“No. Not now,fornow. It’s different,” she objects. “We’re in a temporary truce.”
“Ah, yes, one month to reevaluate the estate and tie up Bingley to stop him from selling it.”
“If it can happen to me, there’s a good chance it can happen too to you,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember? I wanted to go to Milan, get a master’s degree in publishing, work with a large publishing house, travel ... Then Linda was born, and I had to give it all up. I haven’t always loved this place, you know? In fact, I even hated it for a while.”
“From the way you talk about it now, you wouldn’t think so.”
“When my daughter was born, I didn’t know how to be a mother. I wanted her, I kept her, I felt sorry for her while she was hospitalized, and then, after they discharged us, I was overcome by this wave of negativity. What was I thinking? How could I love a daughter who was the obstacle to all my dreams? And this village with all its gossip had become so suffocating. I knew what a mess I’d gotten myself into, and I felt doubly shitty because not only was I a failure, but I’d also implicated this little girl who hadn’t asked to be born. I did nothing but walk around the estate in the grip of my demons, so much so that in two months, I lost all the weight I’d gained during pregnancy.”
“What changed your mind, then?”
“It was mybabbo. One evening he took me by the hand and asked if he could walk with me. And I just started sobbing, because I felt like I’d hit a dead end. What else could I do with my life, besides be a mother?” Elisa sighs, and I can see in her eyes how much she misses her dad. “He was a simple man, a farmer, and I mean that in the best way possible. He was grounded in the earth, he spoke the same language as nature, so he started talking to me about the vineyard. ‘Do you know that a vine takes seven years to produce its first grapes after it’s planted? Seven. Like a child going to school. Before that, nothing or very little. But over those seven years, it must be cared for every day. A winemaker isn’t born a winemaker, and a vineyard doesn’t immediately bear fruit. Patience is learned, Elisa, and love grows along with it.’”
“Your dad was a man of few words, but I think he was wise enough to speak only when he knew the right thing to say,” I observe.
“That’s how he was. Then he broke a leaf off a vine and put it in my hand. He said it was a plant that represents devotion, protection, and strength because it’s robust and resists everything, like life. Then he said, ‘As of tomorrow, you’ll come to the vineyard with me. You’re not made to stay at home and stare at the wall.’ Babbo was right: I learned patience, and day after day, seeing the bunches ripen, I fell in love with it too.”
“You’ve always been tenacious,” I reply after polishing off my second slice of pizza. “I had other plans too, but my brother’s death scuppered everything.”
“You two never ended up getting along, did you?” Elisa knows that from the time we were kids, there was no love between George and me. We were like strangers forced to share space and time against our will.
“It got even worse as we grew up. He was always a shrewd and calculating opportunist, eager to take advantage of anyone he associated with. He had those blond curls and blue eyes, that angelic face with so much charisma. He knew how to sell himself. The Bingleys had a way of keeping his bluster in check when they were our guardians. But once George turned eighteen and got his inheritance, he started traveling allaround Europe, squandering his capital down to the last penny on luxury cars, yachts, casinos, ‘expensive’ women, and then, finally, drugs. It started as a way of fitting into his social circles, then it became a habit, and it ended with addiction.”
“Drugs? I ... I had no idea,” Elisa gasps.
“He ended up broke, came back to London, and when I inherited my share, he asked me for money. Being the eighteen-year-old idiot I was, I gave him a property in Dorset. He sold it and was penniless again within six months. He begged me for more cash, and after I said no, we basically stopped speaking. We agreed that I’d manage the D’Arcy properties, while he would head up the financial consulting firm. It could have been incredibly profitable had he not squandered it all on gambling, coke, and whores. In the last year, I never saw him sober; he was doing a hit every hour because he couldn’t handle the comedown. One night he thought it was a good idea to join a drag race and slammed into a wall at two hundred miles an hour with his McLaren P1. To protect Saxton & D’Arcy, I passed it off as an unfortunate accident. I worked hard to clean up his mess and took over the company. I would have probably done something else if I’d had the choice, but life had other plans.”
Elisa nods with a sad smile. “Our lives have been more similar than we thought.”
“But, like you, I’ve learned to appreciate change,” I say.
“But your whole life isn’t on the line. If I can’t convince you that Le Giuggiole is a valid investment, you’ll sit Bogdanovic down in front of Carletto with a million-euro check, and I’ll be left homeless with a mother and daughter who depend on me.”
“That’s why you have my utmost attention. When do you start persuading me?”
“I’ve already started: with a pizza,” she replies, pointing to the last slice.
“I could be convinced if you leave me that last one,” I insinuate.
“What happened to that famous English gallantry?”
“There’s not enough gallantry in the world to resist Mariana’s pizza,” I reply. “But since I’m feeling generous, we can split it,” I say, handing it to her.
“I’m in.” She grabs a corner of the crust to tear, and in that instant our fingers touch.
It’s only for a second, but it unsettles me and leaves a strange tingling sensation on my hand. It’s our first physical contact, skin on skin, as adults.
She also looks strange, but I don’t dare ask why. I stare at her in a daze, studying her features until I find the Elisa I knew. I’d never noticed how thick her hair was, because as a girl she wore it very short, and since I returned she’s always worn it pulled back. Her thick eyebrows that she furrows when I make her angry are still there, more expressive than ever, together with the eyelashes that always made her big brown eyes seem softer than she wanted to appear, especially when she wanted to seem tough at all costs. Her straight nose gives her the look of a determined woman, but in the very rare times she laughs, she scrunches it up, and her sprinkling of freckles makes her look like a cheeky little girl. And when she laughs, her lips curl in a spectacular way ...
“Michael?” she asks me.
“Huh?”
“Why are you staring at me?”
