The Last Promise (12 page)

—Nievo

 

 

 

 

 

T
here were no tours for Ross the next day, which, in light of the night’s events, he was glad for. He slept in until ten then drove to the Uffizi. Francesca was leading a tour, and he accompanied her from the room of the Flemish Renaissance painters to the second corridor, then wandered off alone.

His thoughts were on the previous night and his meeting of Eliana. A voice had been added to the woman he had admired from afar. In the throes of crisis we see either the best or the worst in each other, and he liked what he’d seen. There was something honest about her personality that made her even more beautiful to him.

It was late afternoon when he returned to Rendola. When he got home, Eliana’s BMW was parked next to the shed. He was surprised that she was back from the hospital so soon. He thought to check on her but then decided she probably had her hands full without him, so he instead went into his apartment, dropped his helmet on the ground near the door and exchanged his slacks and sport shirt for gym shorts and a loose-fitting tank top.

He did pushups until he couldn’t do any more, seventy-seven straight; then he went out to jog. It was a warm evening and he completed his run in a little under an hour, past rolling hills of orchards and vineyards and dense forests.

When he got home, he turned on the shower and had just taken off his clothes when there was a light knock on his front door. He put on his robe, tied the sash around his waist, then went out front. Eliana stood in the corridor holding a plate wrapped in foil. She glanced down at his robe.
“Buona sera.”

“
Buona sera.
You came home sooner than I thought you would.”

“The hospital discharged us around noon.”

“Everything’s okay?”

“Yes, thank you. Alessio just needs to take it easy for the next week.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you, but I better not. I need to listen for Alessio.” Ross saw that her door was wide open. “Did I get you out of the shower?”

“Almost. You knocked just in time.”

“I came over a little earlier but you weren’t home.”

“I was out running.”

She lifted her offering. “Well, I made you some chocolate chip cookies.” She handed the plate to him. “I’m sorry they’re not still warm. We made them yesterday before everything got crazy.”

Ross lifted a corner of the foil. “Real chocolate chip cookies?”

“It’s hard to find chocolate chips here so I cut up chocolate bars. We wanted to welcome you to Rendola.”

“Thank you. Are you sure you won’t come in and have a coffee or a glass of wine?”

This time she hesitated. “I better not. I just want you to know how much I appreciate what you did for us last night.” Her expression turned serious. “It’s a good thing for us that you were here. You saved my son’s life.”

Ross felt uncomfortable accepting such praise. “No, you and the doctors saved his life. But I’m glad I was able to help. If you ever need me again, just holler. Any time. I know the route now. I’m betting I could shave another minute off my time.”

She smiled. “You drove like a crazy man. How many red lights did you run?”

“Only four. But in Italy they don’t count after midnight.”

Eliana laughed. “No, they don’t.” The moment turned into a pleasant silence for both of them. She twisted a strand of her hair.

“We’d like to do something to thank you. Alessio and I were wondering if you would have dinner with us tomorrow night. I know it’s short notice, so I’ll understand if you have other plans.”

“No plans. Just frozen pizza. It can wait.”

She smiled. “Then how about seven?”

“Seven will be great.”

“Well then, Alessio and I will be looking forward to it. Good night.”

“Good night, Eliana.”

As she walked back to her apartment, a smile bent her lips. She liked the way he said her name. Or maybe she just liked that he knew it.

—Italian Proverb

 

 

 

 

 

T
he next day was Ross’s busiest yet at the Uffizi. He led four large tours—three groups from the UK and one American. Between his tours, and sometimes during them, he thought about Eliana. On the way home from the Uffizi, he drove his scooter past the villa to the nearby hamlet of Impruneta, where he stopped at a restaurant and purchased a bottle of red wine, then, realizing that he didn’t know the night’s menu, returned and bought a bottle of white as well. He went home, took a quick shower and put on fresh clothes as the Tuscan heat tended to wilt everything before sunset. Even though he usually didn’t give his attire more than a few moments’ thought, tonight he had trouble deciding what to wear. He finally selected a black shirt and jeans.
You can’t ever go wrong with black,
the woman who sold him the shirt had told him.
Black is confident. Black is slimming,
she said like a daily affirmation, then added,
Not that you need it.

He knocked on Eliana’s door at the top of the hour. As she opened the door, his first thought was how remarkably different she looked than she had the night before. She was wearing light makeup and her hair was styled, carefully pulled back to accent the curvature of her face. She wore a satin blouse buttoned only halfway up like the young Italian women did and a dark skirt. For a woman naturally beautiful, she was stunning with a little work.

“You look nice.”

“Thank you.” She had been thinking the same about him but the words wouldn’t come. “I must have been a fright the other evening.”

“No, you weren’t. You looked pretty then too.”

It had been a while since anyone other than strangers had told her that, and she blushed. “You brought wine.”

Ross glanced down at the bottles. “
Sì
. I didn’t know what you were planning, so I brought red and white.”

“You’re very thoughtful. Here, come in.”

Ross stepped inside. The house smelled of sage, oregano, basil and other enticing odors, rich and sweet, that he could not identify.

“It smells
buono
,” he said.

“It’s not frozen pizza, but you might find something you like,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m running a little behind.”

“You’re right on time for Italy.”

“Vero.” True.
“I’m making spaghetti carbonara, and it’s best if you wait to finish it just when you’re ready to eat. I’ll only be a minute. Look around the house, if you like.”

“Thank you.”

As she walked back to the kitchen, Ross surveyed the apartment. It was many times larger than his own and far more luxurious. The foyer opened to a large
sala
with a vaulted ceiling, a massive, stone-lined fire-place and an ivory-colored piano in the far corner. There were four windows, tall and arched, and they were covered with exquisite drapery, the outer layers in thick velvet fabric with burgundy-and-golden fringe, the inner curtains of sheer silk, glowing amber with the setting sun.

With the exception of a Murano glass chandelier in the center of the room, all lighting was indirect, behind brass sconces that feathered the walls from mustard-gold to deep umber in the shadows. The home was immaculately kept and expensively decorated with antique furniture, both Italian and foreign. Some of it looked as if it had originally belonged to the home.

Most impressive to Ross was the amount of art that filled the house. There were paintings or intricate wall tapestries mounted on every wall: landscapes, portraits and still lifes.

A stereo in the main hallway softly played Mozart. After a while he walked into the kitchen. A pot of pasta was boiling on the stove, the steam rising into the black collector above it. On the back burner a smaller pot simmered with a dark, pungent sauce. Eliana was standing at a wooden cutting board, dicing pancetta with a large cleaver. When she finished chopping the meat, she walked to the stove, lifted the boiling pot of spaghetti and poured it into a stainless steel colander in the sink, tilting her head to one side to avoid the rising cloud of steam. Then she poured the spaghetti back into the pot with a chunk of unsalted butter.

He looked around the kitchen. It was a blend of old-style decor complemented by modern accessories. Then he noticed, on an oiled wood beam above a shelf of copper pots, a neat row of empty wine bottles. He looked carefully at the labels. They were all identical, though labeled with different years. L’incanto. The same wine he had brought for their dinner.

“Is that the wine you make?”

She bit her lower lip. She had hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Yes.”

“I brought you your own wine.”

She smiled. “Yes. But that’s very flattering.”

“It’s what the shop recommended,” he said. He put his hands in his pockets, looking slightly embarrassed. “Where’s your son?”

“He’s watching television upstairs. His name is Alessio.”

“How is he?”

“He finally seems to be over his sickness, thank goodness.” She reached over and put a frying pan on the stove. “A cold takes on a whole new meaning with asthma.”

“How long has he had asthma?”

“His whole life, probably. But our first real episode was when he was two.” She slid the pancetta across the cutting board with her knife, pushing the meat into the pan. It started to sizzle and the smell of the meat added to the room’s bouquet. She let it fry until it was browned on both sides.

“You don’t have to wait in here. There’s a soccer game on tonight. The television is in the room next to the dining room.”

“If it’s the same to you, I’d rather just hang out. If you don’t mind me in your kitchen, that is.”

She smiled.
Right answer,
she thought. “Of course not. Want to help?”

“
Certo.
What would you like me to do?”

“To start you can hand me the eggs. They’re behind me, on the counter.”

Ross found a small, woven straw basket with brown eggs in it. “Do you need them opened or scrambled or something?”

She smiled at
opened
. He really was a bachelor. “I need three of them mixed in that glass bowl. Just use that fork there.”

Ross cracked all of the eggs.

“What should I do with the shell that I didn’t get in with the yolk?”

Eliana laughed. “The garbage is under the sink.” He discarded the shells then came back and picked the rest out of the bowl. “Sorry. I’m an amateur.”

“If you want, I’ll teach you how to make carbonara.”

“I’d like that.”

She lifted the pan, poured the pancetta into the saucepan and stirred it around. “I hope you’re not watching your fat intake. It tastes better with some of the grease.” She handed him a small cup with clear yellow liquid. “Here, you pour this in while I stir.”

“What am I adding?”

“Chicken broth.”

He moved next to her, lightly pressing against her. She could feel the warmth of his body beneath his shirt and she didn’t move back. She liked the feel of him close to her. He slowly poured the broth in, then tapped the cup against the rim of the pan. Eliana began stirring again. “We’ll let this heat up a little and then we add the egg and parmesan.” She looked up at him while she stirred. “This is really easy to make. Do you cook much?”

“No. I’m still in the spaghetti-with-store-bought-sauce phase.”

“I’ve been there.” She looked up at him. She adjusted the heat on the stove. “Did you wonder why I didn’t just call an ambulance the other night?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“A year ago Alessio had a major attack. We almost lost him while we waited for the ambulance. Rendola is hard to find.”

“My real estate agent and I got lost the first time we came.”

She nodded. “When I moved here from the States, the FedEx and DHL people were always calling for directions.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, does Rendola mean something? It’s not in my Italian dictionary.”

“For most Italians it’s just a name. Rendola actually comes from Latin. It means where God meets the earth. That’s how Maurizio explained it to me when I first came.”

“It matches the villa. It’s a beautiful place.”

She smiled. “I love Toscana, but especially Chianti.”

Ross took a step back and looked toward the kitchen door. “It must be difficult for you, never knowing when your son might have an attack.”

“It’s just the hand we were dealt, I guess. God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle.”

“You believe that?”

“Yes. You don’t?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t. But I don’t think God’s doing all the giving either.” Ross looked toward the kitchen door. “He’s a brave little boy, isn’t he?”