“You need to know something else,” I say. “I was wrong about Giada. It isn’t true that she isn’t interested in you—on the contrary, she was beside herself when you left. She just didn’t text you for fear of bothering you and seeming clingy.”
My friend blinks in disbelief. “Seriously?!”
“When Elisa was here for the wine fair, Giada came to give her a hand for the weekend rush. She was hoping to see you, but you were in Paris.” If this is going to be the night of amends, I want to make amends for all the mistakes I’ve made. “She never forgot about you, and I think she’s still hoping you’ll go back to her.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know you want to go back to her too and that if you’d known she was in London, you would have come back from Paris immediately.”
Charles reaches across the coffee table, grabs my laptop, and places it on his lap.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for the first flight to Florence,” he says, typing frantically. “There’s one! Tomorrow at ten, only a few seats left. I’ll book now.”
“Okay, hurry, but log out of my account first.”
“Oh no, my friend. I’m not reporting you, but the least you can do is buy me a plane ticket,” he replies, his eyes fixed on the screen. “So ... shall I get two seats?”
68
Elisa
My homecoming was acknowledged quietly, my face was enough to tell everyone that nothing had gone right in London, so they were careful not to mention the sale, the fair, or Michael.
The only good news is that they extended the Internet coverage, so now we have our much-needed Wi-Fi.
For now, I’m continuing to manage the estate without any expectations. What’s the point? In a few months, every vine will be uprooted from the earth, and our family will be left to explore other options. A new house. A new job. A new everything ...
Every so often, my mind flies to London to find Michael, and the pain that spreads across my chest takes my breath away. It’s a feeling of loss, of mourning.
His lawyer contacted me with paperwork to change Linda’s surname—it’s just paperwork, nothing personal—and to open a trust fund in her name, which she’ll be able to access when she turns twenty-five.
Michael and I discussed it during our short “honeymoon,” and in the end, he convinced me that it would only be enough money to give Linda the opportunity to do something with her life, as opposed to an invitation to do nothing for her entire life. Refusing it now would mean another confrontation with him, and I don’t have the strength for that.
“What doesHRHmean?” Foliero asks as we’re going over our accounts at the villa’s big kitchen table.
“What?” I ask, distracted.
“I got an email in English that saysHRH.”
“We must have ended up on some mailing list. Move it to spam.”
“You sure? My English isn’t perfect, but this looks like an order to me.”
I get up to stand next to him and look at the screen. Oh God ... is this a joke?By appointment of HRH The Prince of Wales, I read. “Foliero,HRHis the acronym for His Royal Highness, His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales.” This has to be a joke.
I read and reread the email, trying to tell if it’s a scam, though it doesn’t look like it.
The court supplier, at the request of His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales, would like to order a supply of sixty bottles of Chianti Classico Riserva, after Their Royal Highnesses had the pleasure of tasting it at the table of the Duke and Duchess of Burlingham.
My first instinct is to call Jemma, as we’ve exchanged numbers, to ask for her take.
“I told you I was having guests and wanted to make a good impression!” she explains, speaking very quickly and with that cockney accent of hers that distorts every word. “We practically had to pry the glass out of the prince’s hand because he couldn’t stop drinking it. With the clay pigeon shooting tournament scheduled for after dinner, we couldn’t risk having any victims.”
“So the order is real?”
“As real as the poop I just stepped in. Adorable corgis, excrement spreaders with paws. Okay, must go. I have to stop my son from eating liver-flavored dog kibble.”
