Carlo and Angelo are two other winemakers who work with us. A few years ago, Count Umberto bought the neighboring land, so the estate’s holdings almost doubled, and we hired both of them. They could easily be retired, but they grew up working the earth, and they hate sitting around at home.
I’m afraid to say I get it. I can’t imagine spending my days doing crosswords.
While I am still observing the leaves in what I call the office—just a makeshift cubicle at the entrance to the stables—I notice a dark shadow stretching across the table.
“Mariana just baked some raisin rolls. They’re still warm. I thought you’d like a snack,” says a man’s voice behind me. “Elisa.”
I turn and see Michael behind me.
Hearing him say my name has an unexpected effect on me: My breath catches in my throat. Luckily I’m sitting down.
“Hi there. So do you finally recognize me? A little slow on the uptake, don’t you think?” I reply defensively, once I’ve recovered from my shock.
“I never could have imagined our first meeting after fifteen years would be so—”
“Grotesque?”
“Confusing,” he corrects me.
“I wasn’t confused at all,” I counter.
“You can’t expect me to have recognized you straightaway. You’re quite a bit—”
“Thinner?” I interrupt him again.
“Stop finishing my sentences. I was looking for a better way to say it, but yes, you have lost weight. Plus you were disguised by that apron and hat.” He holds out the raisin roll. “It has vanilla sugar on it.”
“Still incapable of saying sorry, huh?”
He leans against my desk, arms folded. “You’re the only person I know who would make assumptions over a pastry roll.”
One thing I’ve always envied about Michael is that he’s practically bilingual, which has made it difficult for me to win our verbal duels. That much, at least, doesn’t seem to have changed.
“I already had breakfast,” I reply indifferently. Feigned indifference, because I’m hungry and the roll smells like heaven, but I won’t accept it out of pride. I can’t let him buy my forgiveness with pastry.
Michael places it on the table in front of me. “Maybe you’ll want a snack later.”
We stand there, staring at each other in silence, me sitting on my stool, him standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he says.
“Certainly not my fault,” I tell him.
“We could talk.”
I stand up, even though it gives me no height advantage whatsoever since he’s still several heads taller than I am. “I have to work,” I reply matter-of-factly. “The vineyards are waiting for me.”
“Let me go with you. I’m curious to see Le Giuggiole again after so many years.”
“I’m going on horseback,” I point out.
“So what?”
“Have you seen yourself? You can’t ride dressed like some city boy in your suit trousers and leather shoes.”
“I’m not going to work in the city.”
