“I have to redo my make-up. I look like a panda,” she grumbles and opens the cabinet with such vehemence that she knocks everything off the sink, including the tests.
“Nooo!” exclaims Giada, bending over to pick up the two sticks. Luckily my daughter is in such a hurry to get back to Tommaso that she leaves without asking any questions.
“Do you remember which one is yours?” I ask her.
“How would I do that? They’re identical!”
In the next minute, the wordPregnantappears on one of the two.
“Now we know which one is yours,” I say.
“What if it’s not mine?” she asks, gripped by anxiety.
“Well, it can’t be mine,” I say.
“Okay, I’ll take the last one in the box,” says Giada.
“Look, I have to go downstairs. I’ll see you later. Good luck,” I say, kissing her on the forehead and going back to the party.
It’s a splendid Saturday in June, and the intense blue sky makes the freshly painted villa stand out in the most cinematic way.
I can’t help but admire it with pride. Le Giuggiole, by Elisa Benetti ...
Michael beckons to me from under the wisteria canopy. He holds out his hand and takes me in his arms, swaying us to the rhythm of the music.
“Where did you disappear to?”
“I was with Giada.”
“Ah, I see, girl stuff.”
“More or less,” I say. “Hey, is that Carletto I see drinking wine?” I ask, shocked. “He never drinks alcohol.”
“He’s dying to become a dad.”
“And what do you think about that?” I ask him, not hearing any hints of disapproval in his tone.
“I think he might be on to something ... I’d like a big family too,” he adds, surprising me.
“Yeah, but we have so much to do now with the estate,” I say. “The vineyard, the cellar, the resort, the events ... The vineyard ...”
“You already said ‘vineyard.’ By the way, the newlyweds are very happy—you did a magnificent job.”
“Not to brag but ... I know,” I gloat. “But I can’t take all the credit—I also have an exceptional associate.”
“Ah, so is that how I should introduce you? As my associate?”
“Why not? I like it.”
“What about ‘my great love’? No good?”
“A little much. It sounds fake,” I reply, turning up my nose.
“And the classic ‘my wife’?”
“It makes us sound old.”
“How about ‘Mrs. D’Arcy’?”
