Chapter 24 Elisa
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.
“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.”
“I didn’t imagine all this study was behind it.”
Bull’s-eye! “Do you also imagine we still stomp the grapes with our feet?” I tease him, pondering whether to deliver a final blow by explaining spurred cordon cultivation.
“I wouldn’t go that far, but seeing you stomp grapes would be an interesting sight.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“What a shame,” he replies with a strange half smile, which makes me wonder if there was a subtle mischief in his suggestion.
At midday, with the sun shining and the cicadas chirping, we get hungry and take a break in the middle of the olive grove.
Michael unfolds the rough cotton mat in the shade of one of the trees with the thickest foliage, and I unpack the basket that I had secured to the saddle.
“I haven’t asked you yet if the ride bothered you,” I say, sitting down next to him. “You know, after the incident with Pompilia . . .”
“Those diced frozen veggies worked miracles,” he announces, uncorking the bottle and pouring the wine. “Let’s toast.”
“To your newfound virility,” I exclaim, holding out my glass to him.
“It was never lost, just momentarily tested,” he says after we down our glasses in a single gulp.
I set out all the treats prepared by Mamma: focaccia with finocchiona and pecorino, an egg-and-artichoke tart, and a pie with ricotta and candied orange. “You can relax today; there’s nothing spicy here.”
“Will you stop bringing that up? It wasn’t a good experience.”
“Oh no,” I exclaim with mock regret. “Does that mean you won’t be asking Pompilia on a second date?”
“No. Not her, or Regina, or Intemerata.”
“Was I too horrible to you?” I ask, taking a bite to hide a satisfied smile.
“Quite. Maybe I wasn’t the epitome of gallantry that night we met again, but I don’t think I deserved that much suffering.”
“Look at it this way: You’ve earned a credit for the next time you’re rude to me,” I warn him.
“I have no intention of being rude. In addition to apologizing for what I said, I take it all back and repeat: In reality, I find you rather beautiful.”
Okay, maybe the glass of wine on an empty stomach is talking for him. “Don’t be a cad, Michael.”
“It’s the truth. I think you’re the most beautiful woman in all of Belvedere.”
“Giada is the most beautiful,” I reply, my basic sense of reality preventing me from accepting the compliment.
“It’s not just a question of looks. You’re not exactly one to be without words.”
“Is that a polite way of saying I can’t keep my mouth shut?”
“I’ve always known you have no filters, but that’s not what I mean. You’re one of the few people who always has something interesting to say.”
“Oh, so you liked my lecture about the cultivation of Chianti?”
“I don’t know if I’ll retain any of it, but I can say that today I know more than I did yesterday. You’re a beautiful person, Elisa.”
I shrug, stuffing my mouth with tart so I don’t have to talk. “Oh, um . . . thanks!” I stumble.
“For what?”
“I don’t know how to respond to compliments. I’m not very used to it.”
“Just accept them. But if you really want to repay me, you could smile. You never give me enough of those.” Michael brushes aside a strand of hair that’s escaped from my bun, and when he touches my forehead, I feel dizzy again.
I stop to look at Michael and realize Giada wasn’t wrong. Even though I’d like to think of myself as being indifferent to what others say, I’m flattered by Michael’s attention. And I find myself shamefully hungry for compliments.