“So, is that what this is? Are you together?” I ask, horrified.
“We are spending time together,” he corrects me. “We enjoy ourselves. We like each other.”
“You’re a fucking suicide mission,” I comment, shaking my head.
“Speaking of suicide missions: Have you apologized to Elisa?”
“Let’s just say I did my best.”
Bingley elbows me in the side. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“I did it in my own way,” I insist.
“You mean, badly.”
“Even you must admit Elisa was unrecognizable, and not just because she looked like a juvenile prison warden,” I defend myself.
“You’re right about that,” he agrees. “But she practically exudes femininity now.”
“Well,exudesis a big word. She wasn’t exactly a paradigm of beauty this morning in her overalls, but I’ll admit that she has remarkable eyes—large, bright ... truly expressive. And a very sensual mouth, even if she mainly uses it to insult me.”
“You kind of deserve it, Michael.”
“Anyway, let’s get to the point.” I cut to the chase. “She and I discussed the estate. I also spoke with Mariana and Donatella to get a sense of how they manage the property, and I have two rather negative concerns to share. For starters, the late count let the estate fall into disrepair; he was more interested in his idleness and eccentricities than in taking care of his property. Elisa, Mariana, and Donatella have done everything possible to keep it up, but its general neglect is apparent—inevitable when an owner doesn’t address maintenance. Apart from the vineyard, everything here needs to be redone, and I don’t think that would work for you, given that you’ve repeatedly emphasized that you don’t want to live here full-time.”
“Exactly,” my friend agrees. “What’s the second thing?”
“It’s worse: Everyone is convinced you will be the owner who brings Le Giuggiole back to life, that you’ll move here and transform into Sting, walking through the vineyards barefoot and doing tantric sunset yoga.”
“Oh.” This time he sounds more laconic. “Perhaps I should clarify my intentions to avoid misunderstandings.”
“I wouldn’t. You’d risk starting a conflict before we can start negotiating with a buyer.”
“Do you already have someone interested?”
I nod, satisfied. “Yeah. I told you to leave me to it and it’s done.”
“Who is it?”
“Sergei Bogdanovic, the billionaire owner of the Green Star international golf courses. He’s a Saxton & D’Arcy client, and he’s looking for another golf project. He doesn’t own anything in Italy yet and has been looking at land in Veneto but hasn’t closed on anything. This property would be perfect: He could convert the vineyards into a golf course and use the villa as a clubhouse. If he likes it, he won’t haggle too much on the price.”
“Sounds fantastic to me.”
“If you want, he can come as early as tomorrow,” I say, satisfied with myself. “But to keep everything to plan, things need to stay calmaround here. I have a feeling they won’t be too fond of the idea, especially not Elisa. Just this morning she was talking to me about wanting to plant more vines.”
“She said as much to me yesterday at lunch, but I must admit I didn’t really follow her point.”
“Was Giada there too?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.”
“Enough said.”
“You see? I was right to make you come. You’ve been able to take care of all this better than I could have. I know how to produce quality fabric efficiently, but I really don’t have a head for real estate.”
As we walk back inside, there’s a knock at the main entrance. Donatella goes to open the door, and from the kitchen threshold, we spot another delegation of women asking if we’re in.
“I can’t believe it,” I mutter. “Again.”
