Chapter 26 Elisa
Elisa
This afternoon I’m taking Michael to visit the enology lab, but I arrive at the villa to find a scene that leaves me speechless: He’s sitting at the large kitchen table, speaking English with Linda.
She’s telling him about the last book she read, and I wonder how he could possibly be interested in some plot about insecure high school girls whose biggest problem in life is finding a prom date.
“Let me guess,” I interject. “In the end, the ugly loser who’s beautiful on the inside impresses the coolest guy in school and becomes prom queen?”
“Actually, the loser is only elected prom queen as a joke and her classmates bully her, but then she gets possessed by Satan, sets fire to the gym, and everyone dies,” replies Linda.
“It’s Carrie, by Stephen King,” Michael explains to me.
“Sounds fun, right Little Cub?” I say, giving her a kiss on the head.
“Come on! Don’t call me Little Cub,” she grumbles, avoiding my attempt at affection. “Mom, can I have a sleepover here with some school friends on Saturday?” she asks me imploringly, her big eyes shining, as if she hadn’t growled at me a second earlier.
“Why not? Great idea!” I say, relieved at her rare urge to socialize.
She has a group of classmates she sometimes sees when she’s not hunched over her books, but Linda isn’t exactly the life of the party.
She prefers to keep to herself, though it’s probably at least partly my fault since I don’t let her take part in more “grown-up” initiatives organized by her friends.
Like the time they wanted to go to the water park one afternoon, but I nixed it when she said there wouldn’t be an adult with them.
A sleepover at home seems completely innocent to me.
“Let’s have Nonna make her famous pizza.
And we can go buy snacks and gummies.” What kind of sleepover would it be otherwise?
I’m happy to risk being named crappiest mother of the year if it means I can push my daughter into a healthy social life with junk food banned by the Geneva convention.
“Speaking of invitations,” Michael jumps in, “I ran into Lapo and Margherita, and they proposed we all have a reunion dinner before Carletto leaves again. What do you think?”
“We can do it in the garden. Maybe I’ll call Cosimo and Lucia as well,” I add enthusiastically.
More than anything, I’m thrilled that Michael actually wants to do something enjoyable here, rather than counting the minutes until he goes back to London.
“But Carletto leaves on Sunday, so that just leaves Saturday.”
“Saturday’s perfect.” Michael downs his orange juice and stands up. “Shall we go? Linda, you can finish telling me about Carrie tonight.”
“Mom, isn’t that one of Aunt Giada’s dresses?” Linda asks me with a suspicious look.
“No, it’s mine,” I lie. “We bought the same one.” Today I’ve borrowed another of Giada’s pieces: a red dress with white polka dots and a sweetheart neckline, a bit like a 1950s pin-up, which I think she wore for a Grease-themed party.
Like yesterday’s shirt, this is a tad too modest for her.
“And since when do you go to work dressed like that?” Linda insists.
“So many questions this morning, Linda,” I reply without answering, certain she has at least ten more shots lined up.
Michael and I go out to the lab on the electric cart built by the late count, who used it to zip around the estate like some kind of furious madman.
“Your daughter looks a lot like you,” Michael observes.
“I hope that’s a compliment.”
“She’s frighteningly intelligent for her age.”
“I wish she’d learn to make friends,” I sigh. “She’s so lively and expressive with adults but very shy with her peers. They aren’t really drawn to her.”
“It’s a shame, because she has plenty of personality. Have you ever thought about finding a different school for her? Maybe she’d find it easier to socialize in a more competitive environment that can nurture her skills.”
“And what school would that be?”
“There aren’t any options besides the village school? What about in Milan? Or in Switzerland? In London, there are high schools that would give a scholarship to a student like her.”
“If there are options, they’re either too far away for a thirteen-year-old girl or too expensive for me,” I reply.
“Plus, the idea of sending her who knows where kills me inside. Linda and I grew up together. She slept in my bed until she was ten. Next year she’ll be in high school; maybe another year will bring her out of her shell. ”
“I thought perhaps she needed to broaden her horizons.”
“Everyone’s a good parent with other people’s children.”
“You’re right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to come between you and Linda.”
“No problem. If you ever want to be a father, you’re welcome to take her for a few weeks.”
“Thanks but not for me. So, what did you want to show me today?” he asks when I stop the cart in front of the long brick building that until a few centuries ago was the farm workers’ quarters.
“How harvested grapes become Chianti.” I invite him to follow me inside, where the machines are now stopped, though in a month, they will be running at full capacity.
“We select the bunches based on their quality, after which we run them through these machines that separate the grapes from the stalks.”
“And from the peels,” he adds.
“The skins are precious: They contain the polyphenols that lend color, aroma, and structure to the wine,” I say, entering the next room.
“These polyphenols pack a punch.”
“They do. Plus, they contain flavonoids, which are now known for their numerous properties, including as an aphrodisiac.”
“Aphrodisiac?” He winks in a way that makes me feel as if the buttons on my dress might explode out of their buttonholes. “And you say this because you personally experienced it?”
“Harvard, which conducted the study, says so.”
“I feel a sudden need to know more about enology.”
“I won’t leave you hanging. Here,” I say, moving on to the next room, “the grapes are pressed to extract the must.”
Michael looks at the machine I’m pointing out to him. “I much prefer the image of you crushing grapes with your feet, the old-fashioned way.”
“And why is that?”
“It happens in a lot of Sophia Loren films, super sexy.”
“Sophia Loren?”
“No, you.”
His response, as direct as it is unexpected, leaves me shocked.
Does Michael seriously see something sexy in me?
Not that I don’t consider myself sensual.
I can be very sensual when I want to be, but I was convinced—and I still am—that if there is one man on earth incapable of seeing sensuality in me, it’s Michael.
Nearly breathless, I continue my explanation of the winemaking process. “The must then passes into these steel vats for fermentation. Our wine is organic. We don’t add sulfites because reds are naturally protected from oxidation by tannins, another gift from the precious skin.”
“This professor’s dress of yours is also rather interesting, you know.”
Wham! Another blow below the belt. This time, however, I manage to respond with a worthy joke. “And make sure to stay in line; otherwise, I’ll have to punish you.” For added authority, I grab a long blackthorn twig that we use to turn the must and tap it on my palm.
A thin, mischievous smile tugs at the left corner of his mouth. “Really interesting.”
“Careful, there will be a quiz later,” I threaten him, turning my back to him and proceeding at a brisk pace between the vats.
With a quick and shameless little shimmy .
. . He started it, right? Rise to the challenge or succumb.
And this dress I stole from my sister accentuates my every movement.
“After two weeks, we filter the impurities out of the wine and . . . follow me.” With a pirouette that flares my skirt, I enter an arched passage carved into a wall at least half a meter thick, “We transfer it into these oak barrels.”
“Splendid.”
“What do you think?” I say, spreading my arms as if to embrace the whole room. “It’s the most beautiful part of the property, besides the cellar, of course.”
“Actually I was referring to you, but yes, I like the winery too.”
This time I speak up, because otherwise I’ll have false hopes. Michael is showering me with compliments, and even though I’m an adult and practically immune, I’m not only listening for them a little too much, but liking them a little too much. “Please, Michael, that’s enough.”
“Enough, what?” he asks with an innocent tone that defies his earlier malice.
“Stop making fun of me. It was funny the first few times, but I don’t want to be the butt of your jokes while I’m trying to work.”
“Am I joking?”
“Sexy, splendid, exciting teacher dress . . . Come on. I know very well what you think of me.”
“I assure you, you have no idea,” he replies. “But if I’m out of line, I’ll stop. Message received: No more personal compliments.”
“Thank you,” I reply, reassured. “Professional comments are more than welcome.”
He takes my arm, escorting me through the tunnel. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know so much work went into a bottle of wine.”
I can finally relax. “It’s normal. You don’t know how hard it is until you’re in it.” I listen to myself again, and Michael’s sidelong glance tells me that there is no way to escape this blatant double meaning. “Work,” I specify unnecessarily. “In the work.”
“I really appreciate your invitation to let me in,” he replies without hesitation. “To your work, of course.”
Michael and I walk solemnly in step between the two rows of barrels towering over us, as if we were walking down the nave of a cathedral, the sound of our footsteps reverberating against the vaulted ceiling.
“This is where the wine ages, right?”
“Matures,” I correct him. “Aging sounds like something is getting worse. Maturing, however, means it’s improving. In eight months, the acids and tannins balance; the wood barrels enrich the bouquet; and the oxygen that penetrates the oak stabilizes the wine.”