I’m about to reply that it would be a scene I’d happily watch with popcorn and a Coke, when, in the silence, I hear someone talking.
“Giada, listen,” I say.
“What?”
I point my finger toward the ceiling, in the direction of the voice. “Do you hear a man speaking?” It’s definitely a man, judging by the baritone.
Giada nods. “Yeah, I hear it. It’s coming from outside, though.”
We open the window and now the voice seems as if it’s coming right from ... the roof?!
I can’t quite make out what they’re saying, just something about a Bogdanovic, or rather, I think it’s Bogdanovic. Giada and I open the shutters and hear a scream followed by a figure falling right before our eyes.
We look down, and on the pile of enriched fertilizer bags Mamma uses for her geraniums is Michael, splayed out with his cell phone in one hand. Next to him is an overturned ladder.
“Do you think he’s dead?” Giada asks me, worried, though he answers by letting out a hoarse moan.
I race down to the courtyard, where Michael is still recovering from his fall. “Were you trying to kill me?” he asks as soon as he sees me.
“What the hell were you doing up there?” Luckily the annex only has two stories, and Mamma always has a nice supply of fertilizer ready to go.
“I had to send some work emails and take a few video calls.”
“And to do that, you decided to climb a ladder to our roof?”
“That’s the only place there seems to be a signal.”
“How did you know that?” I ask him.
“Linda, Donatella’s great-niece. Big help around here.”
“Too big.” If I superglued my daughter’s lips together, would child services come after me? “So you’re making millions on our roof?”
“No ... it was nothing important ... a regular call. Hey, how about you and I get a pizza tonight?”
He comes out with this invitation so casually, out of nowhere, that it catches me off guard. “What?”
“To chat, catch up on all these years we’ve missed. Weren’t we friends once, or am I mistaken?”
“You’re not mistaken, but we’ll have to do it some other time.”
“Are you busy?” he asks, finally getting to his feet.
“I’m not, you are,” I reply cryptically.
“I am?” Michael frowns, confused. “I have absolutely no plans.”
“You’re having dinner at Regina Cozzi’s,” I reply with a devilish grin.
“I haven’t planned any dinner, and I assure you I haven’t lost my memory in the fall.”
“You’re right; you didn’t plan a thing. I did.”
“You?”
“Yeah. And tomorrow you’re having an aperitif with Intemerata and then a picnic with Pompilia.”
“I don’t have any suitable clothes,” he replies with an obvious excuse. “I still don’t have my suitcase, and my only shirt has now been fertilized.”
