Angela found Rosa in the kitchen promptly at 9 am, joined by a cheery man in a chef's coat.
Tony had run into Aldo on their way downstairs; he wanted to walk the vineyard and talk "business. Man's talk." Angela tried her best not to be offended as she made her way to the kitchen.
"Angela! This - Mario" she introduced the large gentleman with twinkling eyes. "This - Angela," she gestured to Mario.
Angela smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, Mario."
"Mario - very good cook. Cousin of Tony. Chef in Tuscany. I am a good cook. We teach you," Rosa said with boisterous enthusiasm.
Angela's eyes grew wide; it dawned on her she was being ambushed. "A cooking lesson?"
Mario spoke, "Yes - do not be afraid. Rosa tells me you are not very experienced in the kitchen."
"Understatement of the year. I'm a disaster. Tony does all the cooking."
"Everyone can learn, trust me. You need to learn, men like women who cook. Maybe you will win Tony's heart through his stomach," Rosa said conspiratorially.
"Ah, Rosa, I don't really think Tony needs me to –"
She put up a hand. "We start very slow. First, you put on the apron."
Mario handed her the apron and she slipped it over her head.
"See, you are making progress already!" Mario exclaimed.
Angela smiled at Mario. She appreciated his optimism, but if Tony couldn't teach her, likely no one could.
"We start with the basics. First, I show you the herb garden," Rosa said. Angela sighed, exhaling the heavy premonition of defeat, as she dutifully followed her through the back of the kitchen.
Gravel crunched underfoot as Aldo and Tony walked along the vineyard path. Rows of tumbling vines cascaded from their stakes as far as the eye could see.
"It's so beautiful, Aldo. Even prettier than I imagined."
"This land has been in the Micelli family for a long time. Hundreds of years."
"Papa was so proud of this place. I'm glad to finally see it in person. These are Nero d'Avola grapes, aren't they?
"They are."
"Is the wine DOCG classification?"
"It is. You know about wine. I didn't know."
"I've picked up a little over the years. I'm a cook, so I'm always choosing wine to go with the dinners we host. Plus, you know, it's in my blood," he joked. "But hey, DOCG – that's a big deal. That's the highest classification."
"We were very proud to be awarded that a few years ago. We've worked hard perfecting our grapes. It has not always been prosperous. For many years, in fact, this property was a burden. But it is prosperous now. Some of the finest grapes in Italy," he announced proudly.
"That's wonderful, Aldo."
"Si. And the wine, it is not only delicious. It holds the power of romance."
"The power of romance?"
"Si, of course."
"What do you mean? Like an...aphrodisiac?"
"Try it for yourself and you'll see. I recommend the 1984. Over there – " he gestured to a mound built into a hill, with a arched door attached, "is the wine cellar. Help yourself. There's a special bottle in there for you, on the family rack on the right when you walk in. You'll need to light the lantern when you go in there. But help yourself to whatever you want. And you see the hill over there?"
Tony nodded. "Si."
"There is a small cave. Your father and I spent all our summer days on that hill as boys. You might want to take a look while you're here."
Tony gave him a small, wistful smile. "Okay, Aldo, I will. Ah, Aldo. Speaking of my father, you mentioned a man, Antonio, who was a good friend of my father's during the war?"
"Si, si Antonio Ripelli."
"Is he still alive?"
"Si, yes. He lives in Palermo. He will be at the wedding."
"Do you think, maybe he would meet with me? I'd like to ask him some questions about my parents. I'm not sure if the wedding would be the right time to do that."
"He would. I'll call him. He's a fresco painter. Wait until you see his place."
"Thank you, Aldo."
Aldo stopped abruptly and turned on his heels. "I am giving you all of this, Antony. I want you to run it."
Tony's eyes were wide and incredulous. "Run it? Aldo, I may know a little about grapes, but I don't know nothin' about runnin' a vineyard."
"We are ready for new blood to expand. I'm getting old, Tony. Your cousin Maurizio, he does not want to run it. He wants to work for his father-in-law. The olive oil man. And as the oldest Micelli, it is actually yours to turn down first."
"But I live in Connecticut –"
"You do not have to be here to run it. You don't need to know much about wine. It's a business. I'll still be here to help where I can. But the vineyard is self-sustaining. We have a foreman to run the day to day operations - a, how you say, a manager. He knows everything about the land, the grapes, the groves. You make decisions from America. And you'll make enough to come back and forth when you can."
"I will?"
"I think you do good things with the vineyard, Tony. The production is big enough that it's time to export the wine to America. But I'm not young anymore; that would be a big undertaking. An investment of time and money. I think you - and possibly your Angela - could do big things with our wine for the American market. I think the olive oil would do well too, maybe. I want you to think about it." Tony looked around at the rows of vines, still dewy from the morning, shining as far as the eye could see. Beyond them was the olive grove, and on the other side, the lemon orchard, where trees were bursting with lemons. Lemoncelli. Lemon curd. His wheels began to turn.
"I'm honored, Aldo. But I do need to think about it. Can you, uh, not mention this to Angela?"
"I will not say a word. But you should talk to her. Maybe then she will marry you, now that you have some money."
"Hey oh, that's not why we aren't married, Aldo. Definitely not. Angela doesn't care if I have money."
"Sure, sure. But *you* do." Aldo cast him a squinty side-glance. Tony looked at him thoughtfully.
"Ah, out of curiosity, how much money are we talkin', Aldo?"
"Oh plenty. Enough to make a good living and travel back and forth to Italy a few times a year. More if you export the wine. Plus the value of the land and the house. All will be yours, Antonio, if you want it. It is what my brother would have wanted. And then you can treat the workers however you wish. Feed them cakes and tea every day," he smirked.
"Gee, Aldo. It's just a lot to think about. I don't know anything about owning a vineyard. And I really can't consider it if it would mean I need to leave Connecticut."
"I can teach you. You are a smart man. I know you will learn quickly and do good things. Modernize it. You will not need to leave Connecticut, I promise you this. You can keep your job as a housekeeper, what do I care. I just want to know the vineyard is in the hands of someone who will care for it, and appreciate it. I will have my assistant draw up some papers with some figures. You can look at them tomorrow and decide what you want to do."
"Ah, thank you, Aldo. I'm really touched you would entrust me with the family legacy - the Micelli name. It's an honor, really. I'll think about it."
"Of course, Tony. I'm glad you'll consider it."
Angela frowned at the chopped vegetables on the board in front of her. Her zucchini was sliced all wonky, one side fat, the other razor thin, while Rosa's were beautifully symmetrical. Her chopped tomatoes weren't much better.
"Rosa, I'm afraid I'm a lost cause."
"You are lost?" She looked confused.
Mario smiled. "No one is a lost cause in my kitchen. It doesn't matter how they look, it matters how they taste. Now, to break the eggs. You do it just like so." He cracked each egg firmly. Angela did the same.
"Molto bene, you are improving. Now, you take the whisk and gently stir."
She tipped the bowl dutifully and attempted Mario's expert whisk. She frowned again. Her motions were jerky, not smooth like his. She felt a warm, familiar body envelop her from behind as a hand covered hers, and refolded her hand higher up the whisk. "Try it like this," came a gravelly whisper in her ear. His boldness was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one; she leaned back instinctively into Tony's body and let him take over from behind, his chin perched over her shoulder, her arm moving in tandem with his. Her body tingled warmly all over. An infrequent but not totally out of bounds flirtation at home, she couldn't tell whether this was new, terra firma Tony, or gray area, flirty Tony; either way, this was quickly turning into the most fun she had ever had cooking.
"Ay, no Antonio! This is for Angela!" Rosa protested.
"Hey, Rosa, I'd like to glean a few tips myself. I may be Italian but I've never actually cooked in Italy."
She scowled at him and swatted him with the dishtowel, "You get your own bowl then, Antony. She needs to learn."
Angela looked at Tony and shrugged. "I need to learn."
Tony grabbed an apron off the hook and whispered as he fiddled with the tie, "What are we making?"
"Frittata. Mario said this dish is so easy even I can master it."
"It is easy. The secret is in the herbs."
"Apparently tomorrow's lesson is gnocchi," she whispered.
Tony's eyes widened with alarm, to which she replied, "I know."
Tony pulled out a bowl and expertly began chopping herbs and vegetables. With the crack of a few eggs, he was caught up to Angela. "Hey, this is kind of fun, cooking together," he said.
"Better their kitchen than yours," she joked.
He grinned, "Technically, it's your kitchen. And you can cook with me any time, just let me lead, ok?"
Mario showed Angela how much of each herb and vegetable to add.
"Now, you grate the cheese."
Angela picked up the wedge of cheese and the grater and crudely ran them awkwardly back and forth against one another. "I don't think I'm doing this right."
Tony looked up from his pile. "Oh, no, you aren't. Here," he leaned in and showed her how to prop the grater up, putting the block of pecorino romano in the correct position and covering her hand with his as he smoothly shredded the cheese. "See, much easier."
She copied his motions.
"Ah, I did it!"
"You're a regular Julia Child, there Angela," he teased with a wink. She blushed.
"Now, to cook it on the stove," Mario said. "You begin with a lot of olive oil. Like so. Let it get very hot. Then to add the potatoes."
They fired up the burners. Tony and Angela added their potatoes to their skillets. He gently squeezed her arm from behind and peeked over her shoulder at her sizzling, crudely sliced potatoes.
"They look great. Just keep them like that for a little bit, don't turn them too soon. Patience is key, Angela."
She looked at him sideways, her mouth twitching as a little spark shot down her arm. Patience is key. "Yes sir."
Tony and Angela were greeted by warm, midday sunshine as they left the kitchen.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No, it was actually...kind of fun. It's the first thing I've cooked since I nearly poisoned you. I couldn't be more proud of that silly frittata if I'd given birth to it," she joked. "But why bother when I have a perfectly wonderful Italian chef at my disposal?" She linked her arm through his.
"Well, it's good for you to know how to cook if I'm ever out of town."
"That's true, I suppose. So where are you taking us?"
Just then, Aldo appeared out of the front door of the house.
"Antony, Antonio Ripelli said he would be most happy to make your acquaintance. You may stop by any time today. My car will take you there."
"Ah, thank you, Aldo." Aldo nodded, and turned on his heels.
Tony turned to Angela. "Antonio was a friend of my parents' during the war. Aldo arranged for me to meet him; I have some questions for him. I'm not really sure what I'm going to learn, but I'd...I'd really like it if you came with me," he said, his tone uncharacteristically shy.
"Of course, Tony."
"We have the whole day - and evening. The dinner tonight is just for the wedding party. I know we discussed lunch in town, but I was thinking maybe we could take our baby frittatas on a picnic for lunch here on the grounds, and then we can go into town and do dinner there instead?"
"It's a gorgeous day, and I'm dying to see more of the vineyard." She smiled at him. "Sounds perfect."
