“Do you know who he is?” Foliero interjects excitedly. “He’s the owner of the Bloom International Hotels.”
I’m about to have a stroke. The Blooms?! “My pleasure; it’s an honor have you here, sir.”
“Call me Sebastian. How many bottles do you make a year?” he asks, pointing to the Gran Riserva that Foliero poured for him.
“Twenty thousand,” I say promptly. “But this year, we made twenty-three,” I immediately add when I notice a slight grimace of disappointment on his face.
“I’m glad to see you’re doing well,” says Michael.
“Well, we haven’t gotten an eviction notice from the new owner yet, so I try to enjoy what I can in the moment.” I move closer to him so that Sebastian doesn’t hear us. “Even if I end up with nothing, it doesn’t mean I can’t give my all until the end. Our wines deserve an international showcase, even if it will be the last one they’ll ever have.”
“No doubt. How’s Linda?”
“She’s studying, getting excellent grades, and we’re looking at some high schools here in England that offer merit scholarships. As you can see, I’m doing just fine.”
“I know you don’t want any interference from me, but know that whatever she needs, I’m at her disposal. I don’t mean financially—that is, not only financially.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
We look at each other in silence, with Sebastian and Foliero in the background chatting about the difference between maturation in French oak and Slavonian oak, and I have the feeling that we have a lot more to say to each other, but neither of us has the courage to begin.
“You’re busy, so we’ll leave you to it,” he says. “I hope everything goes well.”
“Thanks. Have a good time.”
No “goodbye,” no “see you soon.”
Michael nods at me and walks away with Sebastian, whom Foliero honored with our famous corkscrew and one of our bottles in a wooden case.
“Of course if Bloom put in an order with us ...”
“Foliero, I visited the bigger pavilion. There is no competition between them and us ... they’re not selling wine. They’re selling a lifestyle.”
An hour later, without too much enthusiasm and still shaken by the meeting with Michael, I send Foliero on his lunch break.
“Shall I bring you a sandwich?” he offers.
“No, they’re disgusting, and I’m not hungry anyway. Take your time. There’s not much to do here.”
I sit, staring into space, looking but not seeing, lost in a sea ofWhat ifs ... andBut thens ... to the point that my eyes start to sting.Tears, you will not get the better of me.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, so I rub my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Foliero, you could have taken ten more ...” But it’s not Foliero. “Minutes ...”
It’s Michael.
“Could we have dinner together tonight?” he asks with a nervousness I haven’t felt in him before. “With the best possible intentions. I’d like to talk to you.”
57
Michael
I wasn’t holding my breath, but in the end, she said yes.
I’m waiting for Elisa at the restaurant—I reserved a lounge so we could have some privacy—and I’m feeling a bit rude for not having arranged to pick her up, though I didn’t want her to think this was a date.
When I see her, I get up to greet her. “You look great,” I say. She’s wearing jeans and a blue striped shirt, but she looks gorgeous.
