“Very good. I’m Graziana Armaroli Ricasoli, but everyone calls me Graziella.”
“More like Drisella,” I murmur, but Donatella hears me and elbows me in the ribs.
“Easy, dear,” she hisses.
Graziana holds out the back of her ringed hand to us. “Well?” she asks impatiently.
“Well, what?” repeats Donatella.
“I’m a countess. Are we no longer kissing hands?” Graziana, outraged, turns to her husband. “Ferdy! They won’t kiss my hand.”
“Women don’t kiss other women’s hands,” points out Donatella, an etiquette teacher.
“What about a bow? Or a curtsy?” asks Ferdy.
“We never once bowed for Count Ricasoli,” I point out. “And in any case, the title lapsed with Umberto’s death—he had no direct heirs.”
“What?” Graziana doesn’t like this news at all. “Ferdy, do something! I’ve already ordered the business cards and a letterhead. Write to the prime minister. Indeed, no, to the president of the Republic!”
“Don’t hold your breath waiting for an answer,” I say.
Graziana withdraws her hand in a huff. “We have a lot of work to do here when it comes to manners,” she comments, throwing her cigarette onto the pavement and crushing it with her sky-high heel.
Le Giuggiole isn’t mine. I have no rights to the property, but I grew up here and the Armarolis’ lack of respect is already making me hate them. I wish I could make her pick up that cigarette butt with her tongue.
“So?” she says brusquely, clapping her hands as if we were dogs. “Are you going to show us the house or not?”
Donatella scrutinizes them icily. “Follow me.”
Mamma and I join the convoy, a few steps behind.
“If these are the new owners, I’ll resign,” she mutters. “I’ll definitely resign.”
“Why waste such an excellent opportunity to spit on their plates?”
“I actually have some soup on the stove.”
Donatella leads the way into the reception room. “This is the foyer. Behind that door is the private living room.”
“What a hideous painting,” comments Graziana, indicating the object of her disgust hanging over the fireplace.
“It’s a Chagall,” Donatella points out, annoyed.
Graziana frowns. “Who?”
“Marc Chagall,” she repeats, edging toward implosion. “I had the honor of meeting the maestro in 1978, in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, during my honeymoon.”
“Well, tell him to come take it back; it’s awful. There should be a portrait of Count Armaroli Ricasoli in the foyer. And maybe some leopard-skin rugs instead of these old carpets.”
Not surprisingly, Ferdy nods. “Darling, you have impeccable taste, as always.”
Donatella sighs, trying to maintain control of herself. “If you’ll go upstairs, I’ll show you the primary suite.”
“I’d rather go downstairs,” Ferdy objects. “I’d love to see the legendary cellars.”
“I look after the cellars,” I say. The cellars are my sanctuary, the idea of letting this troglodyte down there annoys me to death. I could turn off the lights, push him down the stairs, and make it look like an accident ...
“Ah, a woman,” he notes with a skeptical air.
