Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (10 page)

“That sounds okay.”

“You are silly. There are wild animals in Italy, you know, and not just the men.”

“Understood. We’ll have to wait till we get to your family home, then.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, before Sandro said, “There’s something I need to tell you. My mother is very old-fashioned, not like my father. So we will have to sleep in separate rooms.”

“Oh, of course. My mother would be the same way. And what our moms say goes, at least in their own homes.”

“Thank you for saying that. I know it might seem silly, because I am in my mid-30s, but my mother knows very little about my romantic past. She still thinks I’m waiting for the perfect woman to marry.”

He shook his head. “But don’t worry, Sigrid. I’ll find ways for us to be together.”

“Oh, will you?”

“
Promesso
.”

The drive was beautiful, but slightly nauseating with hilly, winding roads and steep climbs galore. The steep descents weren’t much better. Italians sure loved building towns on hilltops—must have come in handy when barbarians were at the gates, waiting to maraud, thought Sigrid.

“You don’t really like being in cars for long periods of time, do you?” asked Sandro.

“What gave it away? The fact that I am clutching the dashboard, the fact that my knuckles are as white as can be, or the fact that I keep reaching for a bag just in case I get sick?”

“I think all three give it away. Also, the fact that you are turning green might be an indication. Yet you love the Vespa?”

“You know, it is interesting. I’ve thought about that a lot. I could be on a motorcycle for hours, but not in a car. It is counterintuitive, of course, because you are far safer in a car with a seat-belt on and all that, then you ever could be on a motorcycle or Vespa. But I think the difference is that in a car you feel boxed in, restrained, contained.”

“So you like your freedom, just as I do?”

“Well yes, but…”

“But what?”

“Nothing.” Sigrid thought better of finishing her sentence, as she had wanted to say, “Yes, I love my freedom, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want a romantic and sexual commitment. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love a future with you and only you.”

Saying that would have ruined the just-over-a-month they had left together and she wasn’t going to do that for anything.

“Well, don’t worry, we are almost there. Actually, our home is not far from Florence, so perhaps after Christmas we can take our Vespas into the city.”

“We can take our Vespas there?”

“Yes, as I said, it isn’t far and then once we get into Florence, they are easier to manoeuvre into parking spaces and around the galleries than a car. You will love it. The city is stunning.”

“I’ve read that people faint and go crazy there from all the art. The beauty overwhelms them. It’s called Stendhal Syndrome.”

“I have never fainted from the beauty of Florence, but maybe Italians are immune.”

You’re immune to way too much, buddy, she thought.

Sandro manoeuvred the Lancia off the main road and onto a path with overgrown greenery on both sides until they reached an imposing stone wall with a metallic gate for a door. He opened his window, pushed in a code, and the gate opened. What Sigrid saw was most definitely not what she expected.

“This is not a
capanna
,” she said, quietly.

“No, that is just a nickname.”

“This is a castle or a…”

Sandro laughed. “You Anglos and your castles! You think everything is King Arthur. No, this is not a castle, nor a palace. But it is an old estate that my family bought five generations back and renovated. They bought the vineyard around it, as well. So it’s a, I don’t know, an estate I guess. Is it a mansion, maybe?”

“A mansion would be more like something in the city,” corrected Sigrid.

“Okay, English teacher. Then an estate.”

“Yes, and it is beautiful.”

“But for me it’s just a house, it’s my home, the place where I was raised.”

The front door of the house had a simple Christmas wreath—cranberries and tiny silver acorns interlaced with greenery—and once inside, Sigrid appreciated the classy understatement of Italian holiday decorations. There was nothing garish like in the homes or the malls back home, no tinsel, no Santa’s sled or a blow-up Rudolph or
Babbo Natale
. Just some garlands on the elegant banisters, ribbons and sprigs of holly here and there, and a tall fir decorated with only white lights and a delicate angel on top in the main sitting area.

At least, Sigrid thought, I
hope
it’s the main sitting area.
I hate to think there’s another that is even bigger and more elegant.
Sigrid reflected with dismay at what she had packed for her Christmas with the Tottis. She only had one nice dress and one pair of dress pants and one silk blouse. Everything else was casual.

“What’s the matter, Sigrid?”

Sandro, as usual, read her mind.

“I don’t think I have the right clothes for this place. When I heard ‘Christmas in the countryside,’ I thought of Christmas in the
countryside
, a rustic sort of place, the country. Not a palace. Okay, it isn’t a palace, but I only have one nice dress, two nice outfits in total. The rest are casual clothes.”

Sandro shrugged. “Don’t worry. You will be fine. Wear the dress at all of the dinners here, and when we go to church, or my mother will kill you.”

“I’m going to church?”

“Yes, we go to midnight mass and you will come with us. I won’t have it any other way.” He read her mind again. “You don’t need to be Catholic or even any kind of believer. It is just a matter of showing regard for my mother.”

“I wasn’t complaining. It’s just back home I only go to church for weddings and funerals.”

“Not even on Christmas Eve or Good Friday?”

“Not even for those, no. I had a sort of typical Anglo, Canadian, urban, secular humanistic upbringing. But it’s fine. I wasn’t complaining. And I love singing carols, or attempting to sing them, since I don’t know many Italian carols.”

“You will have the words in front of you. And then, you can wear your other nice outfit for family lunches and for Christmas morning. But most of the rest of your time here will be fine for casual clothes. I want to show you our vineyard and my father wants to show you all his animals. Speaking of…
micio,
micio
…ah, here she is!”

A small black cat with the tiniest bit of white on her nose came running toward Sandro. He lifted her up and gave her a kiss on the head. “Sigrid, this is Maximillia.”

“Well, hello there, Maximillia. Oh goodness, what happened to the poor thing?”

Maximillia’s right eye was missing.

“Well, when my father first saw her, she was a ratty little thing outdoors, hungry, with ear mites, and quite sick. So he started feeding her to gain her trust and brought her to the vet, after he was finally able to trap her, of course. At that point, her right eye had become infected—probably as the result of a fight with another animal or, sadly, perhaps as the result of someone being deliberately cruel to her—to the point that the only solution was to remove it. But as you can see, she is fine now. She is even a little plump in the belly.”

“Yes, but she deserves it.”

“And she’s Maximillia because my father thought she was a boy and called her ‘Max’ until the vet had a look at her.”

“I hope she doesn’t have any gender identity issues,” laughed Sigrid.

“None at all. She’s spayed now and spoiled and happy and has no need for all that sexual nonsense and being abandoned by her man, stuck to raise kittens alone in the cruel world.”

Lucky girl, thought Sigrid. No broken heart in her future.

“You will meet our other cat later, I’m sure. He is Boris. He is large and orange and not that friendly—I mean, you can pet him but you cannot pick him up—and was also rescued by my father. Part of his tail is missing because someone was very cruel to him long ago and tried to cut it off. We are sure of that.”

“Oh goodness! That is horrible!”

“I know. Unfortunately, this person was never punished by the law, but my father made sure everyone in our area knew who it was so they would keep an eye on him and keep animals away from him as much as they could. Anyway, Boris showed up in our vineyard three years ago with half his tail missing, bleeding and crying. Again, my father took him in. He’s happy as can be now and I hope has no memory of his past.”

“I would seriously marry your father if he weren’t already married,” said Sigrid.

Sandro felt an odd pang of jealousy. “I care for animals, too, you know. I’m not as active as you and my father, but I care very much for animals. I’m more aware of animals I see around me in the city, since knowing you.”

“I’m glad.”

There was an awkward pause when Sigrid wondered if Sandro were actually jealous of her obvious admiration for his father.

“Um, maybe I should get settled?”

“Yes, of course. Let me take you to your room. Then I’ll go find mamma. I suspect she’s over in the vineyard, looking over some details.”

Sandro led Sigrid to a suite complete with large bathroom, small sitting room and a window that looked out on the Totti family land. Her bed was a four-poster canopy, something she would have loved to have had as a little girl.

“This is gorgeous, perfect. Thank you.”

“Not at all. Make yourself at home, have a bath if you wish. Everything you need is there. It’s about 4 p.m. now, so you have plenty of time to unwind, even have a nap. We start pre-dinner drinks at about 7, down in the same room as the Christmas tree.”

“Okay. Is there Wi-Fi, by the way? I’ve brought my laptop and I wouldn’t mind checking my messages. My mother will probably send some pictures from the family get-together in Toronto.”

“Of course, if you have wireless capability on your laptop you should be able to access the estate’s Wi-Fi without a password—it should automatically connect. Do you?”

“Yes, thanks so much.”

“You can call your mother, of course, from our landline. My parents won’t mind. Italians take both Christmas and family quite seriously.”

“That’s very generous, but if I do call mom it will be from my cell. I may even see if I can get her to Skype, although she doesn’t like it.”

“Please do as you prefer,
cara
.”

Sandro left Sigrid’s suite quickly. He had to. He knew that if he stayed he would pin her to the bed and make love to her right then and there. He had promised his father that he would respect his mother’s views on such matters. He also knew that if he stayed he would demand to know to whom in the hell she was sending email messages. Doug? She had said she wanted to see if her mother had sent her anything, but Sandro couldn’t stop thinking there was more to it.
If not Doug, then maybe some other man, some other Italian she had met. I am not blind.
She was tall and blonde and he could see how men stared at her in Rome, as if she were a piece of tiramisu they wanted to savour and feel melt on their tongue, or a chocolate they wanted to unwrap and enjoy.
I am the only one who will be unwrapping Sigrid.

And if he ever got his hands on that idiot Doug he would let him know what he thought of how he had treated Sigrid, not appreciating the work she did, making fun of her love of animals and, worst of all, not devoting himself to her pleasure in the bedroom. Canadian men must all be stupid, he thought. Sigrid was so…
Stop it, Sandro, stop it. This is just a fling, a relationship with an agreed-to expiry date. She is leaving January thirty-first and I will probably get bored with her before then.
Until he met Flavia, he had found most women unable to hold his attention and when she revealed herself as nothing more than a gold digger, he knew that he would never again allow himself to be so vulnerable.

Why would Sigrid be any different? Sandro was determined that she could not be and that she would not be.

A few hours later, Sigrid had put on her one good dress: a classic little black dress, clingy in all the right places but not too much so, mid-calf length and sleeveless so that it could be worn year-round. She was pleased that she had remembered to pack a red shawl, at least, and she wore it draped over her arms to make the look both more festive and more modest.

“
Buona sera
,” she said, feeling shy as she entered the glorious room with the glorious Christmas tree in it, the room filled with mostly strangers.

“
Buona sera
,” said Sandro’s father, rushing over to kiss Sigrid and take her around the room to meet everyone. Sandro’s cousins—demure Maria and elegant, swarthier-than-Sandro Alessio—were there and, of course, Sandro. It was funny. They had been as intimate with each other as could be, and yet Sigrid blushed each time she saw Sandro anew, each time she saw him seeing her.

And finally, there was
Signora
Totti.

“I am Sandro’s mother. Call me Francesca,” she said, extending a hand to Sigrid.

“
Piacere
. Call me Sigrid.”

“
Lei e belissima.”

“Grazie.
Anche Lei
.”

Francesca laughed. “I am old. Not so beautiful anymore. But you, on the other hand, are young and lovely and also the first woman my son has brought here in a long time.” She smiled as Maria tittered and Alessio winked in Sigrid’s direction.

“
Mamma
! It was
pap
à
who invited her, not me.”

Gee thanks, thought Sigrid.

Feeling awkward and wanting to put an end to that particular conversation, she looked around the room for a distraction and noticed a cat that must have been Boris sitting on a windowsill. Sadly—as per Sandro’s accounting of Boris’ early life—half his tail was missing, but other than that he looked healthy, with a glossy orange coat and a muscular body.