Bianca looks out at the vineyards and lifts a brow. “Hard life.” Color blooms on her cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“It didn’t look like this when we lived here,” I say, amused. I gesture to the far side of the vineyard. “We lived down thatway. When my father passed, my mother sold it to the man who owned this property. I bought it back years ago.” I pop a cherry into my mouth.
“I always loved this home when I was a child, so I made it my own.”
I don’t mention that the man constantly made passes at my mother, despite being married. I don’t mention that he skimped on her and offered her well below what the house was worth.
She had no choice but to take it. She needed the money to start a new life in the US, and he knew it.
I also don’t mention that I bought the property next door, opened my own winery, and slowly ran him out of business before snatching it up when he had no other options.
“Is the juice fresh?” she asks after a moment of silence, tapping a finger against the glass.
“It is.”
“You squeezed it.”
“I did.”
She furrows her brow, confused. “Why?”
“I like fresh-squeezed juice,” I say. But I don’t leave it there. “And because last night was…a lot. You need to sit, eat, breathe.”
She holds my eyes for a beat too long, then looks down. “I am sitting and eating. And breathing.”
“Now you are,” I say.
Her lips twist briefly. She eats. I do too. The wind moves the edge of her robe over her knee.
“You’re still nervous,” I say, not as a challenge, just to tell the truth out loud.
Her fork clicks against the plate. “I’m not…nervous,” she says, which is true and not true. “I’m trying not to be someone I don’t respect.”
“Which someone is that?”
“The one who can’t look her boss in the eye the next morning.” She flushes hard as soon as it’s out. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I did mean, you are—”
“I know what I am,” I say, quietly.
“I’m not a coward,” she says, softer.
“You aren’t,” I agree.
She puts the fork down like it weighs more than it does. “I feel…confused. And embarrassed, which I hate. I never feel embarrassed about wanting anything in a kitchen.” She scrapes sauce with the bread but doesn’t eat it. “Or about wanting food in general. Last night, I wanted… what I did.”
“And today?” I ask.
“Today,” she says, then sighs. “Today, I keep thinking—what did I do. Which is stupid. I know what I did. I’m just…having that morning brain where all the worst versions of the story play in my head.”
“Ah,” I say, and she looks up.
“Ah, what?”
“I was going to ask if you know how easy you are to read right now,” I say. “But that would be unkind. You’re not easy to read. You’re honest. Your face tells the truth before you can edit it out.”
“That’s not a compliment,” she says, but she doesn’t sound angry.
“It is from me,” I say. “I’ve been in too many rooms where lies are expected, are the default. I like seeing the real thing. I respect it.”
