The rain came, just as Anton said it would. Lillian walked briskly with the big black umbrella, her feet skipping over puddles, up the hill to the villa. She was drenched because of the wind when she arrived, and Francesco made a fuss over her. “My poor signorina! You should have called. I would have picked you up in the car.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” Lillian replied with laughter, feeling joyful as she removed her jacket, shook away the raindrops, and hung it on the coat-tree.
“Come, come. Follow me.” Francesco led her into a large reception room with a hot fire blazing in the hearth, cozy lamplight throughout, and ancient family portraits on the walls. Domenico and Anton were standing in front of the fire, engaged in a conversation, Domenico gesturing with his hands as he spoke.
As soon as Lillian walked in, Anton’s eyes met hers, and he smiled. From clear across the room, she felt strangely disembodied, yet connected to him somehow—as if they shared a secret no one else knew.
“You made it,” he said as she approached. “I was afraid you might change your mind, for fear of drowning.”
She laughed. “I almost did. It was coming down in buckets. It was refreshing, though.”
“Come, my dear,” Francesco said, taking hold of her arm. “Move closer to the fire. We’ll dry you out.”
“Thank you.” The warmth was like a balm to her senses, heating her blood.
The men talked about the vineyards and how the rain would affect plans for the next day, because a crew was coming to remove suckers and trim the vines.
“It’ll be muddy,” Domenico said, “but the shoots will be dry as soon as the sun comes over the mountain.”
“What are suckers?” Lillian asked.
Anton explained that they were smaller shoots that robbed nutrients from the larger ones where the grape clusters hung. “It’s enjoyable work,” he said. “They snap off easily, so it’s a good day in the fields.”
She thought about that. “Where will you be at eleven o’clock? Because the tour guests love to see the actual work happening. It makes them feel like they’re getting a peek behind the curtain.”
Anton turned to Domenico. “Where will we be late morning?”
“With the Syrah,” he replied and described the location of the field.
Caterina walked in and greeted Lillian with kisses on both cheeks. “How wonderful that you came.”
They chatted briefly about the weather, then Caterina suggested it was time to eat.
They dined indoors with wax candles on the table and platters of antipasti to begin. Caterina brought hot tomato-and-basil soup, followed by squash-filled ravioli that melted in Lillian’s mouth.
A sizzling roasted peppercorn steak followed with fresh green beans, and finally, there was peach gelato with thin, buttery sugar cookies for dessert.
All this was accompanied by the perfect pairing of wine for each course.
Domenico raised his glass. “To my lovely wife, who brings a grown man to tears with her squash ravioli.”
“To Caterina,” Anton said, raising his glass as well, then leaning in his chair to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you for another splendid dinner.”
At the end of the evening, Lillian helped in the kitchen, and Caterina shared her secret recipe for the squash ravioli, which wasn’t really a secret at all because Caterina loved sharing anything and everything when it came to food.
She rinsed a plate and handed it to Lillian to dry. “Tell me about your husband. Anton said he left for Paris this morning. Why does he leave you?”
Lillian bristled at the underlying suggestion that Freddie had “left” her. “He has work to do,” she explained. “He’s writing a book, and he needs to do some research.”
“Is he published?”
“Not yet, but we’re hopeful that this will be his debut novel. When he gets an agent, everything will be easier, financially. Then we can start a family.”
Caterina considered this for a moment. “So you are the breadwinner?”
Lillian cleared her throat. “Yes, I suppose, for now, but I don’t mind. I enjoy working. Especially here.” She smiled.
“But you want to have a family, sì? ”
“Yes, very much so.”
Caterina dipped a large ceramic bowl into the hot, soapy water. “You must tell us the name of your husband’s book so that we can buy it when it’s published.”
“Fingers crossed,” she replied.
Caterina passed the bowl to Lillian, and she set it on the worktable behind her. “Your husband must be very creative,” Caterina continued, as she scoured an iron skillet in the sink. “There is something about artistic men that is very appealing, don’t you agree?”