43
Michael
Elisa taught me how to identify ripe bunches, how to prune them with the billhook, and how to place them in boxes without damaging the grapes.
It’s hard, physical work that I can feel in my legs, arms, and back, and that means I won’t be at the gym for at least a month.
But it’s fun, and I don’t feel tired in Elisa’s company.
We work side by side, me on one row and her on the one behind me, and as we work, she tells me about prior harvests, the best ones, the hardest ones, about when her father was still there ... She barely stops for air between one word and the next.
In fact, this is why I interrupt her.
“Will you stop kissing me? We’re working!” she asks in a mock annoyed tone. I know she’s not actually annoyed, because she does nothing to escape.
“I’m trying to give you a break.”
“I don’t need a break.”
“You’ve been talking for forty minutes. Rest your tongue for a minute,” I insist, capturing her lips with mine. I love the taste of her. I want to kiss her all over.
“I’m not resting it like this,” she laughs. “Hey, are you harassing your boss?”
“A bit.”
“I should summon you to my office,” she threatens, pointing a finger at my chest.
“I can’t wait.”
While I’m in the shower—which is cold, as usual, though I’m used to it now—I get a call from Bingley. Because of the connectivity issues, I’ve started keeping my phone on the bathroom windowsill, the only place it gets a bar, to avoid more unannounced visitors like my exes.
“Hey, Charles!” I greet him, breathless and dripping.
“Michael, am I bothering you?” he asks in a voice that sounds distant and crackling.
“Not at all. I was relaxing in the shower. We started the harvest today.”
“What do you meanwe? What do you have to do with the harvest?”
“I’m picking grapes too.”
“You’re joking!”
“And get this—I’m actually enjoying it. Elisa taught me.”
Charles chuckles. “I told you you’d have your own problems to worry about.”
“Did you call to talk about me or about you?” I scoff. Of course he was right, but I wasn’t ready to admit it.
“Right. I wanted to let you know I’ve decided to stay in London. I’m not going back to Italy.”
“Ah,” I reply dryly. “I, however, would like to talk to you about the estate,” I say.
“What about it?”
“I don’t know if you should sell: It’s a high-yielding farm, it makes excellent wine, it’s well managed. There’s no need for an owner to livehere permanently. You could come every now and then, plus Giada’s here, at least until she goes to London.”
“Well, you were right about Giada all along. When I left, I restrained myself from texting her, just to see how much she cared to reach out, and guess what? She disappeared. Barely showed signs of life. Even this morning, when I told her I wouldn’t be coming back, she didn’t show any emotion, she just said, ‘Ah, okay, let me know when you’re coming,’ and that was it.”
