“I was planning on it.”
“Good.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Sleep well.”
“Good night. I’ll see you Sunday.”
She shut the door behind him and leaned against it, thinking about a life with just him.
CHAPTER 20
“D’amor non s’intende che prudenza ad amore.” One who tries to unite prudence and love knows nothing about love.
—Italian Proverb
“I had never supposed a woman could be so lovely.”
—Ross Story’s diary
T
he caterers from the restaurant Osteria di Rendola arrived Sunday at one o’clock. They pulled their three-wheeled Ape truck up to the side of the building, threw open its doors and began carrying large platters of food to the kitchen on the top floor of the winery. The
vendemmia
feast was a thing of beauty. The antipasta included mushroom-and-mint focaccia bread, pheasant salad with grape reduction sauce, fig and walnut bread with Tuscan ham, chicken liver-Vin santo pâté crostini and wild bitter greens omelette. There were two kinds of soups: tomato and bread, and corn meal and chestnut. For the first plate there was cannelini bean and ricotta lasagna, flavored with rosemary, and from the grill porcini mushroom caps with grape leaves, roasted pork ribs with wild garlic and black pepper and Sangiovese wine-marinated Chianina steak. There were three kinds of dessert: grape focaccia, chestnut flour crepes with chocolate mousse, and chilled Sangiovese grape-and-peach soup.
The guests, the vineyard and winery workers, began arriving three hours after the caterers. They came by automobile, bicycle and scooter but mostly by foot, dressed in their Sunday best; the older men wearing hats with the musty dark wool suit coats that they had worn for decades, their women plodding silently beside them. Once at the winery, they tediously climbed the steps to the top floor, where the
salone
was prepared for the feast. There they divorced themselves from each other’s company, the old men gathering in a pack at one end of the hall while the women gathered in the kitchen, where they found ways to busy themselves, helping the caterer stir sauces or spread pâté across crostini.
The young men came dressed in leather jackets or sports coats and collared shirts unbuttoned to their abdomens, with young ladies on their arms and imperious smiles and cigarettes on their lips. The young people congregated in their own section of the hall.
There were five long banquet tables brimming with food and large demijohns of wine, Merlot and Sangiovese, from the previous harvest.
Ross had taken a small group through the Uffizi that morning and arrived at the winery a full hour after the festivities had gotten under way. He climbed the stairs and walked into the room alone, wearing slacks and a sports coat with a black T-shirt underneath. There was music playing in the hall, a band of elderly men with an accordion, a recorder and a guitar, playing cheerful Tuscan folk songs. Laughter and conversation filled the room.
Anna was the first to notice Ross’s entrance, and she walked to the doorway, escorted by a portly gentleman, moon-faced with a curt tuft of hair on his chin. Anna greeted Ross affectionately, kissing both of his cheeks.
“Good evening, Mr. Story. How are you today? So glad you could come.” They were the only three lines of English that she remembered verbatim from Eliana’s lessons, and she had recited the lines so formally that Ross had to fight the impulse to laugh.
“
Ciao,
Anna. You said that very well. You have very good English.”
She flushed. “No, my English is poor.”
“Looks like the festivities are in full swing.”
She looked at him blankly, not understanding what he said. Ross switched to Italian. “Thank you for inviting me. Is this your friend?”
The man reached out his hand. “I’m Andrea.”
“
Piacere,
Andrea. I’m Ross.”
“Piacere mio.” My pleasure.
“And I don’t speak a word of English.”
Just then Maurizio walked up to Ross, wearing a loose-fitting beige Armani suit. Eliana was at his side, holding his hand, her eyes softly following him. She was made up for the occasion. Her cheeks were lightly rouged, accenting the deep crimson of her lips. She wore a sheer dress, orchid in color, that fell to her knees, with an open top that was slit down the middle to her waist. The two halves of the blouse were brought together with string, laced up, yet still open, exposing the pale, smooth skin of her breasts. He guessed Maurizio had bought the dress for her, dressing her up for show. If so, he had done a good job of it. She had never looked more beautiful, and it made Ross ache inside.
Maurizio raised both his hands to shoulder height, as if in surprise. “Mr. Story, you made it after all.”
“Yes. I had to work this morning. Thank you for the invitation.”
“This is your first
Vendemmia
?”
“Yes. Well, I don’t recall going to any in Minneapolis.” He looked over at Eliana, who was silently gazing at him. He tipped his head. “Mrs. Ferrini.”
“Hello,
Signore
Story. I’m glad you could come.”
“Thank you.” There was a momentary pause—a tension between them that Eliana hoped Maurizio would not notice.
“Where’s Alessio?” Ross asked.
Maurizio spoke. “He’s out playing with the other children.”
Ross rubbed his hands. “Well then, I’m new at this; where shall I sit?”
“Wherever you like. We’re at the table up near the front, but I’m afraid it’s full already.”
“There are plenty of other tables.”
Eliana looked away from him, and the tension was growing unbearable for Ross. “You have a lot of people to greet. Thanks again for the invitation.”
“You’re welcome,” Maurizio said. “Enjoy yourself. Drink lots of wine. There is much wine.”
Maurizio stepped away, pulling Eliana with him. She glanced back at Ross, her face revealing nothing but her eyes shining with longing.
Ross went to the buffet table. He loaded up a platter, took a glass of wine, then sat down at a table with an older couple and two young, caramel-skinned girls in their midteens who were already eating. The girls were awkward around him at first, as he was both handsome and foreign; their dark eyes darted from each other to him.
One of the girls said to the other, “He’s
carino
. Was he one of the workers?”
“My brother said he came for the first day. He’s Eliana Ferrini’s friend.”
“Where is he from? England?”
“No, he looks American. Don’t you think he looks a little like Mel Gibson?”
“Mel Gibson isn’t American.”
“What if he spoke Italian? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”
“Certo, certo.”
They both giggled at this.
Ross let them talk about him for several more minutes before he greeted them in near-perfect Italian. The girls both blushed, but Ross only laughed and they soon overcame their embarrassment. They began asking him questions about American music, American girls and whether or not he had ever met Tom Cruise or Mel Gibson.
Though he resisted looking at Eliana, it was difficult and he failed occasionally, glancing at her as she played the proper role of the
capo
’s wife. She shared her table with Maurizio, Alessio, Manuela and her husband, Vittorio, Anna and Andrea, Luca and his wife, Concetta, who was busy talking with Alessio. Alessio was also dressed up for the occasion, wearing a clip-on tie and a little sports coat. As he looked at them, Ross felt like an exile.
Eliana suddenly looked over at him as if she knew his thoughts; their eyes met briefly and she smiled then turned away.
Before Ross finished his plate, some of the men began moving the buffet tables to an adjoining room, and the musical trio moved among the tables, enticing the guests to dance. The older couples pirouetted to the
liscio,
an Italian waltz, while the younger generation mimicked them with their own, more physical version.
After every few songs the band would take a break and turn on a CD of Latino music. Then the older generation would retire or try to follow the younger dancers. During a Latino song one of the young women at his table took Ross’s hand.
“Vorrebbe ballare?”
He answered, “I don’t really know how to dance.”
“See Giacomo?” She pointed to an elderly man not five feet tall, with a face as wrinkled as olive bark. He was joyfully dancing by himself, his arms out as if around a phantom partner, oblivious to the cessation of the music. Ross smiled at the sight of him.
“He’s eighty-nine,” she said. “If Giacomo can dance, so can you.”
“Ci provo.” I’ll try.
Ross danced four times, twice with each of the young women, as they were now trying to outdo each other. After the dances he sat back down to catch his breath as the accordion music started up again and the older couples retook the dance floor. Suddenly Eliana was standing next to his table. “Is everyone having a good time?”
Everyone at the table responded enthusiastically. One man raised a glass of wine to her.
She looked at Ross. “Are you having fun, Mr. Story?”
“Sì. Molto.” Much.
She leaned into Ross and whispered to him, “Meet me at the bottom of the vineyard road behind the cantina in ten minutes. I want to show you something.”
She walked back to her table. Ross watched her, and then, after a few minutes, Eliana said something to Manuela and casually walked toward the ladies’ room. After a short while Ross excused himself from the table and walked toward the opposite door. Across the room Luca watched him leave.
Ross walked down the stairs to the outside, then followed the back gravel road to a small dirt patch the workers used to park their cars, surrounded by a cluster of olive trees and bouquets of yellow broom. Eliana was there, leaning against the vertical post of a log fence, watching him descend toward her. A twilight breeze caused a few errant strands of her hair to dance around her face. When he was within a few feet of her, she motioned to him. “This way.”
They walked together to where the dirt road split, one side rising, the other side gently sloping down to a small ravine near the irrigation lake and the vineyard. Eliana, wearing high heels, took careful steps over the rocks and dirt. Ross took her hand and she interlaced her fingers with his. He remembered how wonderful her hand had felt the first time he had held it, in Arezzo.
They walked a moment in silence over the spongy earth, she slightly ahead of him, pulling him toward something.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Twilight was falling fast. The music from the feast grew faint in the distance, replaced by the sound of their breathing and their feet over the rich black soil.
“It’s true what you said about the earth. The soil does smell different.”
“When I was pregnant with Alessio, my skin took on so many changes. It felt different. It even smelled different. I think it’s the same when the earth gives birth.”
Ross nodded again and agreed silently. They walked a little farther. She stopped where a low stone wall blocked their path. She brushed the wall a little with her hand, then put her back to it and pushed herself up onto it. Ross joined her. Their feet hanging a few inches above the ground, they both sat there looking out over the valley they had just traversed.
“Are you nervous, being here with me?” Ross asked.
“A little.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “It will be okay for a while.” She reached over and took his hand again, looked at it, ran her finger down his palm. “You have beautiful hands.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve thought so since I first met you. They’re artist’s hands.”
Ross still looked critically at his own hands.
“That was a compliment. Say ‘thank you.’ ”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The wind danced across the valley, stripped of her fruit and ready to wither and be reborn. It was quiet. Ross broke the silence. “So what did you want to show me?”
“That.” She pointed toward the distant valley. The sun was falling and the day’s last light spread out over the land, turning everything before them to gold.
Ross said softly,
“Che meraviglia.”
“Sì,”
she replied in a voice just stronger than a whisper. “I think this is where the first settlers must have been when they named this valley Rendola. It looks like where heaven might meet the earth. I come here alone sometimes. Whenever I need peace. I sit here and watch the sun set. Sometimes I pray.” Her words trailed off in silence.
Ross closed his eyes. The air was crisp, and there was no sound but the scattered evening song of birds.
“I’ve always wanted to share this with someone. Some things are too lovely not to be shared.”
Ross sat quietly thinking about her words; then he turned to her. “Like you.”
She turned and looked into his eyes. Then, as if filling a vacuum between them, they came together and kissed, deeply and without restraint. When they finally parted, she was breathless, her lips slightly open, her eyes unable to leave him.
Ross looked into her eyes with deep intensity. “I love you, Eliana. With all my heart, I love you.”
She closed her eyes as if to feel his words, like a warm breeze brushing over her. Then she leaned forward again and they kissed, softly at first, then with growing passion. They wrapped their arms around each other, grasping, clenching, entangling themselves. It was as if she was drinking from his mouth, from his soft lips, quenching a thirst that had built up for years. He slid from the wall, still in her embrace, but now standing in front of her and kissing her face. She tipped her head back so that he could kiss her neck, and her arms went around his head, pulling him into herself. Then suddenly she stiffened.