“I signed it, but I still have to send it,” he replies, chewing.
“Don’t do it,” I tell him slowly.
“Why?”
“Because you need to accept.”
“Do I?” Charles says to me in a surprised tone, after swallowing. “But I just told you—the cons outweigh the pros.”
“You accept and then sell the estate to the highest bidder,” I exclaim, seizing a nigiri and brandishing it at him like a weapon. “Listen to me: Why give away the property to relatives you don’t even know? With the profit, you can get a nice house in Primrose Hill, where you can raise your future family, and Caroline, with her share, will buy her penthouse in Nice, and you can finally get away from her.”
“It does make sense,” he concedes. “But selling is also a chore I don’t want on my hands: Finding a realtor, buyers who make offers and disappear, months of waiting, endless negotiations ...”
“Saxton & D’Arcy is full of potential buyers for an estate in Chianti.”
“Seriously?” he asks me, relieved.
“Seriously. Let me handle it, and I’ll find the fastest and best way to get it off your hands.”
“You have carte blanche, Michael. You know I’d trust you with my life.”
“The only thing I’d ask you is to do an inspection for me and check the building regulations to see if there’s any potential for renovation.”
“Me? I deal in fabrics, not real estate investments.”
“You’ll be in Italy next week, right? Extend your stay and take a detour to Tuscany.”
“You’d have to come too! You have a month’s vacation. Spend it on the estate and take advantage of it to close the deal. If you can really find me a buyer that quickly among your clients, think what a great impression you’ll make when you return.”
“Honestly ...” I’d like to object, but his proposal is unassailable. He has a good reason, and it’s not like I don’t have the time now.
“Don’t say no, Michael. You know I’m right. How do you want to spend this time? It will be over before you know it. You always make fun of me for being a creature of habit, but you are too. It’s impossible to extract you from your routine. Go, see it, sell it. End of story.”
Indeed. How else could this end? I’ll go, see it, sell it. End of story.
4
Elisa
It’s almost sunset when a speeding red sedan almost hits me out of nowhere.
A middle-aged couple gets out of the car as soon as it parks on the edge of the driveway, right on top of Mamma’s beloved begonias. She’s already glaring at them.
“We’ve come to take possession of the estate,” the man announces, taking off his sunglasses like he’s some kind of movie star. “I’m Ferdinando Armaroli Ricasoli, and this is my wife. You are the servants, I imagine.”
The famous Ricasolis of Pontassieve.
Donatella, Mamma, and I stare at them rigidly from under the colonnade. We’re employed here, but describing us as servants doesn’t exactly curry our favor. We can’t be bought and sold.
“Welcome to Le Giuggiole,” Donatella greets them coldly in her capacity askeeper of the house, as she likes to call herself.
“Ferdy, am I wrong or is the villa smaller than in the photos?” asks the woman, with her lips puckered in disapproval. “I thought it was a noble palace.”
“I can assure you, as someone who cleans every inch of it, it’s not exactly small,” Mamma replies.
“And you are?” asks the woman, looking her up and down.
“Mariana Monteleoni, cook, waitress, and second housekeeper.”
