Good question; the explanation might be embarrassing. “Why ...?”
“Do I have pizza on my face?”
Thanks for the assist. “Yes, you have a bit of tomato right there,” I say, pointing to an imaginary stain on her cheek. “I’ll take care of it,” I find myself saying. I reach my right index finger toward her face and slide it across her skin.
There it is again, the same feeling as before. “Got it,” I announce, to lend credibility to my colossal lie.
“Thank you.”
A strange silence hangs in the room, not the empty, awkward kind, but as if something were about to happen, only neither of us know what.
“So, when do I get a tour of the estate? A serious tour, I mean, from entrepreneur to investor,” I say to break the tension.
“Michael, we’ll go on horseback. Do you feel up to it ... in ... your condition?”
“Absolutely, yes! Give me a few days, and I’ll be ready for the Palio di Siena,” I exclaim boldly. I can’t be sure, but if I’m wrong, I’ll suffer in silence.
“Okay. I’ll have Mamma pack us a lunch—nothing over the top, just a quick bite to eat. And dress comfortably and coolly. We’ll be out all day. Think you can handle it even if it’s not a Michelin-starred tour?”
“It sounds perfect.” I’m serious.
“Okay, then, I’m off,” she says, taking the pan and throwing the napkins onto it. “Wait a minute ... what is this?” she asks, bringing something up to her eyes.
“This, what?”
“Is it a ... piece of zucchini? What the hell is it doing in your sheets?”
This isdefinitelygoing to be a hard one to explain.
24
Elisa
“Doing yourself up?” Giada asks me, invading the bathroom as usual. The concept of personal space goes right over her head.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I reply, studying myself in the mirror as I get ready for the estate tour.
“If what I see in your hand is my MAC illuminating foundation, purchased for the modest sum of seventy-eight euros, I would say you are, in fact, doing yourself up.”
“I can’t find my sunscreen, and this is SPF 30, so it’s perfect.”
“And I was born yesterday ... Come here. You’re making a mess,” she says, snatching the bottle from my hands. “You have to apply it to your neck and collarbones too. Sorry, Elisa, but since when do you wear such low-cut shirts to work on the vineyard?”
“My work clothes are all in the wash.”
“Yeah, but this happens to be my shirt!” she replies.
“It is. The most serious-looking one I could find in your closet.” Giada’s wardrobe is a riot of pink, sequins, and ruffles—nothing wearable on a farm, except this white, ribbed short-sleeved shirt, which she must have bought after a blow to the head. It’s low-cut and a little tight for my standards, but by hers it’s practically a nun’s habit.
“Something’s going on here,” she mutters under her breath, “and if you won’t tell me, I’ll find out on my own. Don’t frown, or you’ll crease the foundation.”
“I’m showing the estate to Michael today.”
“You sure all you’re showing him is the estate?”
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but yes. I have to be credible. I don’t want to look like a walking dumpster.”
“So this is all for credibility’s sake?” she asks teasingly.
