Amore and Pinot Grigio - a Guido la Vespa Christmas Tale [Guido la Vespa] (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (11 page)

“Oh, the other kitty,” said Sigrid, rushing over to him. She was poised to pick him up when virtually the whole Totti family shouted, “No, no, Seegreed!”

Sigrid had forgotten Sandro’s warning that Boris did not like to be picked up, but the cries of the Tottis came too late, for Sigrid had already lifted the cat off the windowsill and folded him into her. “Hi, baby,” she cooed.

The whole room went silent until it became clear that Boris was willing not only to tolerate behind held by Sigrid, but actually liked it. Sigrid continued talking baby talk to him, and giving him chin and throat rubs and he purred and bumped his head against her in the universal cat-sign of happiness and friendship.

The Totti clan let out a collective breath of relief.

“
Incredibile
!” said Giuseppe.

“She’s a
gattara
, a real cat lady with a real gift,” said Sandro, beaming and sounding awfully proud.

“Yes, but one who drives a Vespa, I see,” said Francesca, gesturing toward the large window that gave out onto the back of the house and a vast stretch of land. Sigrid looked and saw her Vespa and Sandro’s as-yet-unnamed Vespone, side by side.

“They were delivered this afternoon. I have heard that you and my son have plans to go riding out in the Tuscan countryside. I hope you will be careful.”

“Yes,
mamma,
we do have such plans and we will be careful. But not till tomorrow. Tonight, let us enjoy a good dinner among family and new friends and apparently, a brand new Boris!”

Christmas Eve found Sandro and Sigrid off on their bikes, Sandro leading the way on a tour of his family’s estate and vineyard. He had a picnic basket attached to the back of his Vespone, and Sigrid and Guido la Vespa followed behind until they reached what looked like a farmhouse in the middle of the vineyard.

“We can park here,” Sandro said. “And leave our things inside. Then we can go for a walk through the vineyard, although it is turning to real winter here in Tuscany, so maybe not a long walk. It is not like Canada—we don’t always get real winter here.”

“Count your blessings—real winter means minus thirty degrees and bundling up in an utterly inelegant manner that would make you Italians cringe in horror. This is not real winter in other words. All I see is a light dusting of snow that probably won’t last twenty-four hours. This is child’s play. So a long walk sounds great.”

They walked for about twenty-five minutes as Sandro explained the difference between the grapes used for Pinot Grigio as opposed to other types of wine. He talked about the very fine red wine his family produced, a wine which unfortunately Sigrid would not be able to drink.

“Your migraines are really a bother, are they not?”

“Let me put it this way: it is like having a little gremlin inside my head, stabbing my right temple and my right eyeball with an ice-pick.”

“And doctors cannot help you?”

“Well, some prescription drugs alleviate the pain, but it can incapacitate me for days, literally. Things like red wine and dark chocolate—all that good stuff—are triggers, but the root cause is my crazy wallop of hormones, supposedly.”

“Wallop?”

“Wallop is like ‘bunch’ or a lot, my crazy bunch of hormones. I have a whole lot of crazy hormones.”

Sandro laughed. “You do have some crazy hormones and really a wallop of them.”

“Don’t I just?”

“I hear that in Canada you make some nice dessert wines, called ice wines, I believe. Are you able to drink those?”

“Yes, we do and yes I am. I’m surprised you know about ice wines, to tell you the truth.”

“Why? To run a successful business, you have to know what other products are out there, what competition and so forth. I’ve tasted ice wine and very much liked it, but I don’t think we have the weather necessary in Italy to produce it with any regularity. But I think this country’s other wines and, of course Prosecco, more than make up for it.”

“I suppose, yes, that Italians might give Canadians a bit of a run for our money where any wine other than ice wine is concerned,” she teased. Sigrid slipped her hand into Sandro’s and to her delight and astonishment, he allowed it. Hand-holding was definitely not his thing, she realized. He probably deems it too romantic, too sappy, too naïve, too…too…too much something he did with Flavia. Ugh, Flavia. She hated that woman and she hadn’t even met her. She also hated the name. What sort of pretentious parents did this woman have, naming their kid as though it were still the era of the Roman Empire?

“What are you thinking about, Sigrid?”

“Nothing, nothing, just that it is getting chilly and I don’t have my Canadian winter coat here.”

“Let’s head back and have our lunch.”

Inside the farmhouse, Sigrid realized that it wasn’t so much that as it was storage space for a lot of equipment used in the wine-making business. It also had a basement with many bottles of Totti family wines in racks and a small kitchen and bedroom area where staff could cook and sleep if they were working long hours.

“Ah, so this is what you wanted,” said Sigrid, when she saw the bedroom.

“Well, I also just wanted to spend time alone with you, but yes, it did occur to me that we could make love out here, away from my mother’s house, and therefore not breaking any of her rules. I am Italian, you know. We never want to insult our
mammas
.”

“I know. And I think it is nice. I can’t imagine my brothers being so respectful, or rather, so respectful without complaining about it
ad infinitum
.”

“Here, let me get you something to eat. Many of our employees are taking this week off for Christmas and
Capodanno
, New Year’s, so I thought we could have a picnic here. I changed the sheets on the bed here yesterday when you were getting settled.” He grinned.

“You think of everything.”

“I do.”

And he had thought of everything: a clean tablecloth, paper plates, plastic cups, bread, cheese, cold pasta pesto left over from the night before, biscotti and a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio. “In honour”—Sandro winked—“of the little fellow who brought us together.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think Guido really brought us together: if I hadn’t been out on him that night I never would have seen poor Pinot. And because of his ability to wind through narrow straights and weave around cars, I was able to follow Pinot. On foot I couldn’t have and in a taxi it would have been nearly impossible.”

“I think your hormones are making you a bit crazy. An inanimate object brought us together? I know you have named it, but your Vespa does not have a soul or heart.”

“I guess not, but he has soulful little headlights.”

“You’re a very funny woman.”

“Yep, I’m a regular Phyllis Diller.”

“Who is this person?”

“She was a very funny woman who was not so beautiful but used her looks as a way to make people laugh. And actually, she was very attractive. She just played up her oddness with wild hair and wacky clothes, and…”

“Enough! I did not need a run-down of this Diller person’s entire life. You are beautiful and also funny. That’s what matters to me, right now.”

“Well, thank you.” Sigrid surveyed the feast and the table. “Gosh, Sandro—if I didn’t know better I would say this was a very romantic move on your part. But we’re not about romance, are we?”

“No, we are not. Who needs romance?”

Sigrid felt her stomach lurch at the comment but she thought of Doug and of her pact with Sandro. Pride was the route to choose. “Not me. It never gets you anywhere.”

They drank and ate and kissed and kissed and kissed until they navigated their way, all the while kissing, to the bedroom. For once, Sandro’s lovemaking was not frantic or aggressive or bossy, but sweet and slow and warm with so much kissing that Sigrid thought her lips would be raw for the rest of her life.

Sandro was still virile, still dominant, but there was just something different, gentleness, stillness even, as he moved inside her and continued to do so until he sent her into a dizzying orgasm. Not once did he seem to take his eyes off her eyes. Not once did he let go of her. Not once did she sense he had pulled away emotionally, as she was certain he had the other times they were together, even as he remained inside of her physically and keen to start the next round.

And today they had held hands.

“You are always,” he said, in almost a whisper, still holding her, “so wet and tight and welcoming for me. Tell me it is only for me.”

“I’m always only for you.” Ugh, so much for my pride, she thought.

Sigrid wondered if she could tell him what she had been wanting as a Christmas gift: to be able to tell him that she was falling in love with him without having him scoff or laugh or reject her or pontificate about the hopelessness of relationships and the inevitability of disillusionment. She wanted to be able to tell him she was falling in love with him and have him say it back to her. Those were pretty tall orders for a Christmas gift.

“Seegreed,” he said, deliberately exaggerating his mispronunciation of her name. “Of what are you thinking right now?” His arms were still wound around her tight and he was still inside her, though he was soft.

“Just thinking this is a nice Christmas so far.”

“Just nice?”

“The nicest of my life?”

That did it. He withdrew from her, sat up and ruffled her hair as if she were his little buddy. “Like I said, you are a funny girl. Let’s clean up here, get dressed and get back to the house. I know a nice detour we can take on our bikes—it’s along a riverbank and there are lots of birds and rabbits around. You’ll like it. You’ll see some of the natural beauty of Tuscany.”

“Okay,” she said, hoping she was masking her disappointment. This is just about fun, Sigrid, she kept telling herself. Just enjoy the moment. So what if it has an expiry date? Ultimately, life does, too, right?

Sigrid and Sandro arrived back at the estate about three hours before Christmas Eve dinner was being served.

“I’d better go shower and change, Sandro.”

“Yes, me too, but first I had better go see if
Papa
needs anything. Come in and say hi to my parents before going up to your suite.”

“I’m all grubby though and…”

“You’re fine. And my parents really like you and they know we were out on our bikes. They don’t expect us to look ready for a gala premiere or a charity ball.”

Sigrid laughed. “Okay.”

But she stopped laughing when she saw the expression on Sandro’s face change almost as soon as they stepped into the front hall.

He looked worried and confused, as did his parents. What was going on?

“Sandro,
caro
, there is someone waiting to see you.” Giuseppe nodded toward the sitting room.

Sigrid looked over and saw a short and voluptuous dark-haired woman in high heels and a form-fitting pant suit standing by the Christmas tree, exactly the kind of woman that had always been the bane of Sigrid’s existence, not too different from Doug’s trampy government lawyer, actually. Even in high school, short, dark, curvy women were the ones all of Sigrid’s crushes had gone for, the mean girls that made her feel like a big, un-sexy, gangly geek.

The woman looked over and cried out, “Sandro! Sandro!
Buon Natale
!”

Sandro’s body language changed. He oozed strain and tension rather than his usual sexy self-confidence and ease. “Flavia,” was all he said.

* * * *

She burst out into the hallway, with her teeth extra white against tanned skin, and threw her arms around him, a hug he returned, to Sigrid’s dismay, though at least he didn’t appear to return it with enthusiasm. “
Ma che bello
! Still so handsome,” she said in English, looking over at Sigrid.

“Flavia, this is Sigrid, a friend from Rome, well, from Canada, really. She’s going back there at the end of January.”

Why would he say that to her? Sigrid wondered. It was none of her business. Did he want Flavia to know she was going to be old news soon enough?

“
Piacere
,” said Sigrid.

“Oh, she is so cute when she speaks Italian!”

“Not really,” said Sigrid. “I’m not really that cute.”

Sandro intervened. “Sigrid, this is Flavia Della Lucia.”

“Not for long. Actually, that is why I am here. I am divorcing Enrico and I wanted to ask your father if he could recommend to me a good divorce lawyer. Your father”—she looked over at an angry-looking Giuseppe—“was always so good to me. So I thought he might help. And of course, I had to see you.”

Sandro turned to his parents and to Sigrid. “I hope you will all forgive me if I ask for some time alone with Flavia?”

Sandro’s parents nodded but said nothing, leaving the room quickly. They did not look happy. Sigrid did the same, but forewent the nodding. Up in her suite, she burst into tears. This was going from being the best Christmas of her life to the worst, the absolute, no-competition, hands down worst. She showered and changed for dinner and was in the middle of towelling her hair when she heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” she said.

It was Sandro. “Hi,” he said, almost shyly. “Listen, I apologize for earlier. That was quite a shock.”

“Yes, it was a shock for me, too.”

“Look, Sigrid, I need to talk to you. It is very important, but dinner is being served in an hour or so, and I have to go run an errand first. So I just wanted to ask you to set aside some time after dinner and before midnight mass to come out for a walk with me. I need to explain some things to you, things I should have explained earlier today or even last week.”

Sigrid thought she would be sick. “Sure. See you at dinner.”

He nodded, looking grim and determined as he shut the door and left her there. Sigrid almost felt sorry for him. She could tell that he had no desire to hurt her. Feeling pretty grim and determined herself, she knew what she needed to do.