“Good night. And just so you know, I’d like it if Michael could be my dad,” she says, her voice thick with sleep. “It’s fine with me ... if you guys have sex.”
And suddenly I realize this isn’t just between Michael and me anymore.
41
Michael
It took me a week of nonstop work, including a few all-nighters, but I finished.
I’ve planned meticulously for tonight, fulfilling every promise I’ve ever made—even the ones from fifteen years ago.
I arrive at the annex at the agreed time, and Elisa, dressed in an evening gown, is waiting for me outside on the swing that hangs from the chestnut tree. As soon as she sees me, she jumps up, her hands on her face, which is contorted into an expression of pure amazement.
“I don’t believe it!”
I get out of the car and open the passenger door for her. “I hope you cleared your schedule through tomorrow.”
“Mauro’s Cinquecento!” she exclaims, walking around to take a better look at it. “You got it fixed.”
“Small correction: I fixed it myself. Max gave me a hand, but I did the bulk of the work. I have to say I’m quite pleased with the result.”
“You should be! It’s ... it’s extraordinary. It looks like a model car.”
“Elbow grease and sweat of the brow.”
“So that’s where you’ve been disappearing this week! Maybe you should consider a career as a mechanic.”
In fact, this little Cinquecento L in Positano yellow, with its gleaming chassis, seats smelling of wax, convertible top, and crackling twin-cylinder engine is truly a source of pride for me. I asked Max to get me four two-tone black-and-white tires, while I found a vintage wicker picnic basket with the Fiat logo on eBay: It looks great.
“Now, the question is, will your dress fit in?” I ask, nodding at the vaporous black tulle dress she’s wearing.
“I don’t know, but I can always take it off.”
“I’m tempted to let you, but let’s enjoy the evening first. Please,” I invite her to get in.
“Wait,” she says. “You’re missing something.”
“What?”
“A pocket square for your jacket.”
“They were all in the suitcase I left in the taxi,” I explain. “But at least I have this suit.”
“Here.” Elisa picks a red vine leaf and sticks it in my breast pocket. “Now you’re all set. Where are we going?”
“Where I promised to take you fifteen years ago: Florence.”
I don’t need her to say anything; the smile she flashes me is enough. I drive over the Chianti hills aflame in the sunset, the car radio accompanying us to the city of the lily, as my anxiety about driving on what to me feels like the wrong side of the road slowly dissipates.
We arrive in Florence around half past nine, right on time for dinner. We park in a garage in the city center and dive into the stream of tourists.
“I hope you’re hungry. And thirsty,” I say, taking her arm.
“Very. But I’m more curious to know why you asked me to wear an evening gown. I hope the restaurant isn’t too far away. I’m not used to wearing such high heels.”
“It’s closer than you’d think,” I reply, turning up Via Ghibellina and, after a few feet, indicating an eighteenth-century building with columns at the entrance. “It’s here.”
“You’re crazy,” she replies, seeing that we’re outside of the renowned Enoteca Pinchiorri.
