“I think he had plans,” I say vaguely.
“It seems he went to Monteriggioni,” she replies.
“With Giada,” Regina points out. Is it me or is there a not-so-subtle contempt in her voice?
I see that my attempt to keep him out of village gossip was futile. “She went to show him around,” I say, to dilute any resentment.
“Oh, I doubt that Giada would interest him. She’s so ... how should I say it ... flashy.” Giliola purses her lips in clear disapproval. “Of course I’d never allowmylittle queen to go around the way Giada does.”
“The peppers are excellent,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“Regina is the type of girl who takes certain liberties from time to time,” she goes on. “But Giada, on the other hand, is well known in the village for her ... friendships. Let’s just say if she had to hold a banknote between her knees, she wouldn’t have a cent. My daughter is a serious girl. No man would want to marry a woman who’s been around, don’t you think, Michael?”
All I can do is nod. I don’t know Giada well enough to say more.
“Plus, it’s clear she’s looking to marry rich,” echoes Regina. “She wants to live the life of a city lady. She never left because she couldn’t afford it, but if the right lottery ticket appeared under her nose, she wouldn’t pass it up.”
“So you, Regina, you’re not looking for marriage, then ...” I venture. Whyever would I be here if not?
“It’ll be a lucky man who marries my queen! She’s a good girl. Our family is one of the most prominent in the region, the Cozzi ancestorsare among the founders of Belvedere. Glass of wine?” she asks me. “My brother-in-law makes this Vermentino on the Bolgheri vineyard.”
“I don’t ...” The answer gets stuck in my throat because the respectable queen in question has reached a foot under the table toward the crotch of my trousers.
I try to move it with my knee, but Regina perseveres, whereupon I give her a look that I believe to be rather eloquent but which she, instead, takes as encouragement, and in three seconds her other foot is next to the first.
“You know what, Mrs. Giliola, I’ll happily have a glass of that Vermentino,” I say, hoping Regina’s mother approaching to pour the wine will embarrass her enough to move her foot, except Giliola passes the task on to her daughter.
“Regi, dear, would you pour Michael some wine?”
“Gladly,” she exclaims enthusiastically. All she’d have to do is pass me the bottle, but instead she gets up and comes to my side. She tops up the wine for the other guests, and when she reaches my side, she pours the wine onto my thigh instead of into the glass.
“Oh my, how careless of me! I’m so sorry, Michael. I’ll dry you off right away,” she exclaims, grabbing the napkin to dab me.
Since I wasn’t born yesterday and until a minute ago she seemed like a girl in full possession of her faculties (mental, I wouldn’t know, but physical for sure), I’m sure her move was anything but accidental, so I jump up to prevent her from enacting whatever fantasy she has in mind.
“Ugh, what a shame!” I say, unconvincingly. “I really must go home and change.”
“Come on, Michael. It’ll be dry in no time,” says Giliola.
“Yes but the stain will set. They’re new trousers; I got them today. I’d be sorry to see them ruined.”
“We’ll wash them, and in the meantime, you can wear a pair of my husband’s.”
“I can’t possibly take advantage of your hospitality any further,” I say, trying to ward off the attempts to stop me.
“But we still haven’t eaten the drunken pig or the tart,” protests Regina.
“You’ve all been very kind, really, but there will be another time,” I reply hastily. The door, where the hell is the door? As soon as I spot it, I rush toward it as if my very life depends on it. “Everything was excellent, really. Fantastic. Dishes worthy of the best restaurants ...” I insist. Then I take off like Usain Bolt.
I take a taxi back to the estate, where, miraculously, I actually feel safe.
The heat has lifted, so I find myself lured by an old deck chair under the wooden gazebo surrounded by wisteria and the elderberry shrubs Mariana uses for her famous syrup. I could use a glass of something now.
I flop down, exhausted from the buffet, and for a good half an hour, I fall into a heavy sleep, from which I am awakened by laughter in the distance.
I crane my neck to see who it is and spot Bingley and Giada.
They’re practically waltzing up the path that leads to the garden at the back of the estate: He twirls her around, her skirt flaring, then he pulls her in for a kiss. Yes, that was irrefutably a kiss, and certainly not a shy one.
