3. Chiara #3
The conversation comes back to me. Dinner together, months ago, when I told him about starting my business. The strawberries had barely been more than an aside.
“You remembered that.”
“It sounded like a good way to celebrate. I thought you might want them again today.”
I take one. The chocolate is dark and slightly bitter, the fruit sweet underneath.
“These are perfect. Where did you even find them in winter?”
“A shop in Palermo. I asked them to send a box.” He takes one for himself. “I may have mentioned I was trying to impress my wife.”
“You told the shop that?”
“I may have used the word important. I didn’t give him the entire conversation I hoped to have afterward.”
That pleases me almost as much as the strawberries.
We pass the box between us as the sun sinks lower, his knee resting against mine beneath the blanket.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I say. “Something that has nothing to do with wine, the estate, or family obligations.”
“That’s most of my personality.”
“Lies. You have hidden depths.” I move the box before he can take the largest strawberry. “And you thought I wouldn’t notice you choosing that one.”
He smiles, then looks out over the water.
“I used to want to be a carpenter.”
“A carpenter?”
“When I was twelve. I spent a summer building terrible things in the workshop behind the stables. A birdhouse no bird would live in. A shelf that collapsed under its first book.” His smile softens. “I liked making something with my hands.”
“What happened?”
“I turned thirteen. My father decided it was time I learned the business, and the workshop became equipment storage. I never really went back.”
I think of my garden, of the satisfaction of seeing something grow because I took care of it.
“You should build something again.” My head settles against his shoulder. “A truly terrible birdhouse. Just for yourself.”
“Maybe I will.” His arm comes around me. “If you’ll convince the birds to overlook my craftsmanship.”
“I’ll write a persuasive letter. Dear birds, please consider this lopsided accommodation. The builder means well and his wife finds him charming.”
“You find me charming?”
“Occasionally. When you bring me chocolate.”
He tilts my chin up and kisses me, soft and unhurried. My hand rests on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath it.
When we part, he takes that hand and holds it between us. For a moment, he looks as though he might speak, then lowers his eyes to our joined fingers.
“My father taught me that love was something you provided. Not something you spoke. He never…”
His phone buzzes.
Lorenzo glances at the screen, his thumb going still against my hand.
“Everything all right?”
“Fine. A delivery confirmation for the glassware.”
He types a brief reply. I wait for him to finish what he was saying, but he pockets the phone and looks toward the shore.
“We should head back before it gets too dark.”
The light is fading. He’s right about that. Still, I want the rest of that sentence.
Before I can ask, he is drawing up the anchor. I close the strawberries and pack them on top of the basket while he takes the oars.
On the way back, the silence is less comfortable. I keep thinking of those last two words, of how close he came to telling me something he usually keeps to himself.
But I think of the birdhouse, too. The kiss. A detail from dinner months ago that he remembered when I thought he wasn’t listening.
I want another evening like this. I also want him to finish the conversation.
At the dock, Lorenzo ties the boat and takes the basket from me, then offers his hand.
I’m stepping onto the boards when I see Livia.
She stands on the shore, twenty feet away, her dark coat blending into the trees. I don’t know how long she’s been there.
Her gaze drops to the strawberries on top of the basket, then moves to our joined hands.
“Beautiful evening, signora. I’d hate for anything to spoil it.”
Lorenzo turns without letting go of me. “Livia. What brings you this far from the cellars?”
“The lower storehouse.” She tips her chin toward the trees beyond the dock, as if the answer were ordinary. “I needed the reserve counts before I lock tomorrow’s anteroom staging list. The lakeside path is faster than the vineyard road after dark.”
“Next time take a lantern and tell someone you’re going,” Lorenzo says. Not unkind, but not soft. “This shore isn’t lit.”
“Of course.” Her gaze drops to our joined hands, then to the strawberries. “I wouldn’t want to spoil anything. Good night, Don Lorenzo… Signora.”
She turns into the trees before either of us answers. The path takes her coat in a few steps.
I stay beside him, the folded blanket over my arm.
After the meeting, I would have expected her to look displeased at finding us here together. Instead she smiled through the whole explanation.
I could wish her a good evening and leave it there.
But my husband is still holding my hand, and she spoke as though our evening were something she might choose to ruin later.
Why does it feel as though she is telling me to enjoy it while I can?