“Are you still doing homework for Alice, Valentina, and Laura?”
“What’s the harm in it?”
My daughter is as good as it gets. Those three take advantage of her. “You do know that real friendship isn’t based on trading favors? If you keep doing their homework, you’ll never know if they’re your real friends.” But I want to go back to the question that worries me the most. “And Enrico and Tommaso are okay guys? Are they well behaved?”
“No, Mom. They’re two felonious junkies,” she replies, annoyed.
“You know what I mean, Linda,” I admonish her for her tasteless joke.
She’s only just started adolescence, and I already can’t wait for it to end.
“Neither of them will rape us, you can rest assured.”
“In the meantime, tone it down, please. You know I trust you. I just don’t trust kids I don’t know. And you weren’t exactly transparent when you told me you were inviting your classmates.”
“So are you saying I have to uninvite them?” she asks bitterly.
“No, it’s too late for that now, but remember, I’ll be in the next room ...”
“Ready to spoil our sleepover. Got it,” she concludes, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I don’t want to ruin anything for you, Little Cub. I’m the first to want you to have fun with your friends, but I also want you to behave yourself,” I warn her. “So yes, I’ll come check on you if I think that’s necessary.” I can’t help but grasp the subtle irony in the fact that I’m lecturing my daughter when, yesterday, in the cellar, I was about to launch into a scorching performance with Michael.
“G-o-o-o-o-d, Mom!” she snorts, jumping out of the car as soon as we stop in front of the annex.
As I leave all the junk I bought her for her party in the kitchenette, my eye falls on a garbage bag overflowing with pastel-colored objects outside the door. I peek and recognize some of Linda’s things: Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas; playdough necklaces; the photo of her at Gardaland with Prezzemolo the mascot; a Barbie blanket that used to be Giada’s, then mine, and then hers; and at the bottom is a faded, mangy pink rag: her teddy bear, the one she has slept with every night since she was a year old.
Instinctively I pull it from the bag and put it in the laundry basket.
Mentally advising myself to address the “kid” issue with her another time, I take the groceries to the villa’s kitchen. I have two hours until guests arrive, and I haven’t even started cooking.
I had the unfortunate idea of getting dressed and putting on make-up beforehand without thinking that between kneading and baking, when I’ve finished I’ll have runny make-up and a ruined dress, plus the gladiator sandals I’m wearing are already coming loose and sagging around my ankles.
As I’m contorting myself to pull up the evil laces with one hand, holding the hem of my long white linen dress between my teeth, with the two shopping bags in my arms, Michael appears.
He greets me with a wave of his hand, and I nearly spill the market bags on the floor.
He has quick reflexes and catches the one with the eggs. “Can I help you?”
“No, I can manage,” I say, stiffening, careful not to let him touch me.
“That doesn’t appear to be the case.” He insists, taking the other bag from my hands. “Let me make myself useful.” And without further hesitation, he takes the shopping bags to the kitchen.
“Okay, um ... just put everything on the table,” I stammer. “Thank you.”
We stand there, staring at each other in silence. The clock made from an old copper pot hanging over the fireplace marks the seconds of silence between us.
“Listen . . .” he begins.
“Listen ...” I say at the same time.
“You first.”
“No, you go ahead, Michael.” I may be a coward, but I don’t dare open my mouth without knowing what he’s going to say.
“I wanted to talk to you about the cellar,” he continues in a near whisper. “About what happened.”
“There’s no need,” I reply, randomly taking something out of a bag to pretend I’m busy and hide my face, which is already flushing.
