These Tangled Vines(36)
The villa came into view. It was dark, but the moon was full. It cast a bright, bluish glow on the garden path, lighting their way. Their footsteps crunched over the white gravel while they talked and laughed. Moon shadows were everywhere.
During her training, Lillian had seen the villa from afar, but she had never set foot inside the enormous Tuscan mansion. Mr. Clark led her to a narrow side door, where they entered into a lower level.
“This must have been a servants’ entrance at one time?” Lillian asked.
“Actually, I believe this was a ‘door for the dead.’ In medieval times, it was considered bad luck to bring your dead out the front door, so homes often had a smaller door somewhere.”
“Interesting.” The door looked wide enough for a coffin but not much else.
Mr. Clark showed her to a telephone in the hall, which she used to call Freddie at the shed. She let it ring more than five times, but he didn’t answer, so she finally hung up.
Mr. Clark then escorted her through a wide stone corridor with graceful arches. It took them past a large kitchen, recently modernized, where delectable aromas of basil, pasta, and roasted meat roused Lillian’s senses.
“It smells scrumptious in here,” she said.
Another corridor brought them to a back door that opened onto a patio beneath a green arbor. Covered in thick, tangled vines, it was a cozy space with tiny white lights strung overhead. A long dinner table beneath a floral tablecloth held countless platters of food, vases of fresh flowers, and candles that burned in old straw-covered Chianti bottles.
“Anton, you’re late!” a man shouted in good spirits as he turned in his chair. “And who is this lovely creature you have brought with you this evening? Welcome.”
An older woman slid her chair back and stood. “I’ll get another plate,” she said before disappearing into the house.
Mr. Clark began the introductions. “Allow me to present Lillian Bell, our new American tour guide. Lillian, this is Domenico Guardini, the vineyard foreman, and that was his wife, Caterina. She’ll be back in a moment. You know Matteo, and this is Francesco. He’s a Renaissance man. He does everything for me.”
Francesco held his hand over his heart. “With pleasure, Anton.”
Caterina returned with a plate and utensils, which she laid out while Matteo leaped up to fetch another chair.
Lillian took a seat at the table. “It was very nice of Mr. Clark to invite me.”
“Lillian, please. You must call me Anton,” he said.
“I see you brought wine,” Domenico interrupted with delight, rising from his chair to investigate the labels. “Meraviglioso , Anton. Finally. Let’s enjoy it, shall we?” He turned and winked discreetly at his wife.
Lillian suspected they had been discussing, in private, the wine that had been locked away in the secret Maurizio room for decades—bottles no one was permitted to appreciate.
“Everyone, eat,” Caterina said, sitting back down and passing a large platter of antipasto to Lillian. “But save room for the roast duck,” she quietly added, leaning close. “It’s my special recipe.”
“I could smell it cooking when I came in,” Lillian replied, her mouth watering. “It smelled delicious, and this looks unbelievable. Thank you so much for having me.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Domenico said, raising a glass to her.
Lillian helped herself to an array of crostini—mini toasts with various toppings like bacon with caramelized onions and ricotta with fresh pesto sprinkled with red pepper flakes.
“What a lovely table you’ve laid out,” Lillian said to Caterina. “Is this a special occasion?”
Caterina laughed. “Every night with good friends is a special occasion.”
Anton, who was seated at the head of the table, poured himself some wine. “Lillian and I were just talking about that very thing earlier.” He spoke to her directly. “And you asked why I prefer Italy over my home country these days. I’m not sure if I ever gave you an adequate answer, but this is precisely why. Tuscans love to celebrate.” He turned to Caterina. “You have a food festival for everything, isn’t that right?”
She laughed. “Sì , we like to have fun, and what is more fun than enjoying delicious food and wine under the light of the moon at the end of a long day?”
“Cheers to that,” Anton said, raising his glass.
By this time, Mr. Guardini had already poured another glass of wine for Lillian, so she raised it and joined in the toast, then helped herself to a few more of the delicious crostini.
Next came a massive bowl of pasta—tagliatelle with fresh mushroom sauce—which was passed around the table until it was empty. Vigorous conversation and laughter filled the night, and no one was in a hurry to finish anything. Everyone at the table behaved like family toward Anton, as if they had known him forever, and they welcomed Lillian into the fold with questions about her life in America, her family, and her husband.
“You must bring him for dinner tomorrow,” Caterina said. “It’s never any trouble to set out an extra plate or two. He would be most welcome.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell him.”
As Lillian sipped her wine and devoured the flavorful pasta, she was astonished by the hospitality of everyone she had met at the winery so far. There was a delightful sense of joy in the daily routine of waking in the morning, working in the vineyards, then taking time at lunch to enjoy a delicious meal with a small amount of wine followed by espresso. Everyone seemed especially happy to go back to work after their long and leisurely riposo , and she was completely, unequivocally enchanted.