The Last Promise (23 page)

“These barrels are called
barriques
. We let the wine age down here for a year; then we bottle it and sell it.” She stopped next to a barrel and examined it. “Let’s try some of this.”

At the end of the room was a wooden counter. She retrieved from it a wineglass and a large glass tube resembling a turkey baster. She worked the plastic plug from the barrel then inserted the tube. “They call this a ‘thief,’ ” she said, smiling, “because it steals wine from barrels.”

The glass tube turned burgundy as it filled. She took the thief from the barrel and released its liquid into the glass. She lifted the glass to the light, examined the wine’s color, smelled it, then sipped it.

“Mmm, that’s really good. Try this.” She handed Ross the glass.

He tasted it. “That is good.”

“I don’t know what it is. I’ll have to ask Luca. That was a good harvest. I’ll have him get some bottles of it for you.”

“Thanks.” He took another drink. “So, you’re pretty powerful around here.”

“Oh yeah, I say jump, and all these men ask how high.”

“Well, I’m sure you were used to that even before you were the
capo
’s wife.”

She just smiled, then took the glass from him, her hand touching his in the exchange. She took another drink then handed back the glass.

“Do you love Maurizio?” Ross asked.

The question struck her so abruptly that she laughed. “Now, there’s a question to ask a girl after a glass of wine. Where did that come from?”

“I’m sorry, it’s a bad habit of mine. I just say what comes to my mind.”

“I’ve noticed.” She put down the glass. “Truthfully?” She sighed. “Truthfully I do better with questions about wine.” Her voice softened. “I don’t really know. I mean, if I didn’t love him, why would I hurt so much when he cheats on me?”

Ross thought it a strange barometer. “Maurizio cheats on you?”

She looked down. “Earlier this year I caught him. Not actually with someone; I probably would have killed him if I had. I found the girl’s earrings in his coat pocket. He first tried to lie about it. He said that he had bought them for me. But the used lipstick I found with them kind of ruined his excuse.” Her eyes filled with sadness. “I knew he’d been cheating for a long time. It was just the first time I called him on it.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing at first. Then he said that’s just the way things are and it’s me who has the problem, not him.”

Ross looked at her, weighing her words. “So what did you say to him?”

“I told him that I was leaving. He said that I could, of course, but that I couldn’t take Alessio with me—as if leaving Alessio behind was an option.”

Ross frowned. “Could he really stop you from taking him?”

“From Italy, yes. I can’t take Alessio out of the country without Maurizio’s permission.”

“What if you just went home and didn’t come back?”

“Believe me, I’ve thought of it. But it’s not that simple. Without Maurizio’s permission, I couldn’t stay out of the country for more than two weeks. If I stayed a day longer, Maurizio could call the police, and the FBI would be notified, and I would be charged with kidnapping. It’s something the international community actually cooperates on. I would have to bring Alessio back, and they would take away his passport until he was eighteen. I might even go to jail. At the least I would lose custody of Alessio. I suppose I could live a life on the run like some women have, but that’s no life for Alessio. And with his asthma it would be dangerous.”

“Could you take Maurizio to court?”

“I could. But I would lose.”

“Why is that?”

“For one, because Maurizio’s family is
ben introdotta
—well connected. They are rich and his father was a
conte
. A count.”

“Then doesn’t that make Maurizio a count?”

She nodded. Ross looked at her for a moment. “And you a countess?”

“Yes.”

Ross was taken aback by the casualness of her response. “What does that mean?”

She carefully thought about her reply. “Not much, really. Though it was definitely part of the whole fantasy. Every now and then someone will kiss my hand. But Italy’s a republic and nobility is just a title. Still, there is power to be had and Maurizio knows how to use it.”

“I can’t believe the system really works that way.”

“You have no idea. Italy is all about who you know. It’s always been this way. But even if Maurizio didn’t have connections, I would probably lose in court.”

“Why?”

“Because I would have to prove that I could give Alessio a better life in America.”

“Couldn’t you?”

“Not as a single parent. I got pregnant before I finished school and then we moved here and I’ve been home ever since. I have no skills, no profession, other than my art. I can’t even type. Then there’s Alessio’s asthma. You know how expensive hospitals are in America. I’m in the emergency room at least every other month. Plus there are his medications and doctor visits.” She stopped, exasperated at the thought of it. “I could never do it, even if the courts allowed it.”

“You’ve thought this all through.”

“A million times.”

Ross ran his hand across the barrel’s smooth surface. “If he’s never around, why does he care if you go?”

“It’s just different here. Here, breaking up a family, whatever the reason, is seen as worse than having an affair. Besides, why would Maurizio want to? The status quo works for him. He gets a wife and mother at home and the freedom and excitement of the road.”

“And the fact that he cheats doesn’t bother him?”

“To him cheating is irrelevant. Have you heard the word
scappatella
?”

“No.”

“It means a little love affair. Some believe that an occasional
scappatella
is good for a marriage. That it keeps it fresh.”

“So fidelity in marriage isn’t important to Maurizio.”

“No, it doesn’t matter if
he
cheats. If
I
were to cheat, that would be something very different.”

“A double standard.”

“Big double standard.” Then she added, “Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I believe there are some things a man and a woman should only share with each other.”

“So how do you get by?”

She finished her wine then set down the glass. “I raise a little boy. And I paint.”

“And you do both of them very well.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. She checked her watch. “We better go. I’m sure Manuela has a feast prepared.” As they walked toward the stair, Ross slipped his arm around her and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She said, “If you’re not busy this afternoon, we could get further on the painting.”

“I’m all yours.”

She smiled at the thought of that possibility.

“So how many sessions do we have left anyway?” Ross asked.

“I don’t know, five or six.” She looked over at him. “Are you getting tired of them?”

“No.”

“Good. But no more serious talk tonight. Or we’ll never get done.”

Then the two of them walked together back to the villa.

—Italian Proverb

—Ross Story’s diary

 

 

 

M
anuela was gone for the day and Alessio was asleep in his bedroom. The windows of the studio were open, though not as much as they would have been just a week earlier. The air was now laced with a coolness—a harbinger of fall’s approach. Ross was in his chair. She had been painting for more than an hour and their conversation had been light. Ross was feeling more like a bowl of fruit than usual.

Suddenly he said, “Dorian Gray.”

She looked over from around the easel.

“What?”

“
The Picture of Dorian Gray
by Oscar Wilde. Did you ever read it?”

“A long time ago. When I was in high school. Why?”

“I just suddenly remembered it, sitting here having my portrait painted.”

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. After a prolonged moment she said, “Doesn’t he end up killing the artist who painted his portrait?”

“I think you’re right.”

Pause.

“We can talk about something else.”

“Are you tired from this morning?”

“I’m a little sore.”

“I’m surprised, the way you’re always exercising.”

“Grape harvesting takes different muscles, I guess. Trying to keep up with those old men just about did me in.”

“I told you. And you should have used gloves. Now your hands are purple.”

“Sorry.” He stretched then apologized for moving. “Would you tell me the truth if I asked you something?”

She groaned. “I don’t know how much more honesty I can stand today.”

“This won’t hurt you. Only me.”

“If it’s only you,” she said facetiously.

“How is my Italian? Really.”

She was relieved at the question. “
Bene.
It’s good. You have a remarkable vocabulary.”

“I can remember words. It’s the pronunciation I don’t think is very good. I still have a little trouble rolling my Rs the way Italians do.”

“Most English speakers do. I couldn’t roll my Rs at all my first year here. Then I met an American woman with flawless Italian. I told her that I couldn’t roll my Rs and she said,
Honey, speaking Italian is like kissing. It’s not so much what you do with your tongue as how you hold your mouth.
Then she taught me this trick. Before I knew it I could say,
arrrrrrrrrrrrrivederci
.”

“Now you’re showing off.”

“Want to learn how?”

She put down her brush and came out from behind her easel to sit down next to Ross. “Okay, repeat after me. Bitter. Batter. Butter.”

“Bitter. Batter. Butter.”

“Now smile when you say it and hold the first vowel, like this,” she said, sticking her lips out in exaggeration. “Beeeter, baaater, booooter.”

“Do I have to look dumb like that when I say it?”

“Yep, just like that. Now you try it.”

“Beeeter, baaater, booooter.”

“Good. Now your mouth is in the right position to roll the R. In fact it’s almost automatic.”

“Beeeterrr, baaaterrr, booooterrr.”

“Stick your lips out more on the R.”

“Beeeterrrr, baaaterrrr, booooterrrr.”

“No, you need to stick them out more. Like you’re kissing.”

“Beeeterrrr, baaaterrrr, booooterrrr.”

“Like this.” She put her hand on Ross’s face and squeezed his cheeks together until his lips were pursed. “Now try it.”

“Beeeter, baaater, booooter.”

She released her hand. “Come on, Ross, don’t you know how to kiss?”

“Let me try.” At this Ross leaned forward and kissed her. She froze and closed her eyes as the warmth of his mouth melted into hers. He slowly drew back from her and her eyes were locked on his, in surprise and awe. She felt a little breathless.

His voice was low. “I’m a little rusty. Was that all right?”

She swallowed. “Not bad.”

There was a light rap on the open door.

They both looked over. Luca, the winery manager, stood in the doorway. He looked back and forth between the two of them. “Excuse me,
Signora
Ferrini, I saw your light on. I didn’t want to wake Alessio.”

Eliana was suddenly pale. “What do you need, Luca?”

“I brought the menu for the
vendemmia
feast for your approval.”

“Of course. Just set it right there. I’ll look over it in the morning.”

“Very good.” He set the paper on a shelf and looked at Ross again. “Sorry to disturb you. Good night.” He walked off.

When the door shut, Eliana groaned, briefly covering her eyes with her hand. “I didn’t see him standing there. Do you think he saw that?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

She looked down for a moment. “It’s okay. It didn’t mean anything.”

“It didn’t?”

She looked at him in silence. She didn’t know what else to say.

Ross stood. “I better go.”

Eliana followed him down to the foyer. At the doorway she put her arms around him and pressed herself into him. He held her. Their partings had lost their awkwardness, but now they seemed more difficult each time.

“Same time tomorrow?” Ross asked.

She looked down. “I’m sorry. I’m so flustered. What day is tomorrow?”

“Thursday.”

“No, I need to get ready for the
vendemmia
feast. You’re still coming, aren’t you?”