“You are crazy,” I comment, but inside I’m pretty fucking impressed.
“It’s the spice of life,” he says, flashing me a smile that would melt an iceberg. Seeing no reason for these tasty Tuscan delicacies to end up on the street, I grab the sandwiches.
“How did you bump the line?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “What can I say? I’m hungry, and so are you. You do what you need to, eh?”
I let out a chuckle. He has balls to take on that line, that’s for sure. We’re used to rude tourists trying to cut in line all the time. Maybe he pretended to an obnoxious American. I have no idea and I’m too hungry to care.
He pulls the cork and pours the wine, holding the glasses in his long, elegant fingers.
“Whoa,” he chuckles when he almost overflows one glass.
Setting the bottle between his feet, we stand on the sidewalk and catch ugly stares from those still in line.
“To better times ahead,” he says, holding up his glass and handing me the other.
“Yes.”
We clink glasses and I lift mine to my lips, taking a sip, letting the wine coat my tongue, then slide down my throat. I love a great Sangiovese, and this is the bomb.
“Umm.”
“Good, huh?”
“The best.” I have to agree, the day is definitely improving.
I hand him a sandwich and he has a tough time wrapping his mouth around it but he manages to bite off a piece without making a mess.
“OMG, schiacciata is my favorite for sandwiches.” I take a bite but, unlike him, some of my arugula falls to the sidewalk.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t care.
Nor does Marchello who either didn’t notice or pretends not to.
Relieved, the pressure to be perfect passes and I begin to relax.
Then, I feel bad about feeling good, it’s the need to be a perfectionist. Or is it the need to be perfect like the women Marchello must date? The glamour girls I call them. The ones who can live his expensive lifestyle with him if his wardrobe is any indication.
“So, how are you holding up?”
“Fine,” I try to sound convincing. “I mean it’s a shock to be sure. The coroner says it was his heart, but he was healthy. Heart disease doesn’t even run in my family.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I’m not buying that’s what really happened. My father worked in construction and had no enemies.”
I’m not sure if that’s the truth, but that’s what Papa told me and I’m sticking with it. That story seemed to work for him, until it didn’t, obviously. But I have no way of knowing if his death had anything to do with how he made his money.
“What did he do exactly?” he asks, taking another ginormous bite.
“No clue. I could ask my uncle but he’s busy handling the funeral.”
“Hmm.” He nods and drops the subject.
“You’re easy to talk to.”
“Thanks, I get that a lot. I’m told I can make anyone happy.”