Chapter 25 Michael
Michael
“Hey, Elisa, relax,” I say. We’ve been on the horse for all of ten minutes, and she’s stiff as a board.
“I’m afraid of falling. I don’t feel safe when I don’t have the reins.”
“Am I that bad? I thought I was doing pretty well.”
“No, you’re very good. I’m the one who’s a bit of a control freak.”
I put my left arm around her waist. “Is that better?”
“It’s better if you hold the reins with both hands.”
I carry out the order reluctantly. Right now, all I want to do is hold her close and bury my face in her hair, which, after she has slept, has escaped from its bun and now falls softly over her shoulders. And those shoulders! Defined and tanned, just waiting to be bitten.
Similar thoughts have been crossing my mind—and not only my mind—since this morning, surprising me each time my imagination takes another leap forward.
Before, when we were riding through the vineyard, I couldn’t take my eyes off her breasts wrapped in that tight top, bouncing up and down to the rhythm of the horse.
Then, after lunch, with her sleeping on me, I started to think I might kiss her.
It would have been so easy, her lips were just a breath away from mine.
All I had to do was turn my head. When she put her hand on my chest, I almost did it .
. . but then I didn’t. I closed my eyes and recited all the principles of economic theory from Arrow to post-Keynesian thought and fell back asleep.
Maybe it was for the best, because she doesn’t seem to be on the same wavelength as I am. Or maybe she’s just more lucid.
Listening to her talk about viticulture surprised me, I liked it and . . . I don’t know how to describe this, because it’s the first time it’s happened to me. I didn’t understand a thing she was saying, and yet I still wanted her to keep talking.
“Are you still seeing that guy from the bakery?” I ask her out of the blue.
“Elmo and I were never seeing each other,” she replies with a shrug. “I only went out with him because Mamma made me. I can barely stand him.”
She can’t see me now, but my face is the picture of relief. “So, that massage gel you bought wasn’t for him?”
“Do you need a man to use massage gel?”
I force myself to erase the mental image generated by her sentence before the animal instinct I kept at bay a few moments ago takes over, because this time there is no Keynesian theory that can hold me back. “So, is the tour over?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Oh no. You still have to see the production facility and cellars, but it’s too late now. We can do it tomorrow if you don’t have any plans.”
“What else would I be doing here?” I reply, in an attempt to hide my enthusiasm, because the idea of spending another day with her makes me rejoice.
We arrive at the stables, and to my great disappointment, our ride together comes to an end.
“I hope you enjoyed today,” she says, as we dismount. “I know you probably have no interest in most of it, but I’m sure the more you know, the more you can understand that Le Giuggiole can’t be thrown away.”
“You’re right. It shouldn’t be thrown away. Call me crazy, but Belvedere shouldn’t be thrown away either: It’s the classic postcard village, but it needs to enter the twenty-first century. There isn’t even a sushi restaurant, and there’s sushi everywhere nowadays.”
“You miss sushi here?” she asks me with a skeptical look.
“It was just an example. A gym wouldn’t be bad either. Isn’t there anyone who wants to keep fit with a run on the treadmill?”
“Of course there’s a gym!” she exclaims.
“Really?” I ask, shocked.
“Follow me.” She motions for me to leave the stables with her and spans her arm across the landscape.
“Here are our treadmills. There’s no LED screen to watch the news, but you can enjoy this incomparable view of the hills. No heart rate monitor either, just the sound of your breathing.”
“Aren’t you being a little too poetic?” I challenge her.
“And aren’t you a little too blind?” she replies. “Race me to the villa?”
I didn’t expect this. “Do you seriously want to compete?”
“Why, you don’t?”
“It wouldn’t be a fair competition,” I protest.
“Do you mean for me or for you?” She doesn’t stand aside. In fact, she gathers her hair into a high, tight ponytail, like a runner.
“Do you really want me to tear you to shreds, Elisa?”
“And do you want to run or stand here and chat?”
“I think you’re teasing me.”
“And I think you’re scared.”
Here it is, the magic phrase. Like when we were kids, whenever she wanted to push me to do something, all she had to do was utter those words to awaken my pride.
“Me, scared? I’ll even be chivalrous. After you.”
“Okay. Take your marks,” she says, tracing a starting line on the dirt road with her heel. “When I say ‘three.’ One . . . Two . . . Go!”
Elisa rushes forward without even saying “three.” Just like I used to do—I’m stupid for forgetting.
I catch up with her, and we run down the path side by side, shooting each other competitive glances.
I have to admit she’s in better shape than I thought.
When I gain ground, she catches up quickly, and to my surprise, as soon as the road steepens, she passes me.
I concentrate on overtaking her, but my gaze, initially riveted on her shoulders, lingers down on her round and shapely buttocks and her sinuous hips that sway left and right in a hypnotic motion.
“I win!” she exults, slapping her hands down on the railing of the staircase. “Remind me who was supposed to be torn to shreds?”
“Maybe I let you win,” I suggest.
“You? You wouldn’t even let a blind, lame person on oxygen win!”
She’s right. “I got distracted by the view.”
“Nice, isn’t it?” she asks breathlessly, her breasts rising and falling.
“Incomparable.” Luckily, she has no idea what I’m referring to.