“Let’s just say I’m married to the vineyard,” I sigh, stretching out my hand to caress the trellis with its lush leaves.
“Does it take up that much of your time?”
“I am the giver in the relationship, but the love is mutual,” I say. “We have twenty-five hectares of vines and olive groves ... but I don’t want to bore you.”
“No, go on. I want to hear more.”
“Good to know. Le Giuggiole needs someone to take an interest in it, and Carletto is the perfect person to bring it back to its former glory. He told us you’d help him appraise the estate.”
“He has no experience in property matters and I do, so I’m lending him my skills. Talking about real property value, do you have a range in mind?”
“With regards to land, I can tell you that ours is zoned historic, appraised at around one hundred and fifty thousand euros per hectare—that alone would be around four million. If you add the seventeenth-century villa with twenty rooms, I think we’re closer to around five million.”
Michael’s grimace contorts into a look of admiration. “I didn’t imagine that a vineyard would be worth so much.”
“It’s not just any old vineyard in some random place,” I say. “Maybe in London you have other standards, but I can assure you that this is a very respectable property.”
“Yes, sorry, that didn’t come out right.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “That happens to you often, it seems.”
“I’m more of a city guy.”
“You don’t say.” I roll my eyes. “Do you remember when I was nine and got my appendix out? You drove me around in the tractor bed all summer. You drove it for miles, back and forth across the estate. Have I jarred your memory or did they brainwash you?”
“It’s true, but you can’t deny that at least then, even though I was only twelve, I was a real gentleman.”
“It’s true. In fact, I think I prefer the twelve-year-old Michael. As an adult, you leave a lot to be desired.”
“And you don’t even try to hide your disdain.”
“Nor did you last night.”
“You haven’t forgiven me yet?”
“I’m thinking you should do some kind of penance,” I retort.
“I sense a certain sadism in your voice. Should I be worried?”
“Mmm ... maybe.” I still don’t know what to make him do, but I’m thinking about it.
“Like that time you made me put nettles in my underwear?”
“You remember that?” I ask, amazed.
“How could I forget it! I couldn’t sit for a week. I had a big purple butt like a macaque.”
“You deserved it. You put salt in my goldfish’s bowl! Poor Pallino, he died such a horrible death.”
“I thought he’d be more comfortable in salt water.”
A crescendo of shouts from the villa interrupts our conversation. I can’t tell what’s happening from where we are, but I sense a strange commotion.
“What’s going on?” asks Michael.
“I have no idea. Let’s go see,” I suggest, turning my horse around. “I hope it’s not the cousins from Pontassieve, back with an army of lawyers to claim the property.” As we get closer, my suspicions are proven wrong. “Oops ... well, Michael, maybe the cousins from Pontassieve would have been better. You’re about to find out why firsthand.”
“That doesn’t sound very reassuring,” he says, dismounting from his horse.
