The Sicilian's Bride (5 page)

While Isabel was looking around the room, he glanced at her. She wasn’t the beauty Magdalena was. But he wasn’t the only man looking at her. Maybe it was because she was American, maybe it was her hair, a spot of riotous color in this dim restaurant. Other heads turned and other eyes watched her as she drank her wine along with drinking in the ambience.

If only he could get her to relax she might put aside her defenses and realize what everyone knew—the Azienda was not the place for her. He gave her credit for wanting it and wanting to make a go of it. Nothing wrong with a healthy dose of ambition. But she wouldn’t last a week in that place. Maybe not even a day and a night. No matter how much gumption she had, she’d have to be rescued from the bats who flew into her bedroom and the boars that tore up the vines at night. Who else would do it but him?

Maybe it was the wine or the light from the sconces on the palace walls, but from across the table he thought she looked more at ease. Her shoulders were no longer stiff as if on military alert, her cheeks had a healthy flush and her warm gaze scanned the room. Maybe she just needed some time to get used to the idea of giving up the Azienda. He could only hope.

His gaze was fastened on her, studying her, trying to figure her out. He was glad he’d brought her here. She ought to see something of Sicily besides a worn-out vineyard. She should leave here with happy memories of the island and not feel she’d failed. He knew what that felt like and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. She’d go home with a pocketful of cash, enough to do whatever she wanted to do. Or even stay here, buy a cottage, one that needed no remodeling.

He was encouraged to see her let down her guard. And not just because it would make his job easier. She usually looked like she was braced for the worst. What had happened in her life to teach her to be on alert all the time?

“What did you do before you left California?” he asked. He’d planned to make polite conversation. But he found he was curious about her.

She set her glass down. “I was a graphic artist.”

He glanced at her hand on the table, noticing her graceful tapered fingers. He could imagine her in front of an easel with a paintbrush in those delicate fingers. “You’re an artist?”

“Of a sort. It’s not like being a painter or a sculptor. I create images for the purpose of selling products for customers.”

“Don’t you ever want to paint or draw something for yourself?”

“I’m not good enough.”

“Why don’t you draw pictures of grapes instead of growing them? I guarantee it will be easier.”

“I was thinking I could do both. I plan to design a wine label for myself and my wine.” She picked up the bottle from the ice bucket on the table and studied it. “Look at this. The label doesn’t say anything about your wine. And it’s dated as well. You need something that tells the customer about your product. Something fresh and new. This is old.”

“So is the wine,” he said.

“It would make a big difference in customer perception. I could design something new for you if you like.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. This is the Montessori label. It’s what people know. What they’re used to. And what they look for when they want a fine wine. May I remind you you know nothing about our wine or our tradition?”

“Maybe not, but I know something about labels and what sells.” She leaned across the table, her eyes glowing, an intensity in her gaze he hadn’t seen before. She was all earnest and eager to share her knowledge with him. She had confidence in herself, he gave her that.

“How are your sales?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said brusquely. He would never admit to her they could be better. Why risk changing a label and bucking tradition on the slim hope sales might be improved? A gold medal would improve their sales. Nothing else.

“Then keep your labels,” she said, “but when I bottle my wine…”

He felt as though a cold wind had blown across the table all the way from the Alps. She’d said
when
not
if.
She was a dreamer, and dreamers are not easily convinced to do the right thing. The practical thing. If he didn’t find her a house to buy today, he’d promised to help her harvest her grapes. He’d better think of something irresistible to show her.

She was cut off in mid sentence when the waiter brought the appetizer he’d ordered, a small plate of gnocchi in gorgonzola-and-pistachio sauce. Her eyes widened and she inhaled the aroma of the rich sauce. She took a bite and nodded slowly. At least she appreciated good food. Maybe even good wine too, though he doubted it. How could she when she hadn’t been around it all her life?

After the waiter served them a salad of vine-ripened tomatoes garnished with fruity olive oil and fresh basil,
Angelo, the owner came by to slap Dario on the back and tell him it had been a long time, and he’d missed him. Fortunately he didn’t mention Magdalena. Even though he surely knew what everyone knew—his fiancée had dumped him to marry his cousin. The gossip and rumors were one reason he’d avoided the restaurant and every other restaurant he used to frequent. Maybe there was a new scandal to occupy everyone’s mind by now. If there was, Dario hadn’t heard it.

He introduced the owner to Isabel. What else could he do? By the way he looked at her, Angelo was clearly sizing her up, comparing her to the beauty queen Dario used to bring to the restaurant. The owner turned on the charm, asking Isabel how she liked Sicily.

“It’s beautiful. And I’m just learning some of the fascinating history,” she said.

“Dario can teach you more than any guidebook,” Angelo said with an approving smile. “About everything. Wine and food as well as history. Yes, you’re in good hands.”

Dario wanted to tell him she was not in his hands at all. But all he could do was to sit there hoping the man would quickly move on to greet other customers.

But Angelo was just getting warmed up. He told Dario he should stop working so hard and come more often to the restaurant the way he used to, and bring the lovely American. He suggested various dishes she should try and sights she should see in the neighborhood. A few minutes later he finally left them to their food.

“He’s very friendly,” Isabel noted. “Is he right about your working too hard?”

“In our business there’s no such thing as working too hard. We suffered some losses during the drought and the fungus over a year ago, then grandfather got sick and frankly, I have no choice but to work hard. I’m in charge and it’s the season
of the crush. Everyone in the wine business is working hard.” No one had as good a reason for hard work as Dario. No one needed to fill his days with backbreaking physical labor and his nights at his computer studying plans and projects and making spreadsheets. All that to try to make up for the past mistakes and to forget. Mostly to forget.

“I thought you said true Sicilians were easygoing.”

“Most of the time, yes. Some of them all the time. I have an excuse for being different. Also it’s my nature and the nature of owning a business. You’ll see.” If she was sensible and left and went home, she wouldn’t have to face the hard work of owning a business.

He ate a tomato, then leaned back in his chair and studied her for a long moment. He’d talked quite enough about the Montessori fortunes or lack thereof. More than she needed to know.

Angelo must have noticed the contrast between his ex-fiancée, the stunning Magdalena, oozing self-confidence and bravado, and the plainly dressed American who sat across from him. Fortunately the name
Magdalena
was not mentioned. If he was lucky he’d get through the whole day without hearing it.

In a strange way it was a relief to be with someone who hadn’t lived here all her life, who didn’t know everyone and their secrets from their past. It made him feel a sense of detachment, if only briefly, from his work and his family and the past and the pressures he put on himself.

This woman across the table from him with her red-gold hair and her casual American clothes was a stranger in a strange land. A blank tablet. She’d never seen the Roman ruins or eaten capellini Timballo or tasted Nero D’avola. He didn’t want to like anything about her, but he couldn’t help admiring her as she experienced these things for the first time.
She had quite remarkable dark eyes that lit up at the sight of the old ruins or the taste of a superb wine. He liked it that she had no idea what really motivated him, what had really happened in the past, and if he had his way, she never would.

“You ask a lot of questions, but you keep quiet about yourself,” he said.

“There’s not much to say. As you know, I have no family except for my uncle, who’s dead. I quit my job to come here. If everyone in the wine business is working hard now then I feel guilty taking you away from your grapes. You must have work to do. Perhaps we should leave.”

He shook his head. “I work hard so the family can live, but even I don’t live to work as you do in America.”

“How do you know what we do in America?”

“I read. I’ve seen movies.”

“Really? What have you seen?”

“We were talking about you. You left a job behind, anything else?”

“A rented apartment. Some friends.”

“No boyfriend?” If she had one, there was a chance she’d go back to him.

“No boyfriend,” she said brusquely. But a tell-tale flush colored her cheeks. There was a story there she wasn’t sharing. He knew something about that. As much as he respected her privacy, he couldn’t help being curious.

“I’m surprised.”

“That I’m independent?”

“That you’re single at your age. What’s wrong with American men?”

“Most of them are married,” she explained. “Which is fine with me. Since I prefer being on my own.” She looked down at the table, studying the silverware. Why did he have the feeling this was a painful subject despite her smooth expla
nation? Or it could be she found the flatware fascinating. Whatever it was, she recovered quickly and looked up, her face composed, her gaze steady. “I could ask you the same thing. If you’re not married, why not? What’s wrong with Italian women?”

He choked on a bitter laugh. “Ah, there’s a subject. Italian women are loud and opinionated. Once you meet some of them you’ll see.” Fortunately she’d never met Magdalena, and she never would, because she’d moved to Milan. “They have power and they run the families. My mother can attest to that. She and my father are currently in Palermo to take care of some business. So my grandmother is running the house while Nonno recovers.”

He stopped his speech about women when the waiter appeared to bring them a bubbling dish hot from the oven called Pasta Alla Norma, a combination of eggplant, tomatoes and ricotta cheese.

“Who was Norma?” she asked.

“The heroine of an opera by Bellini, Sicily’s most famous son. Do you like opera?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen one. What’s it about?”

“Norma is in love with a man who’s thrown her over for someone else. But she gets revenge. She ruins him and has him sentenced to death.”

“Good for her.”

“Except at the end, she jumps into the funeral pyre and dies with him.”

“I prefer happy endings.”

“So does everyone, but that’s not life.” If she didn’t know that by now, she’d led a charmed life. “You’d like
The Marriage of Figaro
or
The Barber of Seville
. Or something by Puccini. Be sure to see an opera while you’re here on vacation. Preferably a happy one.”

“I don’t think I’ll have the time or the proper dress. And I’m
NOT
on vacation.”

She was so predictable. All he had to do was refer to her temporary status or her departure and her cheeks turned pink and her eyes flashed as she glared angrily at him. He watched her high spirits and discomfort, knowing he’d caused it.

Taking his time he let his gaze wander from her face to her neck to her arms and breasts and tried to picture her in a formal evening gown at the opera. He was so engrossed he almost didn’t notice the waiter who was offering an after-lunch drink from the bar. He shook his head and continued to muse about his companion. She just might enjoy a night at the opera. She certainly had the confidence to try new things. That much was clear. Under other circumstances, he might have offered to take such an attractive woman to the opera since there was absolutely no danger of his ever losing his head and heart to a woman again. He could see her dressed up and gauge her reaction. But she was right, she’d probably be too busy struggling to make a go of it to see an opera. How futile it was, how maddening that she wouldn’t take his advice.

If her stay was as temporary as he hoped, she wouldn’t be around for the opera season. The sooner she realized she should leave, the better. She’d never make it through a winter on that mountain. Never. As much as it was in his interest to send her packing, it was also the best thing for her as well.

Feeling more confident about the outcome, he signaled the waiter to order two cannolis and coffee. If she had any memories of Sicily when she returned to the States, he wanted them to be pleasant ones—of sightseeing and delicious food and wine. Not of cold nights and frost on the vines. It was the least he could do in exchange for his land.

“Are you sure we have time for this?” she asked.

“Of course. Everyone deserves a day off now and then.
We’re hard-working when we have to be, but in Italy everyone always has time to eat. And then we’ll see some other properties I think you’ll like.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, realizing, he hoped, that there was no point in arguing. Maybe she was finally seeing the light. She didn’t insist that she had no use for a new house with a solid roof and a clean kitchen. But he knew. He knew that she had a stubborn streak a mile wide. He knew she would initially refuse to consider any other property than the one she’d inherited. But he was just as stubborn.

In the meantime he watched her savor the creamy ricotta filling of the rich pastry. A tiny piece of crisp dough stuck to the corner of her mouth. It was all he could do to keep from reaching across the table to brush it away with his finger. Before he could make a move, she licked her lips and he felt his pulse accelerate wildly. What was wrong with him? Maybe his family was right when they said he’d been working too hard. He hadn’t given a single woman a second look since Magdalena had walked out on him over a year ago, let alone buy them lunch at his once-favorite restaurant. That was all that was wrong with him.