Chapter 24 Elisa #2
Vanity is a sin, but no one has ever come back from hell to say how bad it is, so I’m willing to take the risk. I don’t need anyone to notice my looks or my skills, something like “You have such a natural talent for breathing” would do the trick at this point.
Damn this wine!
“Is everything okay?” Michael asks me. “You seem like you’re somewhere else.”
“I’m fine!” I hasten to say, before he manages to read my thoughts. “I think I’m just a little tired, between the ride, the sun, and the wine on an empty stomach.”
“Why don’t you take a little nap? Here in the shade, with this breeze, it’s so nice.”
“Maybe . . .” I lie down on the mat, with my head resting on the knotty root of the olive tree, which is anything but comfortable.
“You can lie on me,” Michael invites me to move my head onto his shoulder.
I could act tough, as usual, but what would it cost me to say yes just this one time?
Human beings are defined by their propensity for mistakes, and even though I know a polite but firm no is the correct answer, I feel irresistibly attracted to the wrong one.
Besides, it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong . . . It’s just an innocent nap; nothing to see here.
I wake after a deep sleep that’s lasted for who knows how long.
I squint and notice that the light has changed, so it was a little more than just a nap.
I’m still lying on Michael’s shoulder, but my face is burrowed in the crook of his neck, the tip of my nose against his skin, and, when I inhale, his scent intoxicates me more than the wine at lunch.
He wraps his left arm around me and rests his hand lightly on my waist.
My hand, however, has risen to his chest, as if I were clinging to him, and is moving up and down to the slow rhythm of his breathing. Michael is also sleeping, and I notice the sinfully sensual profile of his parted lips.
I squeeze my eyes shut so I can force my thoughts off the slippery road they’re starting to take.
However, with my eyes closed, the scent of Michael’s skin grows even stronger. It’s fresh and masculine, and my nose, trained to recognize the bouquets of wines, is delighting in torturing me: notes of rosemary, anise, orange blossom . . .
The ringing of my phone interrupts my conscience from its orgy of senses.
Still dazed, I stretch out my hand on the mat until I find the infernal device, which with its ring has also awakened Michael, and I answer.
“Elisa, where are you? Are you okay?” Foliero asks me in a panicked voice.
“Yeah, why? Has something happened?”
“You tell me: Soldatino came back to the stable on his own. When I couldn’t find you, I thought something had happened to you.”
“What? Soldatino?” Still confused, I scramble to my knees and notice there’s an empty space next to D’Artagnan.
I rewind the mental film of our arrival and see it again: I was hot, I was thirsty, and I was hungry.
I unhooked the picnic basket in a hurry and .
. . “I didn’t tie him up. I forgot to secure Soldatino’s reins to the tree. ”
“Thank goodness. We were all so worried.”
“It’s okay. I was just a little careless. In any case, we’re in the olive grove; we’ll be back soon,” I reassure him.
“Everything okay?” Michael asks, stretching in a way that lifts his polo shirt an inch, revealing the grooves of his obliques that continue down beyond the waistband of his riding trousers, which I only now notice are tight enough to reveal everything.
God or whoever’s up there, make me blind . . . or at least not completely dazed.
I slap a hand over my eyes in a last-ditch attempt to end the hormonal surge. “I didn’t tie up Soldatino, and he went back to the stable,” I say in a voice that comes out higher than I intended.
“Okay . . . and why are you covering your eyes?”
“Um . . . the . . . the light bothers me. I have a little issue with the tear duct in my right eye, and it burns when the light hits it at a certain angle.” Yes, of course, and what other nonsense should I throw at him now?
“Maybe you should see an ophthalmologist. Lasers work miracles.”
“You’re right. I’ll make an appointment for September.
” I’ll make an appointment, all right—with a psychologist. “Anyway, I think that pretty much does it for today; let’s go back.
You’re probably tired and want to shower .
. .” And at the word shower a still frame of him reappears in my mind, in the courtyard of the annex, shirtless, rinsing himself with the hose to the soundtrack of “You Sexy Thing.” Why wait until September? I’ll call the psychologist tomorrow.
“A shower sounds great. Let’s go!” Michael unties D’Artagnan, leaps onto him with the agility of an Ascot jockey, and holds out his hand to me. “Come on, get up.”
“I like walking,” I say, before I can even formulate an intelligible sentence.
“All the way to the estate?” he asks me, confused.
Listening to myself again, I process the idiocy of what I’ve just said. Miles of dusty hills? What was I thinking?
The fact is, right now, the last thing I need is to have my body pressed against Michael’s on horseback.
“I don’t know if D’Artagnan can carry us both. You know, he’s getting up there in age . . .”
“Foliero rides him, and he’s well over two hundred pounds.
” He waves his hand, inviting me to join him.
“Come on up. I know you don’t want to be a damsel in distress, and you would never let me trample your girl power, but I’m not offering out of chivalry.
It’s because if I go back without you, they’re going to think I murdered you and hid your body. ”
Too bad—a bit of chivalry would have been nice . . .
“If you don’t do it for your own feet, do it for my criminal record. I don’t know any good lawyers in Italy.”
I squeeze his hand and grab the pommel with my other. In a second, I’m on D’Artagnan’s back, my back resting against Michael’s chest and . . . Oh my God, it’s even worse than I thought!