Chapter 6 Elisa
Elisa
“How many more years do you think they’ll have us manning the drinks station?” I ask Lucia, my faithful sidekick for every tedious village social gathering.
“As long as we can tell red from white through our cataracts and Alzheimer’s doesn’t stop us from counting change,” she replies, replacing an empty barrel.
The mid-August festival is one of four cardinal points of Belvedere’s social life, together with patron saint’s day, the spring fair, and the grape harvest.
Those considered undesirable for marriage, like Lucia and me—me because I wear the scarlet letter of single motherhood and Lucia because she’s too close to forty—are made to set up the gazebos or serve drinks while the village’s aspiring brides show off on the dance floor, hoping to catch the eye of a fellow reveler.
From here, at least, I can keep watch over the corner where my daughter has gathered with her classmates, even though she always tends to be a little left out.
It’s partly my fault, since I don’t let her go out in midriff tops and cutoffs like the other girls, but she’s only thirteen, for goodness’ sake!
“The smiling singles are somehow never stuck behind the counter all evening,” I observe. “Their looks would be ruined by tomato jelly–stained aprons and hygienic hairnets.”
Belvedere village festivals tend to attract curious people from San Casciano to Castelnuovo Berardenga and even from as far as Florence: a truly great opportunity to trawl for a husband.
It’s not rare, in fact, for someone to end up showered with rice within six months of one of these events.
“Pity the wives seem to overlook the fact not all the men dance, but they all have at least one drink,” Lucia giggles.
“Not Carletto,” I say, nodding toward my rediscovered childhood friend, on whom everyone was transfixed. “He doesn’t drink.”
Lucia raises her eyes to the sky, making the sign of the cross.
“Begone, Satan.”
“He was always a good boy . . . too good. He used to take the blame when Michael and I stirred up trouble. He was incapable of lying and gave in to the slightest questioning.”
“Handsome, rich, and a little dumb: everything it takes to win golden bachelor of the year. Though from the looks of things, he only has eyes for your sister.”
My sister usually dodges these village festivals like stones; on Saturdays she has a nail art masterclass in Florence, and when it’s over, she goes with her classmates around the city, as she calls it.
Tonight, however, not only is she here but she’s dragging Carletto onto the dance floor song after song.
“She looks like she’s never had so much fun in her life. ”
“The Cozzi cousins are definitely not having fun.”
The three Cozzi cousins are at the head of the singles pack and seem none too pleased that Charles is giving Giada all his attention.
My sister has always exceeded the aesthetic standards of Belvedere; it’s lucky for her local contenders that she’s not looking for anything more than a change of scenery.
“He’s certainly grown out of the name Carletto,” observes Lucia. “He used to be long and lanky like a Panini figurine; now he looks more like a man.”
“‘Carletto’ is perfect. He may look different,” I say, stacking the paper cups, “but after chatting with him last night, I can assure you that his Labrador puppy personality is still intact. By the way, do you know who’s meeting him here? Buckle up . . .” I pause briefly to create suspense.
But I don’t have time to finish the sentence before a strange buzz spreads through the crowd like a current of electricity.
“What’s going on?” asks Lucia. “Did two wives get into a brawl?”
Her question isn’t rhetorical. Two years ago it actually happened: Piera and Luciana got into a fight because one claimed that the other had cheated in the parish lottery. What some people won’t do for a rosary blessed by the pope.
I crane my neck over the counter to identify the cause of so much commotion.
Everyone is staring at an unmissable newcomer: In addition to his considerable stature, his clothing is not exactly ideal for a village festival involving a suds soccer tournament and a sausage-eating competition.
He’s wearing a shirt and tie with a clip and a perfectly tailored jacket and trousers.
“Oh, that man is prime marriage material,” muses Lucia.
“Michael,” I whisper.
“What?”
“That’s Michael.”
I haven’t seen him for fifteen years, but I know it’s him: I know from the way he combs his fingers through the soft brown curls that fall across his forehead.
And those big eyes, shadowed by his knitted dark eyebrows, still retain the same sly spark that used to tell me when he’d cooked up a good scheme. “Michael D’Arcy is here.”
I stare at him in disbelief, my heart jumping into my throat. Can one single moment erase half a life?
“Mamma mia! That’s Maicolle?” Lucia exclaims. “He sure turned out all right. Enough man there to make three or four women happy.”
I turn to her, panicking. “What should I say to him?”
“What do you mean?”
“How should I greet him? How should I break the ice? Should I hug him? Or maybe a handshake is better?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something—you’re never exactly at a loss for words. Find them quickly, though.”
“Why?”
Lucia nods toward the counter. “Because he’s here.”
I gulp, my heartbeat accelerating so much I can feel it in my ears. I inhale forcefully, trusting in the surge of oxygen to recover my faculties. I walk toward Michael with my lips stretched into an uncontrollable smile.
“Finally,” he says. Like Carletto, his Italian is still in good shape, even if his accent betrays years of no practice.
“Hi,” I whisper so quietly that I can barely hear myself. Where has my voice gone?
“What is there to drink here, apart from watered-down wine on tap?” He doesn’t look particularly happy; in fact he seems annoyed.
“Michael, how good to see you.”
He cocks his left eyebrow, scrutinizing me with a smug look. “Have we met?”
The answer sticks in my throat, not so much caught on his words but on his arrogant demeanor, as if I should feel honored to be in his presence.
“Anyway,” he says as he scans the board behind me with the drinks written in marker, “is the Colli Senesi in a bottle?”
“It is,” I reply like an automaton. Why does he seem so changed?
“Then I’ll have a glass, not hot out of the dishwater, if possible.”
Petrified by his attitude, I lose all enthusiasm for our reunion. “Coming right up.”
I disappear inside the tent that we use as a galley, where the smell of fried dough permeates our clothes, our hair, and even our souls.
“So?” Lucia asks me, coming in to fill the ice bucket.
“He didn’t recognize me,” I say dejectedly.
“Really?”
“He’s cold, rude . . . I don’t find him particularly impressive.”
“Maybe he’s just tired from his trip. Get a little wine into him and then say, ‘Are you sure you don’t recognize me, you idiot?’”
I nod, reassured. “Maybe you’re right. Come on, help me get the Colli Senesi out from under all these cases.”
As we unstack the boxes, our ears catch a conversation on the other side of the tent.
“D’Arcy! Don’t you feel like you’ve gone back in time?” We immediately recognize Carletto’s voice, also no one else here would be speaking English.
“A little too much. In fact I’m quite sure absolutely nothing about this place has changed.”
“Instead of being so critical, try to enjoy the change of scene and have some fun.”
“Excuse me, Bingley, are you trying to tell me you’re having fun?” Michael’s tone is tinged with skepticism.
“Have some of these fritters; they’ll bring you back from the dead.”
“No, thanks,” Michael declines.
“And look at all the girls! Not bad, eh?” Carletto says, undeterred by his friend’s constraint.
“Right. Certainly none up to par. In London, I can find all the beautiful women I want.”
“There’s Giada over there. Do you know she and her family are still at the estate?”
“Oh yeah?”
“She’s wonderful, D’Arcy. I remembered she was beautiful but not like this!”
“Are you talking about the estate?”
“No—Giada. Look at her! Can you blame me?”
I am going to remind my sister of this conversation every time she takes a selfie and loads it with ridiculous filters because she doesn’t like herself enough.
“You’re not wrong.”
“And her sister Elisa is cute too!”
Hearing the compliment makes me blush. Ultimately, it’s nice. Especially when I’m dressed like a recycling bin.
“If I remember Elisa correctly, time certainly can’t have done her any favors.”
I wasn’t exactly expecting praise, but Michael’s comment still takes me off guard.
“You were friends,” objects Carletto. “And she’s changed a lot.”
“Yes, Bingley, but Elisa was always a tomboy, not some great beauty. I can see why you’d fancy Giada, but Elisa’s personality is all she has going for her.”
I stare bitterly at the bottle of Colli Senesi in my hands. In three blows, Michael has managed to strike down what little self-esteem I had.
“Hey,” Lucia consoles me, lifting my chin. “You don’t care what someone you haven’t seen in fifteen years thinks of you, eh?”
“Noo! Why would I?” I wish I really believed that, but inside I’m burning with rage. All-consuming rage.
I leave the tent but without the bottle.
“Sorry, my wine?” Michael asks arrogantly.
“I’m sorry, all I have to offer is my personality, but I’m sure one of your beautiful London ladies will fetch it. Asshole.”
I tear off my apron emblazoned with the words “Pianigiani Award-Winning Charcuterie” with the motto “Even a shoe is delicious if it’s fried” and throw it at him. My shift is decidedly over.