"He drinks too much, gambles, has a different woman in his bed every night. He's not the type of man you want for a father, Violetta."
That echoes my thoughts exactly. I've lived without a father for this long. I can continue doing so without a moment's regret. At least that’s what I tell myself.
"I was a coward to stay away from you too," he continues. "But I was afraid your mother would tell me I could have nothing to do with you."
"So you didn't even try?"
"No, and that is something I will always regret."
I can tell he's sincere.
"I'm not going to tell you it's all right," I say, "because it isn't. But I'm here now and I'm willing to get to know you a little."
"I'm glad." He looks up as his housekeeper enters with a tray she places on the table in front of me.
"I hope you like cannoli. They're my last pleasure in life. I order them from a little place near the Pitti Palace."
"Dorando's?" I guess. It's one of the oldest bakeries in the city.
"Yes, you know it?"
"I do, and I love their cannoli."
The old man smiles and gestures for me to help myself. I take a cannolo and bite into it. The ricotta filling is creamy, smooth, and flavored with just the right amount of vanilla.
"Tell me about your husband." There's a hint of disapproval in his tone. "How did you meet?"
"I work for him at one of his clubs. We knew each other for a while and then one night our relationship changed."
It's close enough to the truth that I don't sound as if I'm making something up. I can’t help wishing this version was true, that the beginning of our relationship was filled with romantic moments. I’d have liked to be wooed with flowers and dates at fancy restaurants.
"And is he good to you?"
I think of being locked in the basement, being forced to marry him with Riccardo standing guard, him watching me at the club and having Giorgio lay down the law about how I conduct myself at work. Then I think about the quieter moments — the unexpected tenderness.
"He tries to be."
My grandfather nods and we settle into conversation. He tells me about my grandmother, who died before I was born.
"She was furious with me the day we met," he says, a smile breaking through the gruffness. "I knocked her bicycle into a ditch trying to impress her."
He shakes his head at the memory. When speaking about the woman he clearly loved becomes too much for him to bear, he shares stories of life on the farm and his brief foray into winemaking. His wealth, which comes via an inheritance from his father, has allowed him to indulge his passions.
"You're not unlike my brother-in-law, then."
He narrows his eyes. "I am nothing like the Volante boy."
I laugh. "He's not a boy. And what I meant is the vineyard is a passion project for him. He hopes to make a life there. It's why he wants to buy your land."
My grandfather purses his lips. "Have you seen that eyesore he built?"
"I like it."
He throws his hands up in despair and I smile gently.
"If you sold, you could move closer to the city. It would be better for you to…..”
"Be close to hospitals?" he finishes for me. "I'm not decrepit, you know."
