Epilogue Elisa
Epilogue
Elisa
Seven months later
“You take one too. Please?” Giada implores after we lock ourselves in the bathroom.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve already done it. You’re an expert, and I’ll feel better if you do it with me. Plus, that way we’ll know if it’s accurate. If my test is negative like yours, it means I’m not pregnant; if mine is positive, it means I’m pregnant for sure. Come on, help me out.”
“Do we have to do it today?” I ask, eyeing the time.
In less than half an hour, Jemma’s best friend, Cécile Loxley, is marrying one of Michael’s best friends at the estate.
It’s a high-profile event, given that he’s a world-famous F1 driver; with all the British aristocracy and international superstars in attendance, Le Giuggiole has become a sort of destination for the jet set.
In short, not exactly the time to lock yourself in the bathroom to take a pregnancy test.
We should be out there, making sure everything goes perfectly.
“We have to do it today,” insists my sister. “Because yesterday was too early, and I can’t handle the wait until tomorrow.”
“Does Charles know you might be pregnant?”
“Yeah. We’ve been trying. We’re ready to be parents.”
The two of them live in London now, in a cottage that looks like it’s from a film. Though to call it a cottage—which is what they call it there—is an understatement, given that it has six bedrooms and four bathrooms. At least once a month, Giada comes back to visit us.
“Come on, the sooner we do it, the sooner we’re done,” she says, taking two sticks from a box that says Babypredictor and holding one out to me.
“The things you make me do . . .” I mutter, sitting on the toilet, my tulle dress pulled up to my waist.
Giada does the same thing after me, and then we place the two tests on the sink.
She tortures her nails while waiting, while I peek out the window at the situation outside: The new swimming pool looks fantastic!
Charlotte was right about adding one, and the design she drew up is perfectly integrated with the villa.
I was terrified it would look tacky, but it looks like it’s always been there.
It may have cost three times more than the average swimming pool, but we received a stratospheric wine order for the entire Bloom Group, so the next loan installments are as good as paid.
“The mascara! The mascara!” shouts Linda, charging into the bathroom.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Tommaso and I were sitting on the edge of the fountain . . .”
“I know, I saw you,” I comment sharply. “Take a breath. This isn’t a freediving competition.
” Linda and Tommaso got back together—“together” being an accurate spatial description, given that they spend most of the time with their mouths glued to each other’s—because he said he left her only to impress his friends but that in reality he’d fallen in love.
Years of evolution and males are still stuck in the same place.
If Darwin were alive, he’d revise his studies.
“Jemma’s dogs dived in like a bomb, and a wave hit us in the face.”
Good little naughty corgis. I’ll have to reward them with some bones.
“I have to redo my make-up. I look like a panda,” she grumbles and opens the cabinet with such vehemence that she knocks everything off the sink, including the tests.
“Nooo!” exclaims Giada, bending over to pick up the two sticks. Luckily my daughter is in such a hurry to get back to Tommaso that she leaves without asking any questions.
“Do you remember which one is yours?” I ask her.
“How would I do that? They’re identical!”
In the next minute, the word Pregnant appears on one of the two.
“Now we know which one is yours,” I say.
“What if it’s not mine?” she asks, gripped by anxiety.
“Well, it can’t be mine,” I say.
“Okay, I’ll take the last one in the box,” says Giada.
“Look, I have to go downstairs. I’ll see you later. Good luck,” I say, kissing her on the forehead and going back to the party.
It’s a splendid Saturday in June, and the intense blue sky makes the freshly painted villa stand out in the most cinematic way.
I can’t help but admire it with pride. Le Giuggiole, by Elisa Benetti . . .
Michael beckons to me from under the wisteria canopy. He holds out his hand and takes me in his arms, swaying us to the rhythm of the music.
“Where did you disappear to?”
“I was with Giada.”
“Ah, I see, girl stuff.”
“More or less,” I say. “Hey, is that Carletto I see drinking wine?” I ask, shocked. “He never drinks alcohol.”
“He’s dying to become a dad.”
“And what do you think about that?” I ask him, not hearing any hints of disapproval in his tone.
“I think he might be on to something . . . I’d like a big family too,” he adds, surprising me.
“Yeah, but we have so much to do now with the estate,” I say. “The vineyard, the cellar, the resort, the events . . . The vineyard . . .”
“You already said ‘vineyard.’ By the way, the newlyweds are very happy—you did a magnificent job.”
“Not to brag but . . . I know,” I gloat. “But I can’t take all the credit—I also have an exceptional associate.”
“Ah, so is that how I should introduce you? As my associate?”
“Why not? I like it.”
“What about ‘my great love’? No good?”
“A little much. It sounds fake,” I reply, turning up my nose.
“And the classic ‘my wife’?”
“It makes us sound old.”
“How about ‘Mrs. D’Arcy’?”
“In Italy women keep their surname, didn’t you know that?”
“But all my friends are English,” he insists.
“Okay, fine, as long as I can call you ‘Mr. Benetti.’”
He narrows his eyes as if he’s thinking about it. “I don’t hate it, if I’m honest.”
“I’ve been in your arms for at least five minutes, and you still haven’t kissed me, Mr. Benetti,” I reproach him.
“Is that cause for divorce?”
“Perhaps. If I were you I wouldn’t risk it, Mr. Benetti.”
“I’ll fix it right away,” he whispers, moving closer to my mouth. “But first, say it again.”
“What?”
“Mr. Benetti.”
“Mr. Benetti,” I repeat, brushing his lips with mine.
“Again,” he tortures me.
“Mr. Benetti.”
And we give each other one of those kisses that promises others, and much more.
In the end, even I, the most diehard antimarriage crusader in all of Belvedere, gave up.
Even though Mamma wanted Michael and me to have a live-broadcast wedding with commentary by Enzo Miccio so she could silence her rivals, she had to settle for a civil ceremony, but the outcome was enough to make her happy.
“Do you think anyone would notice if we disappeared?” he murmurs in his I’ll do anything for you tone.
“In theory we should stick around here . . . The ceremony will be starting soon,” I hesitate.
“But . . . ?”
“What about the storage room with the watermelons?” I ask, in the grip of desire. “In the storage room with the watermelons,” I repeat decisively.
The moment we take off, Giada strides out of the villa toward me. “Elisa, I have to tell you something.”
“Maybe later?” I try to make her understand with a wink that now is not the right time. I’ll be happy to compliment her on the baby later.
“No,” she replies.
“In ten minutes?” I ask, but Michael gives me a look. “Or twenty?”
“Elisa, you don’t understand.” Giada takes me by the elbow and drags me into the kitchen with such force that I almost trip on my dress.
“You could be a little more discreet!” I protest.
“I took the test again,” she says.
“Congratulations!” I exclaim.
“Look”—she puts the stick in my hand—“not pregnant.”
“Oh, Giada.” I hold out my arms to hug her. “Don’t be discouraged, I’m sure next time . . .”
She shakes her head matter-of-factly. “I’m not discouraged, Elisa. Don’t worry. But that means the positive test was. Not. Mine.”
The calm and poised tone with which she emphasized the last three words hits me.
“But . . . but . . . then . . .” I stammer.
It was mine.
It seems as though my big family with Michael is already well on its way.