Chapter 28 Elisa
Elisa
Linda and I are driving back from the village, where we picked up some things at the market for her pizza night and our reunion dinner. It’s a big day at Le Giuggiole.
Tonight I’ll be cooking for everyone. I haven’t suddenly come down with a case of Belvedere tradwife syndrome, but I need to keep my hands busy to avoid thinking about what happened in the cellar.
Yesterday I was in the vineyard all day, but today I have no escape.
“How many of you are there tonight?” I ask Linda.
“Six.”
“Who did you invite?” I press, in an attempt to extend the conversation.
“Alice and Valentina Pini, Laura Bolli, Enrico Quinti, and Tommaso Ghirardi,” she says the final two names quietly, almost inaudibly, though it doesn’t help that the old Punto I drive has a punctured muffler and you almost have to scream to hear over it.
“Boys?” I exclaim, petrified.
“Yeah. So what?”
“We didn’t talk about boys the other day,” I protest.
“I told you I was inviting classmates. I never said if they were boys or girls.”
I guess I took that one as a given. “So, why on earth did you choose them?” I’m afraid to ask, but I have to.
“Valentina likes Enrico and would only come if he was there, but Enrico doesn’t go anywhere without Tommaso, and Alice always goes out with her sister,” she replies concisely. Smooth as butter, without hesitation.
“Are you still doing homework for Alice, Valentina, and Laura?”
“What’s the harm in it?”
My daughter is as good as it gets. Those three take advantage of her.
“You do know that real friendship isn’t based on trading favors?
If you keep doing their homework, you’ll never know if they’re your real friends.
” But I want to go back to the question that worries me the most. “And Enrico and Tommaso are okay guys? Are they well behaved?”
“No, Mom. They’re two felonious junkies,” she replies, annoyed.
“You know what I mean, Linda,” I admonish her for her tasteless joke.
She’s only just started adolescence, and I already can’t wait for it to end.
“Neither of them will rape us, you can rest assured.”
“In the meantime, tone it down, please. You know I trust you. I just don’t trust kids I don’t know. And you weren’t exactly transparent when you told me you were inviting your classmates.”
“So are you saying I have to uninvite them?” she asks bitterly.
“No, it’s too late for that now, but remember, I’ll be in the next room . . .”
“Ready to spoil our sleepover. Got it,” she concludes, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I don’t want to ruin anything for you, Little Cub.
I’m the first to want you to have fun with your friends, but I also want you to behave yourself,” I warn her.
“So yes, I’ll come check on you if I think that’s necessary.
” I can’t help but grasp the subtle irony in the fact that I’m lecturing my daughter when, yesterday, in the cellar, I was about to launch into a scorching performance with Michael.
“G-o-o-o-o-d, Mom!” she snorts, jumping out of the car as soon as we stop in front of the annex.
As I leave all the junk I bought her for her party in the kitchenette, my eye falls on a garbage bag overflowing with pastel-colored objects outside the door.
I peek and recognize some of Linda’s things: Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas; playdough necklaces; the photo of her at Gardaland with Prezzemolo the mascot; a Barbie blanket that used to be Giada’s, then mine, and then hers; and at the bottom is a faded, mangy pink rag: her teddy bear, the one she has slept with every night since she was a year old.
Instinctively I pull it from the bag and put it in the laundry basket.
Mentally advising myself to address the “kid” issue with her another time, I take the groceries to the villa’s kitchen. I have two hours until guests arrive, and I haven’t even started cooking.
I had the unfortunate idea of getting dressed and putting on make-up beforehand without thinking that between kneading and baking, when I’ve finished I’ll have runny make-up and a ruined dress, plus the gladiator sandals I’m wearing are already coming loose and sagging around my ankles.
As I’m contorting myself to pull up the evil laces with one hand, holding the hem of my long white linen dress between my teeth, with the two shopping bags in my arms, Michael appears.
He greets me with a wave of his hand, and I nearly spill the market bags on the floor.
He has quick reflexes and catches the one with the eggs. “Can I help you?”
“No, I can manage,” I say, stiffening, careful not to let him touch me.
“That doesn’t appear to be the case.” He insists, taking the other bag from my hands. “Let me make myself useful.” And without further hesitation, he takes the shopping bags to the kitchen.
“Okay, um . . . just put everything on the table,” I stammer. “Thank you.”
We stand there, staring at each other in silence. The clock made from an old copper pot hanging over the fireplace marks the seconds of silence between us.
“Listen . . .” he begins.
“Listen . . .” I say at the same time.
“You first.”
“No, you go ahead, Michael.” I may be a coward, but I don’t dare open my mouth without knowing what he’s going to say.
“I wanted to talk to you about the cellar,” he continues in a near whisper. “About what happened.”
“There’s no need,” I reply, randomly taking something out of a bag to pretend I’m busy and hide my face, which is already flushing.
“I think there is,” he insists. “Why did you put the dish detergent in the fridge?”
Oops. “Surfactants work better if they’re cold when the hot water hits them.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I studied it in chemistry. A+,” I reply with the confident air of Count Mascetti.
“Anyway, I think we might have gone a little too far.”
Oh. “Absolutely,” I lie. Or rather, I agree that we went too far, but the fact is I didn’t mind it.
“From the way you ran off, I realized it was a mistake. I don’t want to complicate things between us.”
A mistake. It was just a mistake. “Of course.”
“I think I just got a little carried away. I was so taken by your words, by the atmosphere, by the flirtation that started as a joke . . . Anyway, I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I didn’t behave any better.”
“You knew how to stop yourself.”
“It’s just so . . . strange.” It’s not the exact word, but it’s the only one that comes to mind.
“I know. That’s why I wanted to be sure we’re on the same page. Better to pretend it never happened, right?”
“And it won’t happen again.” I say it aloud, but in reality I’m addressing my irresponsible conscience.
“Well then, as for tonight, has everyone confirmed?” he changes the subject.
“Yeah,” I reply, relieved at the idea of being back on safe territory. “Lapo and Margherita, Cosimo and his partner, and Lucia, who asked me to add another place because she’s bringing someone. Then there’s the five of us: me, Giada, you, Carletto, and his sister.”
“Eleven people? And your mom is doing the cooking?” he asks, amazed.
“No, Mamma is at the annex, making pizza for Linda and her friends. I’m cooking for us.”
Michael looks at me in amazement. “Not to doubt your abilities, but eleven mouths is a lot to feed.”
“I chose an easy menu: a preprepared charcuterie board; bruschetta with sausage and provola from Mugello; cherry tomatoes, burrata, and basil for the vegetarians; and a main of pici pasta with vegetable ragù.”
“I’m already hungry,” he says, licking his lips. I look away, staring intently at the loaf of bread, because if nothing more is going to happen between us, I have to avoid every temptation.
“Well then, leave me to it, if you want to eat. If we keep talking, we’ll be having toast for dinner.”
“I can do better than leave you to it,” he says. “I can help you.”
I swallow dryly. Oh God. I have the feeling that these will be the longest two hours of my life.