Apricot Kisses (16 page)

I stop suddenly. Did he just say “wedding”?

Something rustles about two yards from me and I automatically hunker down, hand over my mouth. I watch a pair of muscular legs sprint away. The other legs are clothed in dirty jeans and seem stuck to the ground. I beat a crouching retreat through the trees. Back on my marshy trail, I stop and contemplate my mud-encrusted feet.

First the matter of the kitchen job, and now a wedding? There are only two explanations for this absurd soap opera: either the whole thing is a hair-raising but harmless nightmare that will come to an end with the ringing of my alarm clock any moment now—or God is a quarrelsome woman and this is her punishment for sins I committed these past twenty years. Unfortunately that’s the more likely explanation.

I might have gotten myself into this unbearable mess because I stole Giuseppa’s urn, and I’m willing to face the music for that—but only to a degree.

I seize the lunch bag, stick the thermos under my arm, pick a couple of reddish-yellow apricots from the nearest branch, and then resume my march, head raised high. I’m determined to teach this self-absorbed chauvinist that he can’t do whatever he wants, least of all with Hanna Philipp.

But I’ve underestimated both the soil around here and the apricot trees. Their claw-like branches let me go only after I’ve lost one shoe (I stumbled somewhere), gotten scratched in the face (it’s not always a good idea to walk upright), suffered a blister on my upper arm from the leaky thermos, dropped the lunch bag, and sworn like a fishwife.

Just a few yards down the path, I find him leaning against his olive-green pickup truck. Well, at least part of my plan will work. I drop the bag and thermos and wind up my arm.

I’ve never been a good thrower—the art of arcing a ball elegantly and landing the damn thing where I want it has remained a mystery to me. Flat pitches that succumb to gravity after two seconds and habitually miss their target are my forte.

But this time I have a hit.

“Lunch, dear!” I shout. “Just a little taste of what awaits you during married life, Signor Camini.”

Fabrizio winces, touches the back of his head, and turns around in surprise. I pluck some more apricots from the closest branch and continue to fire. Successful again! I nail his chest.

“Hey! Stop!”

“I don’t think so,” I scream back. My hand circles another apricot, light yellow and hard. My victim retreats behind the door of his truck.

“This is totally childish, Signora Philipp.”

“Is it?” It is, but it’s also extremely liberating.

To my irritation, Fabrizio seems amused, not angry, after he recovers from his surprise. “There’s more Italian in you than I suspected. But didn’t your parents teach you not to play with food? You’re wasting my apricots. You’ll have to spend an extra day in the kitchen to pay for it.”

“Bite me!”

“Not a very proper way to express yourself.”

“But it’s proper to schedule a wedding without asking the bride if that’s what she wants?”

It’s quiet behind the car door for a moment, which gives me the opportunity to collect more ammunition. Freed from its load, the branch bobs up and down. I briefly weigh an apricot in my hand, and then throw it against the truck door. Squinting, I follow up with another. I wonder if my insurance will cover the dents. I doubt it.

“I can explain,” he shouts.

“I’m listening.”

“First you have to stop trying to kill me.”

The next apricot whooshes past the door and smashes into a tree trunk. My beginner’s luck is running out. Gasping, I drop my hand.

“You have two minutes.”

“That’s not enough.”

“All right, three.”

His curly head appears through the car window. “That’s unexpected. You’re funny.” He’s grinning, and, even though I’m still mad, I can’t help it—I grin back.

“Don’t tempt fate,” I say.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He comes out with hands raised and stops half a yard in front of me, his head tilted. The corners of his mouth twitch when he sees my muddy feet. “Were you on a jungle mission?”

“I was in a hurry and took a shortcut,” I say, trying not to let on that I’m embarrassed by my deficient sense of direction.

“Let me guess. You found the pack-animal path, the one the donkeys take along the edge of the orchard. It’s narrow and usually muddy. Quite strenuous for two-legged creatures,” he says with a smile.

So that’s why there were fist-size holes in the mud—hoofprints. I should have guessed. I push my chin forward. “I’m still waiting for your three-minute explanation.”

“First I’d like to show you something.” He bends down to pick up the lunch bag and motions to the old pickup. “How about breakfast?”

I shake my head, but my stomach growls, contradicting me.

“I take that as a yes.” Fabrizio strolls to his truck and opens the passenger door with an inviting bow. “After you, signora.”

That’s three minutes for you.

Fabrizio

It’s unusual to have a woman in my car who isn’t related by blood or marriage. Signora Philipp holds the worn armrest stiffly, her knees pressed together, while I rest my elbow on the frame of the open window.

We’ve barely talked since we took off. The potholed road demands my full attention, and neither of us wants to scream over the Nissan’s six-cylinder engine. Signora Philipp looks out the side window with half-closed eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice the rocking and jolting.

I make a quick stop at the tractor, where Paolo, Bartek, and two other workers are taking their lunch break, talking and smoking. The Polish workers lift their hats and call out,
“Buon giorno, principale!”
as I hand Lucia’s sandwich packages through the window, after having fished out the one marked for me. They crane their necks to get a glimpse of my pretty passenger.

When we reach the gravel path that leads up to Rabbit Hill, I sneak a peek at Signora Philipp’s white legs. Her feet are sprinkled with brown, and one is stuck in a dirt-encrusted slipper. I’m astonished that she doesn’t seem to mind. Sofia would have demanded I bring her home immediately so she could clean up. I step on the gas, and the truck shoots up the hill with a grinding noise.

I park a few yards away from the covered benches at the top. Signora Philipp gets out before I kill the motor. She stops abruptly, her hand still on the door handle. Her lungs seem to forget their function for a moment—she’s holding her breath. I smile. Nobody’s unaffected by the view. The arrow-straight lines of trees undulating in all four directions—as if God had tamed the hill with a gigantic comb and liked it so much he couldn’t stop—enchant even me.

“Does all this belong to Tre Camini?” she asks quietly when I step up next to her.

“This is Tre Camini,” I say proudly.

“It’s breathtaking. And now you’re going to tell me a story about it, aren’t you?”

There is no flippancy in her gaze. Instead, her mermaid eyes look at me with such intensity that I have to turn away. It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman in my bed—that’s the only explanation for my attraction to even a cold fish like Signora Philipp.

“You don’t like stories?”

“I’m a journalist—did you forget? Stories are my job.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does. You might remember that I love my job.”

“How could I forget?” I say drily.

She straightens her shoulders. “So?”

I have to laugh. She’s curious and doesn’t want to admit it. I decide to keep her in suspense. “Right now I’m hungry,” I say and turn around to get Lucia’s coffee and sandwiches from the pickup. Always considerate, my sister-in-law packed two tramezzini for me and an extra-generous portion of her pâté, which everyone is crazy about. She even added some tiny cherry tomatoes from her sacred kitchen garden. Every meal at Tre Camini is planned carefully.

We eat in silence as we look out over the hills. I gulp it down while she eats like a little bird, seemingly more interested in the view. Lucia’s coffee is just the way I like it: black, strong, and sugary. Signora Philipp grimaces when she takes a sip. Her body language is so clear, as clear as her words; she seems to be an open book, until you realize after a few pages that the author’s
intentions
are completely unclear. Confusing. When I finish my food, I ask for the rest of hers and she gives it to me.

“Why don’t you like your brother?” she suddenly asks.

“What makes you think that I don’t?” I reply to buy time. I don’t want to let on that I saw her eavesdropping before—or, rather, heard her crashing through the underbrush like a wild boar.

“I just have a feeling. You seem to avoid each other, and you made a remark at dinner on Monday that made me wonder.” She lies without blushing.

“Not so, Signora Philipp. Of course I like him. He’s my brother. I just don’t think highly of him.”

She seems amused. “Is that really different?”

“Oh, yes. One concerns the person, the other his attitude, his philosophy of life,” I say. “The fact that Marco and I disagree doesn’t mean that I don’t love him.”

“And what exactly is your philosophy of life?”

“Is this an interview? Do you need it for your new article?”

“Maybe.” She grins. I begin to relax. She has a way of making you talk. You reveal things you’d rather keep to yourself, without feeling uncomfortable. Besides, she’s not sulking anymore. I hate nothing more than a woman who never lets you forget what you did wrong. After a little pause, I look at her, determined not to let her green eyes affect me.

“My grandmother believed that a successful life isn’t measured by the amount of money you make. You just have to feel a connection to something to be happy.” I gesture from the hills to the sky. “For example, to this land.”

“Your grandmother was a wise woman.”

“And all her wisdom could really get on your nerves. Tre Camini meant everything in the world to her, even though she didn’t know anything about agriculture before she married. Olives or wine would be a more profitable business in this type of soil, but my family has always been obsessed with harvesting the best apricots in the area—the queen of fruits. My grandfather died in these fields. My father was broken here by his unfulfilled dream, to make our apricots known all over Europe. Nonna passed on this inheritance, and I . . .” I rummage in my jeans pockets until I remember that I smoked the last cigarette last night.

“And you?” Signora Philipp looks at me attentively.

“I can’t give it up,” I say, and the truth, unspoken until now, almost chokes me. “I can’t give it up even if I wanted to.”

I swallow hard and clear my throat so this woman doesn’t get the impression that I’m about to cry like a girl. “Which leads me to your question about the somewhat unfortunate situation you landed in. My grandmother’s last will—”

“Stipulates that you have to get married in order to inherit the estate,” she finishes. She looks at me with part amusement and part compassion. “Lucia told me.”

I shrug. “What can I say? Nonna was convinced that I need a woman at my side.”

She thinks for a moment. “Why don’t you ask your ex-girlfriend? She still seems to be into you.”

I feel my forehead wrinkle. “Sofia? Are you joking?”

“I’m not.”

The mere thought is absurd. Getting involved with Sofia a second time would be like getting back on a motorcycle after breaking both legs—and arms—in a high-speed accident. I might be a fool, but I’m not stupid. “I plan to
get
married but not
stay
married. Divorcing a woman from anywhere around Montesimo is unthinkable—family honor, purgatory, all that stuff.”

“I understand. So that’s why you thought of me,” she says with some heat. “I’m half-German and have no family or any of that other inconvenient stuff.”

“Well, you don’t seem to be a strict Catholic, and I mean that as a compliment.”

The corners of her mouth twitch. “What if I still say no?”

“You wanted to know what I’m going to do about the lawsuit against your magazine.” I push aside the feeling that I’m setting something in motion that will turn out badly for everyone involved. No matter how wrong my plan might be, I have no other choice. “I will withdraw the suit in exchange for a short-term marriage—a second business deal. After that, you’re free as a bird. An
employed
bird.”

“You can’t be serious! You have me work as a slave in your kitchen for two weeks, and now you’re trying to blackmail me again? Don’t you think that’s a little over-the-top?”

I’m glad that she’s mad as hell—it makes her predictable and lowers my body temperature by ten degrees. Raving women leave me absolutely cold.

“I’m Italian, Signora Philipp. An Italian never goes too far, only as far as it takes. Just look at it this way: I’ll pretend that the deal is a request, and we’ll forget that you have no choice.”

Signora Philipp doesn’t barrage me with insults and curses, like an Italian woman would. “I have no choice,” she repeats, looking out over the hills. Then she looks straight at me. “We finally seem to agree on something, Signor Camini.”

I can’t help feeling triumphant. “So we have a deal?” I stretch out my hand.

“Isn’t there something you forgot?” she says icily.

I drop my hand. It was too easy.

“It’s customary for a man to ask the bride formally.”

“Are you kidding? You want a formal marriage proposal?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Just look at it this way: I’ll pretend to do it out of my own free will, and we’ll forget that you don’t have a choice, either.”

At first I don’t know whether to be impressed or upset. She doesn’t look like she’s joking. I think of Tre Camini and my apricots; of Alberto, Paolo, and Rosa-Maria; of Nonna and Lucia. Remembering the look on Marco’s face does the rest. I’ll have to swallow my pride, even if the bitter pill is as big as the giant glass marbles Marco and I used to fight over. I sink down on a knee and take Signora Philipp’s hand. It rests limply in mine.

“Dear Signora Philipp, will you marry me?” I say. I just hope that none of the laborers witness this spectacle. She looks down at me silently.