It’s after nine when Bingley comes strutting back to the estate. Is he drunk or something?
Caroline and I are in the living room partaking in Mamma’s fruit tart.
I’m instantly relieved to see my friend arrive—I’ve spent the last half an hour listening to Caroline drone on about her day of shopping in Florence, where she was privately chauffeured to La Rinascente, the famous department store. Sometimes I wonder how Charles and Caroline can be twins, different as they are.
“I hope you saved me some tart,” Bingley says, smiling from ear to ear.
“Here, take mine.” Caroline holds out her untouched plate. “Too much butter and sugar for my taste.”
“Seems perfect to me,” he replies, practically inhaling the slice in two bites.
“Where have you been all day?” I ask him. “I thought we were going to start appraising the property.”
“Giada and I took a trip to Volterra.”
I try to keep my eyebrows from arching incredulously. “And it took you this long?”
“You know how it is, one thing leads to another; we got a little lost in the city. Tomorrow afternoon, we want to go to Monteriggioni. Want to come?”
“Absolutely not,” Caroline replies. “I booked a week at a spa in Cortona with limited availability, and you can feel free to leave me there. Michael, I’m feeling generous, let me save you from all this provincial nonsense: Come with me.”
I could give her the same response she gave Bingley. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“What do you mean, disturb?”
“You’ve booked for one. They might not even have room for me.”
“I booked a double room.”
That’s one for Caroline. Now I’m forced to resort to the universal answer that begs no further replies. “I have to work.”
“Speaking of work,” my friend interjects, “have you seen the estate, Michael?”
“I have, and if you have ten minutes, I’d like to speak to you about it.”
Charles nods. “Gladly, but at least let’s go outside! It’s a splendid evening.”
“You already know what I think. I don’t want to bore myself with it. I’m going to bed,” announces Caroline, to my great relief. “These beds are not ergonomic; I’ll need physical therapy when we get home. Plus, the pillowcases aren’t even silk. I can already feel my skin shriveling!”
“Let’s go,” I exclaim, jumping from my seat, irritated by her blathering.
I follow Bingley into the kitchen, where he grabs two beers from the fridge, and we go out the back door that opens onto Mariana’s vegetable garden.
As we sit on the stone steps, the evening breeze tickles my nose, carrying with it the fragrance of rosemary and basil.
We are immersed in silence and darkness, except for the chirping of crickets and a swarm of fireflies dotting the box hedge. I could tell Bingley he’s right, it is a splendid evening, but I won’t.
“Remember when you said I should extend my trip to Italy and come here? Well, Michael, you were right; I needed this break,” he sighs, taking a sip of beer.
“Something tells me Giada has something to do with it,” I venture.
“Giadaaaaaa, Giadaaaaa,” croaks Renato, the parrot-rooster who glides between us repeating my words.
“More or less,” my friend says.
“You’ve got a crush on her again, huh? Assuming you ever got over the one you had as a kid.”
“It’s not a crush,” he replies, seriously. “When we saw each other again, something clicked. We go well together.”
