“What else would it be for?”
“Nothing. Maybe you want him to see something else besides an entrepreneur, but I could be wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” I confirm.
“So, you don’t see Michael as a beautiful man desired by every woman in town, from whom you wouldn’t mind a little attention—is that right?”
“Is that what this looks like to you? Anyway, I’m not into him, and he’s not into me.”
“People attract what they hate.”
“What nonsense! I have to go. I’ve heard too much out of you.” I end the conversation by leaving the bathroom.
“Are you sure you don’t want a hint of lip tint?” she calls after me over the stairwell. “It’s long lasting and never smudges, whatever you end up doing.”
I arrive at the stables, where Michael and I have arranged to meet, and he surprises me by having already saddled and bridled D’Artagnan, his horse.
“Good morning,” he greets me. “I took the liberty of preparing Soldatino for you. I know you usually ride King, but the blacksmith is shoeing him.”
“Soldatino is great. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” The moment he smiles at me, I thank my lucky stars that I wore Giada’s shirt. Despite Michael’s “comfortable” clothes, he looks like he could be at a polo match.
“You’re an early riser,” I observe.
“Renato wakes me up at dawn. Ready to go?” he asks me with an unexpected burst of enthusiasm.
“Sure.”
“I’ll give you a boost up,” he offers.
I’m about to brush him off with a “No, thanks, I’ll do it myself.” But he’s already behind me, wrapping his hands around my waist and lifting me into the air. I don’t know if it’s the sudden upward momentum, but for a second I go dizzy.
Don’t even go there,I say to the voice in my head, which has already raised its finger to remind me that the same thing also happened the other evening, when our fingers touched over that slice of pizza. I couldn’t say what happened then. It certainly wasn’t a drop in blood pressure, because I was already lying down, nor was it a neck pain, because I’ve been sleeping with an orthopedic pillow for years ... and then it happened again when Michael wiped the tomato smear from my cheek. Could it be he has some kind of effect on me? “Absolutely not!”
“Absolutely not what?” he asks me, confused, from D’Artagnan’s back.
Oh, Christ. Did I say that out loud? “Um ... we absolutely ...” I don’t know what the hell to say, so I prod Soldatino, who takes the path straight ahead of him. “We absolutely shouldn’t go around the other way. If we do, we won’t even be halfway there by noon.”
“All the land you see is planted with vines to make Chianti. The vineyards cover twenty hectares; sixteen are Sangiovese, and the remainder are Ciliegiolo, Malvasia Nera, and Sagrantino,” I explain, gesturing with a broad sweep of my arm toward the rows on different slopes. “There are also five hectares of olive groves. We make oil in addition to wine.”
“I didn’t know you grew four different grape varieties,” observes Michael.
“Chianti is made of eighty percent Sangiovese and the remainder is a combination of the other red grapes—that’s according to the August 9, 1967, regulation.” The year of the regulation is totally irrelevant for Michael, but I want to impress him. Oh God! Did I seriously just think that? Do I really want to impress him?
Well, of course I want to impress him—as a competent entrepreneur. Nothing more.
“The southwest exposure of the land is ideal. The grapes are protected from cold winds while the sun exposure optimizes ripening and sugar concentration. The soil is composed of a bedrock that slows down the vegetative growth, drains the soil, and retains heat, plus clay that acts as a water reserve.” I haven’t talked so much about land stratification since my pedology exam. Thank you, Professor Landucci, for making me work for that A+. “Moreover, the soil in this area is around four hundred meters above sea level, which means lower temperatures at the beginning of the season, but in turn, smaller bunches that ripen slowly with almost no health problems.”
With a click of my heels, I urge Soldatino to take the path that goes down through the vineyards, and Michael follows me.
“So then, what do you do all day in the vineyard until harvest?”
“We check the hygrometric state of the soil, make sure there are no insects or weeds, and monitor the health of all two hundred and twenty-five thousand vines.”
“How many?!” he exclaims, surprised.
“It’s so we can select only the best bunches. What’s more, we harvest by hand. For better grapes, we keep our yield low compared to the potential of the land. It is the price for producing an excellent wine.”
