I wasn’t exactly expecting praise, but Michael’s comment still takes me off guard.
“You were friends,” objects Carletto. “And she’s changed a lot.”
“Yes, Bingley, but Elisa was always a tomboy, not some great beauty. I can see why you’d fancy Giada, but Elisa’s personality is all she has going for her.”
I stare bitterly at the bottle of Colli Senesi in my hands. In three blows, Michael has managed to strike down what little self-esteem I had.
“Hey,” Lucia consoles me, lifting my chin. “You don’t care what someone you haven’t seen in fifteen years thinks of you, eh?”
“Noo! Why would I?” I wish I really believed that, but inside I’m burning with rage. All-consuming rage.
I leave the tent but without the bottle.
“Sorry, my wine?” Michael asks arrogantly.
“I’m sorry, all I have to offer is my personality, but I’m sure one of your beautiful London ladies will fetch it. Asshole.”
I tear off my apron emblazoned with the words “Pianigiani Award-Winning Charcuterie” with the motto “Even a shoe is delicious if it’s fried” and throw it at him. My shift is decidedly over.
7
Michael
“Michael, what’s with that face?” Bingley asks when I join him.
“I think I’ve just made what Oxford might define as ‘a total ass of myself,’” I snort. “Do you remember when I said all Elisa had going for her was her personality and that in London I can find all the beautiful women I’d ever want?”
“How could I forget? That was all of five minutes ago. Why?”
“Well, Elisa heard me. She was the woman at the drinks counter who took my wine order.”
Rather than commiserate with me, Bingley bursts out laughing. “And you didn’t recognize her?”
“Who can recognize a person after fifteen years, especially when they’re disguised with an apron and a hairnet?” I reply, piqued.
Bingley picks up a spade leaning against the wall and hands it to me. “Here.”
“What do you expect me to do with this?”
“Dig yourself a grave,” he says, laughing. “Or smack yourself in the head.”
“I appreciate your support.”
“Among other things, Elisa is more than a wee bit touchy. If you offend her, you might get a deathbed pardon.”
“I can imagine,” I mutter.
“Sorry!” he offers.
“You know I’m no good at apologizing,” I reply. It’s just not in me. I hate apologizing, and even if I did it, it should be spontaneous, not out of obligation.
“You’re allergic to three phrases: ‘Excuse me,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘I made a mistake.’ But know that just because you never admit you’re wrong doesn’t mean you’re never wrong.”
“I’ll think about it,” I murmur through gritted teeth.
“Come up with a nice speech and deliver it tomorrow,” Charles exclaims, impervious to my sarcasm. “And if I don’t see you around tomorrow, I’ll call the homicide detectives, because when Elisa’s done with you, there won’t be anything left to do but identify your body.”
8
