knock sounded at the suite door, followed by Maria's deliberately cheerful, energetic voice: "Children? I've baked some (very) soft cookies! Apple sauce and banana, absolutely 'compliant'! And I've made herbal tea, helps with relaxation!"
The secret moment ended. Elisa straightened swiftly, the softness vanishing from her face, replaced by her usual composure. Lorenzo closed his eyes as if the entire waking exchange had been a dream.
Maria wheeled in a delicate cart bearing steaming herbal tea and a small plate of cookies that indeed looked exceptionally soft, almost cake-like. Her sharp eyes swept the room, lingering for a fraction of a second on her son's seemingly sleeping face and Elisa's impassive expression. She said nothing, only the smile at the corners of her eyes deepened.
"Here, dear, try some. I promise, even Signor Paolo can't find fault this time." She handed a cup to Elisa, then looked at the "sleeping" Lorenzo, sighing with deliberate loudness. "Ah, well. Seems it's just for the two of us then."
Elisa took the teacup, warmth seeping through the fine bone china. She took a sip, the fragrance of herbs spreading in her mouth. She watched Maria humming as she tidied the "non-compliant" yet love-filled jars and bottles on the kitchenette counter, then glanced at the man in the bed whose eyelashes trembled slightly in feigned sleep.
Outside the window, the San Francisco sky was a clear azure. The suite was filled with the scent of herbal tea, the faint sweetness of baked apple-banana "cookies," and that vibrant, tenacious life force particular to the Costa family.
The wounds still ached, the shadow of conspiracy still loomed, undercurrents flowed beneath the calm surface. But on this sun-drenched afternoon, in this first-class yet warmly "non-compliant" hospital suite, something was indeed growing—in a silent, steadfast manner no standard dietary plan or security protocol could ever chart.