“Neither is he.”
“We’ll get over it,” I say shortly, turning to leave. “We’re two adults who have each made our own decisions.”
“Or you’re two flipping idiots.”
“What do you mean you can’t approve the loan?” I blurt out.
I’m in the bank manager’s office, having arrived all cheerful and confident with the orders from the fair, but after his quickexamination of the documents, all my hopes vanished the moment he shook his head.
“You asked me to bring you some orders, and I did!” I insist.
“Of course, Elisa, but the problem is that this isn’t enough,” he explains. “I was hoping you’d have something better.”
“Better than this?! Where ...” I start looking through the folder. “Here it is.” I wave a piece of paper under his nose. “Better than an order from the Prince of Wales? Can you give me the name of another winery you know that has His Royal Highness among its customers?”
“It’s only sixty bottles,” he points out.
“But in this case, maybe we should look at the quality of the customer, rather than the amount ordered.”
“And what guarantee would the quality of the customer give us?”
“Okay,” I say, angrily gathering all my documents. “I understand. I won’t waste any more of your time. I thought I might have a little support from you, since you knew my father, but obviously I was wrong.”
“Elisa, don’t take it personally.”
“And how should I take it? My whole life is here,” I say, waving the folder in front of him.
“I know, but as I said, we don’t have enough guarantees, and you don’t have a guarantor—”
“Who said she didn’t have a guarantor?” asks Donatella, entering the office without bothering to knock. Her pastel suit clashes with the director’s sterile gray-black office, not to mention the cloud of Chanel N°5 and hairspray that envelops her. “Sorry, treasure, I would have come earlier but the hairdresser took forever,” she says, sitting in the armchair next to me.
“Donatella, what are you doing here?” I ask.
“Le Giuggiole has been my home all these years too, and you, Giada, Mariana, and Linda are my family. I have no desire to go back to living alone in that gloomy Milan apartment my last husband left me. How much time do I have left? Twenty? Twenty-five years? I want to live them well and be where I want to be, and I want to be here withyou.” She looks at the manager again. “Do I have enough to qualify as her guarantor?”
“More than enough!” he exclaims. He holds out the loan documents, along with a pen, which she eyes in horror.
“I’ll use mine, thanks,” she says, removing the cap from a Tiffany fountain pen.
“Stop,” I say, sliding the papers away. “I really appreciate the gesture and the kind words, but I can’t let you do this.”
“You need a loan; I need a house,” she replies. “And I’m not asking for your permission. At my age, I don’t need anyone’s permission.”
Christ, what a situation. “Donatella”—I sit next to her, addressing her in the gentlest tone I can manage—“you realize, don’t you, that if I can’t repay the loan, the bank will take all your money?”
“I know, but I also know that that won’t happen and that you’ll be more than capable of repaying the loan on your own. I don’t have any children. If I don’t risk my assets for you, who will I do it for?”
“Don’t do it at all.”
“Don’t you remember what I said? Money is boring if you don’t do anything with it. At least now I can put it to good use.”
“Donatella, I really don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes!” She pulls the papers out of my hands. “Now, would you rather buy the estate or spend the rest of your life regretting that you didn’t?”
I breathe in and out, making peace with my inner demons. “I’ll buy it.”
69
