Chapter 44 Elisa
Elisa
At the end of the harvest, we have a ritual: Everyone who has taken part—that is, me, Foliero, Carlo, and Angelo, plus the usual eleven seasonal workers who join us—celebrates with a dinner in the vineyard.
Foliero is a master of grilled, bone-in Florentine steak.
We are exhausted but extremely satisfied; we harvested excellent grapes at a higher yield than we expected.
Obviously there’s also Michael, our honorary picker, my daughter Linda, and Tommaso, who wanted to earn some extra money for Lucca Comics and Games in November.
She’s happy and so am I, although I’m always watching them with eyes on the back of my head to make sure their hands are visible at all times.
Everyone loved working with Michael. He has a great work ethic with a surprising tenacity.
It’s true that as a kid he liked working with his hands, but I didn’t think he was still so rugged and energetic under those designer suits.
Did he want to impress me? Why? I’m already here, wobbly in the knees whenever he looks at me!
Like now.
His furtive glances and half smiles when we’re in other people’s company drive me crazy. They seem to say: If only we were alone, what I would do to you . . .
It’s a beautiful night, it’s almost eleven, and the air is still balmy for mid-September, the little lights hanging between the rows of vines reflecting on the glasses and bottles of wine, while we attack a thirst-quenching late-summer watermelon.
“Does anyone want more?” asks Mamma, the dinner’s honorary godmother.
A mass of hands go up around the table, and she shakes her head.
“I only asked to be polite. Now I have to go and get it!” she snorts.
The industrial fridge where we store the fruit is in the former barn, not very close for those who have to carry a whole twenty-pound watermelon. “Who’s coming with me?”
“I’ll come, Mariana,” Michael offers in a burst of chivalry, leaping to his feet to help her.
“Elisa, can you go with him?” she asks me. “My back hurts.”
Mamma has a sixth sense for the dating game, and although I haven’t gone into detail about what’s been going on between Michael and me, she senses that something is different.
We walk toward the barn, and once we’re at a safe distance from the group, our hands automatically search for each other.
“I think your mother sent us a very veiled message,” he observes.
“Like all the women of Belvedere, she can’t resist the temptation to pair off single people.”
“But you’re not single,” Michael says, shooting me a mischievous look.
“She doesn’t know that yet.”
“What did you tell her about our night together in Florence?”
“That we went as friends.”
“Did she buy it?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply. “She wasn’t born yesterday.”
We drag open the sliding door of the former barn, and I peer into the huge chest fridge, bending down to pick out a watermelon.
“Have I told you how nice your butt looks in those shorts?” asks Michael.
“No, but go ahead and have a seat,” I reply, happy to have my back turned so that he can’t see the smile plastered on my face. “Are you enjoying the show?”
“Very much.”
I emerge from the fridge with the watermelon in my arms just as Michael approaches me from behind, his hands pressing into the door frame, leaving me no way around him, his mouth resting impertinently on my shoulder as he slides the strap of my top down with his tongue.
My strength abandons me, and the watermelon falls to the ground in an explosion of seeds, juice, and pulp.
“You’re playing dirty,” I tell him, returning the provocation, my hands making their way under his T-shirt.
“If it’s not dirty, I don’t like it . . .” The top button of my shorts surrenders to Michael as he adds, “Do you remember pici night or do you need a reminder?”
“We shouldn’t have,” I murmur, my lips against his.
“But we wanted to.” The second button on my fly leaves the chat, and now Michael’s fingers are dangerously close to my panties. “Are you . . . okay?”
Maybe he thinks I still have my period after ten days. “Willing and able,” I reassure him. “I think they’re going to have to wait for their watermelon,” I say, pulling off my top.
He picks me up and heads for the exit. “Fuck the watermelon.”
We arrive at his room in a whirlwind of kisses, bites, caresses, and scratches.
He locks the door and presses me against it. “I swear you won’t get out of here on your own two feet.”
“I swear I’ll never want to leave.”
In the darkness, I don’t know who pushes who onto the bed, probably both of us, with a hunger that verges on desperation, my shorts flying to the floor along with Michael’s T-shirt and jeans.
We’re not kissing now; we’re tearing each other apart. I’m on top of him, astride him, the thin barrier of our underwear the last thing preventing us from consummating our desire, but we’re both so ready, I’m afraid we’ll explode just by touching.
“You have condoms, right?” I ask him with the last bit of prudence I have left.
“Of course.”
“How many?”
“A box of twelve.”
“That may be enough.”
“Is that a challenge, Elisa?”
“Are you scared?”
“Darling, you have no idea what kind of trouble you just got yourself into.”
“Get them,” I implore, stifling his possible reply with a kiss. He opens the bedside drawer and blindly feels around.
“My God, where are they?!” he mutters impatiently. “Wait, let me turn on a light.”
The lamp dimly illuminates the room, highlighting every muscle of Michael’s body, truly sculpted by the hand of Michelangelo. I have to close my eyes so I don’t lose my mind.
“Nooo!” he exclaims in dismay.
“What?”
“There are no condoms.”
I can’t believe my ears. “What do you mean there are no condoms?”
“I left them in the room in Florence.”
“Are you kidding?!” I exclaim.
We look at each other with disappointment and dismay. “You’re not on the pill, by any chance?”
“Why would I be? I haven’t had a relationship since my daughter was in elementary school.”
“Say no more.”
“And no quail jumping,” I warn him.
“Quail jumping?” he stops, confused.
“Pulling out,” I explain.
“Ahh, got it. But why quails? How do quails jump?”
“It’s an expression . . . how do they say it in England?”
“To leave the church before the singing begins,” he replies in all seriousness.
“Seriously?”
“It makes a lot more sense than ‘quail jumping’!” he laughs.
“But it’s ridiculous,” I counter.
“Why? Isn’t it funny to think of a man hopping around with a hard-on?”
“Are we seriously sitting here comparing idioms? Let’s go get those condoms!”