He slung his plastic sword into the sheath on his belt. Tonight would be easy. The tour company had all of the talking covered. So, all he had to do was show his face, then meet Carly at the rose vase in the back antechamber.
Whistling, he left his room in high spirits and took the elevator down to the banquet hall. Members of the orchestra were already filing into their seats while servants dressed in tunics brought jugs of wine and carried trays of appetizers, including cheese and biscuits, small meat pies, and fruit pastries. But he wasn’t hungry for food tonight. He hungered for something else. Scanning the room, he looked for Carly’s grand scarlet gown.
‘My, you look dashing tonight, hon.’
Michelangelo turned and saw Bertha and her friend—what’s her name…oh yes, Trudy—admiring him like two bachelorettes in a men’s strip bar. They were dressed as Renaissance nuns, complete with the brown robe and white muslin cowl collars, with a white cord tied around their waists.
Trudy reached out with her hand. ‘I just want to pinch your—’
Michelangelo cleared his throat. ‘Ladies, please have a seat. A servant will be with you shortly.’
‘Yes, signore. Or is it Sir Michelangelo?’ Bertha laughed.
‘That has a certain ring to it.’ He showed them to their seats and told their table server to go light on the wine.
Embarrassment creeping up his neck, Michelangelo walked over to Ms. Maxhammer.
Ms. Maxhammer stood from her seat at the head of the table looking regal in a navy-blue Queen’s gown. A bejeweled plastic crown sat amongst her gray curls. Instead of a cane, she held a scepter. ‘Michelangelo! This is all so wonderful. What a great idea for the tour!’
He bowed like a knight before his queen. ‘Thank you. It’s my pleasure. I hope you and the orchestra enjoy the evening.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red satin and gold. His heart leapt.
‘They will, and they certainly deserve it.’ Ms. Maxhammer gestured for him to stand. She sat down and folded her napkin across her lap.
‘I have to agree with you. They’ve been working hard.’ His gaze strayed across the room and he stifled a gasp in his throat. Carly broke through the crowd, looking tantalizingly amazing in her gown. She’d pinned up her blonde hair in swirls around her bejeweled headpiece, so only a few strands dangled just beyond her ears. Ears he wanted to nibble.
‘And sounding incredible.’ Ms. Maxhammer’s comment brought Michelangelo back to reality. He thought of Carly’s oboe-playing and pointed to Ms. Maxhammer as though she’d hit the nail on the head. ‘You’re right there. They are excellent players.’ Even if Carly didn’t think so.
He kissed the back of Ms. Maxhammer’s hand. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Your Highness, I have to be getting around to the other guests.’
She offered him a sly smile. ‘Of course.’
Michelangelo turned toward Carly and their eyes met like two jolts of electricity converging. He stood, breathless as her presence rippled through him, rocking his world. The intensity of her gaze sent warmth throughout his body. She must have been thinking of their secret meeting.
His pocket vibrated. He was still on duty, so to speak, so he checked the caller ID. Isabella. She hadn’t contacted him in a while, and at this time of night it had to be an emergency.
Michelangelo bowed his head to Carly and rushed through the banquet hall for privacy. The last ring emanated from his hand as he wove through the chairs in the back. He turned the corner and took the call. ‘Ciao, Isabella, is everything all right?’
‘You’ve got to get over here, pronto!’ Her voice shook with anxiety, shattering his composure.
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
She stifled a sob. ‘I spent most of the day in the packaging department, shipping out crates. When I returned to the office, I saw them on the ridge.’
A thousand scary images came to mind: men with guns, a swarm of pests, grape-eating goats, aliens…’ Who, what?’
‘The tractors. They’re here all in a row. They’re set to demolish the northern field in the morning. If you don’t do something, there’ll be no winery to save.’
Michelangelo threaded his hand through his hair and tugged on the roots until his whole head hurt. ‘I thought they said we had another month.’
‘Herb Ranger is out there now, taking measurements.’
Herb Ranger. The American contractor and all-round idiota. He’d offered the Ricci family millions when Michelangelo was just a child, and his father refused to be bought out. He could still hear his father’s slow and calm voice of reason. This is my son’s land, and his son’s after him. You cannot put a price on heritage.
Well, apparently, Herb could. He just had to wait until the old man passed away and a few droughts ravaged the land.
Michelangelo bunched his palms into fists. ‘Don’t let them move. I’m leaving Florence now and I’ll be there in three hours.’
‘Hurry.’ Isabella hung up.
Michelangelo took one last longing look at the banquet. Everything was set up, all he had to do was text Ms. Maxhammer, saying he’d meet them in Milan and that he’d gone early to make preparations. But as for Carly, there was nothing he could do. If he confided in her, he’d blow his cover. If he tried any other excuse, he’d look like an idiota.
Frustration boiled through his veins as he ran from the building to his car. This was the story of his life, and the reason why he’d never been able to keep up any relationship longer than a week. The winery always came first. He’d been a fool to think he could support a new relationship as well.
Say arrivederci to love.
*****
Ravenous desire had spread like wildfire inside of Carly as she locked eyes with Michelangelo in his dashing knight’s ensemble. His usually wavy hair had been pulled back, revealing the exquisite angles of his cheeks and the sharp amber-blue of his eyes. He was dressed to steal some hearts, with hers first on the list. For a moment, she felt like a real Renaissance princess, greeting the knight who had come to her balcony after a tragic battle. What was happening to her? She’d never been the girl fantasizing about a man. Fantasying about a solo, or a monumental gig perhaps.
Come on, girl, get a grip.
Michelangelo had looked down at something in his hand. His face stiffened. Distractedly, he bowed to her and took off across the room as though the end of the world had arrived. Her imminent desire sputtered and cooled.
WTF? Was she wearing the dress incorrectly? Or had he chickened out like the biggest commitment-phobe on the planet?
Relax. Probably had an emergency and would return shortly. Maybe they’d run out of wine.
She scanned the tables for her name and found her seat, next to Al of all people. He turned and the bells on his triple-pronged jester hat jingled. The bright red and orange on his checkered tunic almost blinded her.
‘Damn. You look hotter than a hot potato.’ He pulled out the seat next to him. ‘My lady.’
‘Thanks, Al.’ She checked the door, but there was no sign of Michelangelo returning. ‘So what’s on the menu?’
‘Renaissance shit.’ Al passed her a loaf of bread that weighed as much as a rock. ‘Good luck cutting a piece.’
‘Thanks.’ Oh so chivalrous.
As Ms. Maxhammer began a speech about the orchestra’s progress and Wolf’s great talent for raising money, Carly’s mind drifted back to the door, which Michelangelo had disappeared through. Annoyance turned to concern. What could possibly have taken him away from his job and meeting her?
Alaina snuck in late, plopping into the seat next to Carly in her peasant’s rags. She looked as though she could play Fantine in the next Les Miserables performance.
Carly leaned over and whispered, ‘What happened to you?’
‘Mortification. That’s what.’ Alaina pulled out her iPad, making sure Ms. Maxhammer didn’t notice. ‘We got our first review.’
‘What?? Already? But the papers haven’t even come out yet.’
&
nbsp; ‘This reviewer has a blog and he posted right after the event.’ She clicked on the internet icon on her iPad. ‘This thing translates the Italian into English.’
She clicked on the saved link and handed Carly the iPad.
Carly’s fingers shook as she read the column. ‘The Overture was charming and energetic…’ blah blah blah. She scrolled down to where she saw the word Aria.
‘…the aria, on the other hand, was a complete bore. I have a hard time believing either of those ladies has ever loved anyone enough to sing about love, never mind marriage.’
Carly took her napkin and scrunched it into a ball. ‘He can’t be serious.’
Alaina nodded. ‘He is totally serious, and one of the most renowned classical music reviewers in Florence.’
‘So I’ve never been in love. So what? I can still play eighth and sixteenth notes.’
‘Well, I’ve loved many times.’ Alaina leaned back in her chair luxuriously, a slit in her dress that hadn’t been there when Carly last saw it on the hanger exposed her upper thigh. ‘Many. Times.’
Al drooled. ‘Is that so?’
‘Loved and being in love are two different things.’ Carly threw her wad of a napkin on her plate.
Alaina’s face fell as if Carly had punched her in the gut. She took a swig of her wine and glanced down sullenly at her empty plate.
So the diva’s never been in love. Guilt trickled through Carly. She shouldn’t have said anything. Michelangelo’s disappearance had put her in a vile mood, making her speak insensitively. Even if Alaina was bitchy at times, she didn’t deserve to have Carly make her feel like a slut.
Carly pulled her chair closer to Alaina’s. ‘We’ll do better next time, I promise. Obviously we were too subtle this time. We need to find a balance between too much and too little.’
Alaina chugged the rest of her ale. ‘Or we should just face it: this aria is doomed.’
Carly never failed at anything musical. This tour was not going to be the exception. ‘It’s not doomed. We’ll practice it another way. We still have one more concert.’
‘And one more chance to embarrass ourselves,’ Alaina sighed.
Al leaned over Carly’s lap, leering at Alaina. ‘Drown your sorrows with me, babe. I can be one of those many times.’
Alaina stared at him as though he’d grown another jester prong on his head. ‘I happen to be involved at the moment.’
‘Oh yeah? With a certain Michelangelo?’ Al emptied his mug.
Alaina set down her glass. ‘Just because I’ve never been “in love” before doesn’t mean I’m not looking for it rather than just some one-night stand.’
Carly pushed her rock-hard bread away. Musicians and alcohol just didn’t mix. Between Al’s lewd jokes, the bad review, inadvertently calling Alaina a slut, and Alaina’s suggestion of her relationship with Michelangelo, she’d lost her appetite.
‘Where is the knight in shining armor right now?’ Alaina scanned the room wistfully.
‘He left suddenly. Guess he had an emergency.’ Carly couldn’t keep the suspicion from her voice.
Thankfully, Alaina was too into her own feelings to notice it. ‘Awww. Poor guy. I hope he figures it out soon and comes back to us.’
Al chuckled beside her. ‘I hope not.’
Servers brought out roasted pheasant, grilled venison, and sautéed root vegetables. Carly could barely eat two bites. Her mind brimmed with questions about Michelangelo. Was he the knight in shining armor that he dressed up as? Or was it all a ruse?
After dinner, everyone gravitated toward the dance floor, where the Renaissance touring company taught the slow, stately dances of the pavane. Carly walked around the tables to the back room, where an oversized rose vase as tall as she was held gigantic ferns.
She tugged a fern down, feeling the leaf under her fingertips. Plastic. Fake. Was Michelangelo the same?
Two voices came from the banquet hall, and Carly hid behind the vase, afraid someone would see her pruning the ferns.
‘Personally, I don’t think he’s a great tour guide at all. I mean, his knowledge of the areas we passed was minimal at best, and he got the date of St. Peter’s Basilica wrong.’
Carly stiffened. That was Reena Kempt, a cellist. She excelled in proving other people wrong. Usually her offhand criticisms annoyed Carly, but this one hit a nerve.
‘Really? I don’t know anything about Italy, so I have had no idea.’ The other lady was Reena’s friend, Macie, a violist. String players always seemed to stick together, as though the other sections of the orchestra were second-class citizens.
‘Yeah. He even made up some story about a secret society called the Brotherhood of the Manifesto. I looked it up, and there’s nothing about it in any of my sources.’ Reena sounded as though his misinformation personally offended her. If Carly hadn’t already had suspicions about him then she would have thought his invention kind of funny. But, under the circumstances, it only worsened her burgeoning fears that her knight in shining armor was a knave in disguise.
‘Either he’s a complete genius who knows more than the history books, or he’s making stuff up to keep you on your toes.’ Macie laughed.
‘A tour guide should only give out facts.’ Reena crossed her arms. ‘Come on, let’s see how accurate their dance steps are. I’ve taken a few Renaissance dance classes myself.’
As both women walked away, Carly leaned against the wall, chewing her lower lip and remembering all the times Michelangelo had glanced down before talking into the intercom on the bus. If he’d done a bunch of tours, why was he so nervous? Did he have some sort of cheat sheet in his hands? And in the car, when she asked him why he quit the winery to be a tour guide, he gave her some sort of vague, philosophical response. At the time, it hadn’t bothered her, but with all this new evidence, something smelled fishy, and it wasn’t the Renaissance food.
Not only was Michelangelo slippery in his dealings with her and Alaina, but he was also hiding something about being a tour guide. She’d have to get to the bottom of it, not only for herself, but for everyone in the orchestra.
One thing was for sure: Michelangelo wasn’t to be trusted.
Chapter Fifteen
Big Plans
Michelangelo sped all the way to his vineyard on the outskirts of Milan. If Herb had already driven the tractors there, then the situation was worse than he’d thought. How could his American landlords sell them out so quickly? He’d told Michelangelo there’d be a grace period of a few months. Unless Herb had given the landlord an offer he couldn’t refuse.
Which was likely, knowing Herb.
His blood boiled in his veins and his fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He had to exert enormous self-control to keep himself from driving his Fiat into the ground.
Hours later, he turned into the long, windy driveway that led to his family’s estate. It was now approaching nine o’clock, and he couldn’t imagine any tractor drivers working at this late hour. Hopefully, Isabella had stalled Herb enough so they hadn’t done any damage. To lose the newest section of vines he and his father had planted together would be like losing his father all over again.
The shrubs along the roadway had overgrown, narrowing the road and scraping against the side of his car. Usually his family had a landscaper trim them, but now he’d have to do it himself. He turned the corner, and rows and rows of trellises threaded with green vines came into view. Relief poured over him along with a strong melancholy. Many days he’d spent playing hide and seek with Ricco in those seemingly never-ending rows. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being home.
His chest tightened as he scanned the horizon. Dark shapes lurked on the top of the hill, where he’d installed a cobblestone patio and lounge chairs for his parents to watch the work in the fields. Isabella had not been exaggerating. Seeing the wreckage trucks with their sharp-toothed plows made the whole problem more real.
He parked in the circular drive and entered the office part of his family
’s estate, a small addition built onto the stone foundation of the old house.
Isabella sat at the desk, poring over paperwork. Her belly had grown so round she had to reach her arms out to type at the computer.
‘Isabella, what are you still doing here?’
His secretary glanced up and relief filled her dark eyes. ‘Making sure Herb doesn’t get trigger-happy. But now I see a knight in shining armor has come to save the day.’
Michelangelo shook his head, looking down at his costume. He must look ridiculous, as though he’d sold his soul to entertaining silly Americans. ‘Is he still here?’
She nodded. ‘Sitting on your parents’ swing by the apple trees and writing down some sort of plan. I told him not to move an inch until he talked to you or I’d call the police.’
Michelangelo balled his hands into fists. How dare Herb use the swing his father had proposed to his mother on to record information about demolishing the vine fields?
‘I’ll go talk to him.’
Isabella pursed her lips. ‘You’d better.’ She gave him a stack of papers. ‘I’ve been looking through all of the legal documents. When your dad remortgaged the winery to pay for the extra fields, he made a contingency amendment in case of bankruptcy. We are still in our grace period. Herb has no power until the end of next week. No legal power, anyway.’
Michelangelo took the stack of papers. ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do.’
He turned toward the patio, but movement from the corridor behind him caught his attention.
‘Someone bring me my slippers. It’s raining, and my feet are cold.’
Unconditional love followed by a wistful ache spread through him. ‘You’re wearing your slippers, mamma.’ Michelangelo shot over and helped the frail waif of the woman his mother had become down the corridor, steering her back to her room. Where was her nurse? How did she get all the way to the office? He checked her arms to make sure she didn’t have any bruises from falling or bumping into the railings. Her skin was so flaky it could blow away with the wind. He’d have to instruct Lila to apply more moisturizer. Guilt panged his chest. He’d been away for too long.
An American Girl in Italy Page 11
