“I’m sorry, man, I hate to get in the middle of these things, but you know what they say: If you can imagine it ...”
“You were harsh but fair. I would have jumped into another relationship and been taken for a ride. To that end, I’m in agreement with my sister that we should sell.”
“But ... but are you sure?”
“Without question. I thought you were all for us selling and cashing in.”
“I wouldn’t want you to make a rash decision,” I say in an attempt to temper what, for the first time since I’ve known Bingley, appears to be unassailable resolve.
“I’ve thought about it. Don’t worry. You’ve already contacted Bogdanovic, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I spoke to his attorney. He’s keen and waiting for a proposal,” I share reluctantly.
“Well, then I’m in your hands, Michael. Do you need me or can you manage it on your own?”
I sigh, a weight settling in my stomach. “Leave it to me.”
44
Elisa
At the end of the harvest, we have a ritual: Everyone who has taken part—that is, me, Foliero, Carlo, and Angelo, plus the usual eleven seasonal workers who join us—celebrates with a dinner in the vineyard.
Foliero is a master of grilled, bone-in Florentine steak.
We are exhausted but extremely satisfied; we harvested excellent grapes at a higher yield than we expected.
Obviously there’s also Michael, our honorary picker, my daughter Linda, and Tommaso, who wanted to earn some extra money for Lucca Comics and Games in November.
She’s happy and so am I, although I’m always watching them with eyes on the back of my head to make sure their hands are visible at all times.
Everyone loved working with Michael. He has a great work ethic with a surprising tenacity. It’s true that as a kid he liked working with his hands, but I didn’t think he was still so rugged and energetic under those designer suits. Did he want to impress me? Why? I’m already here, wobbly in the knees whenever he looks at me!
Like now.
His furtive glances and half smiles when we’re in other people’s company drive me crazy. They seem to say:If only we were alone, what I would do to you ...
It’s a beautiful night, it’s almost eleven, and the air is still balmy for mid-September, the little lights hanging between the rows of vines reflecting on the glasses and bottles of wine, while we attack a thirst-quenching late-summer watermelon.
“Does anyone want more?” asks Mamma, the dinner’s honorary godmother.
A mass of hands go up around the table, and she shakes her head. “I only asked to be polite. Now I have to go and get it!” she snorts. The industrial fridge where we store the fruit is in the former barn, not very close for those who have to carry a whole twenty-pound watermelon. “Who’s coming with me?”
“I’ll come, Mariana,” Michael offers in a burst of chivalry, leaping to his feet to help her.
“Elisa, can you go with him?” she asks me. “My back hurts.”
Mamma has a sixth sense for the dating game, and although I haven’t gone into detail about what’s been going on between Michael and me, she senses that something is different.
We walk toward the barn, and once we’re at a safe distance from the group, our hands automatically search for each other.
“I think your mother sent us a very veiled message,” he observes.
“Like all the women of Belvedere, she can’t resist the temptation to pair off single people.”
“But you’re not single,” Michael says, shooting me a mischievous look.
“She doesn’t know that yet.”
