"I won't dispute that," said Harry.
They all played their part in the transformation of the parterre into an alfresco dining area. Circular tables spread with white linen mushroomed around the fringes, and were soon adorned with bone china, silver cutlery and crystal. The party unfolded in the same fashion every year: drinks on the villa terrace, dinner on the parterre, then dancing on the lower terrace. A gradual descent into debauchery, Harry remarked. Apparently, he wasn't too far wrong. The event had acquired something of a reputation over the years.
The big test for Adam came when he found himself thrown together with Maurizio, deciding on the placement of the flares around the terraces. They spent a good half hour in one another's company, and he was relieved to find that his resolve didn't falter once during that time. It wasn't even that he had to work at it. The matter of Maurizio's guilt or innocence had ceased to be a pressing concern, for the simple reason that all further speculation was ultimately futile. Besides, there was an innocent explanation for everything, even if you had to strain the laws of probabilities a little.
They chatted easily as they went about their business with the flares. There was even an intimacy in the way they ribbed each other. He suspected that his own shift in thinking wasn't solely responsible for this new familiarity. Some of the tension had also gone out of Maurizio since his mother's announcement that she would soon be vacating the villa, making way for her son.
The library and the study were designated as holding areas for the cohorts of waiters, waitresses and bar staff descending on the villa. Adam was asked to clear out all his books and papers. When he carried them upstairs to his room, he found Maria setting out a tuxedo on his bed, along with a dress shirt, bow tie, studs and cuff links. There was even a brand-new pair of patent-leather shoes. These he could keep, Maria explained; they were a gift from Signora Docci. A quick glance into Harry's room revealed the same kit laid out on his bed.
Signora Docci brushed aside their thanks, then retired to her room for a rest before the festivities kicked off. Antonella announced that she was heading home. Her brother, Edoardo, and Grazia were staying with her that night, and she still had beds to make, things to arrange. Adam walked her to her car, which she had parked in the farmyard, well out of the way. They took the track that led down the slope from the lower terrace. He had strolled through the farmyard on a couple of occasions, but he had never registered the high wooden doors set in the sandstone knoll on which Villa Docci perched.
"That is where the wine and the olive oil are made," said Antonella. When she proposed a quick tour, he didn't refuse. It was the first opportunity he'd had in a couple of days to be alone with her.
First came the dramatic drop in temperature. Then came the smell. Over the centuries the soft stone walls had soaked up the odors like a sponge. The huge vats where the grapes were trod and left to ferment were stained from past harvests and scrubbed spotless in anticipation of the next one, already ripening out there on the slopes.
They passed from the light heady scent of the tinaia to the thick musk of the frantoio. By the light of the bare overhead bulbs, Antonella explained how the olives were first crushed beneath a giant millstone turned by oxen, whose shod hooves had worn a circular furrow in the stone-paved floor over the centuries. The press resembled some medieval instrument of torture, with its giant turning screw and its beams clamped with iron. The whole operation was in need of modernization, Antonella explained, but Signora Docci was reluctant to throw out the ancient equipment as long as it still functioned.
"You must come and see it when it's working."
"Is that an invitation?"
"You don't need an invitation."
They made their way back through the underground labyrinth.
"Nonna says you are leaving on Sunday."
"That's the plan."
"It has gone quickly, your time here."
"Too quickly."
Antonella stopped at the door. "I'm going to do this now because we can't later." She took a step toward him and kissed him, a fragile and lingering embrace. When she threw the light switch, plunging them into darkness, he assumed it was a prelude to something a little more intimate. But she slipped outside, playfully dodging his lunge.
He caught up with her as she was getting into her car. "Don't be late," she said.
"Late?"
"For Nonna's special drinks on the terrace."
He wasn't late, even though he lost ten minutes battling with his bow tie. In the end, Harry tied it for him, which was unexpected. The first thing they noticed on heading downstairs was that
Harry's sculpture had ousted the bronze of a striding tiger from its pride of place on the table in the entrance hall—an undoubted honor, but also a cause of some consternation for Harry.
It was a small gathering, immediate family and their partners. Adam recognized Antonella's mother immediately: the same lustrous black hair, the same almond eyes, the proud lift of the chin. She was a beautiful woman with an attractive whiff of danger about her. She was also older than he'd imagined, or maybe it was just the aura of a life lived to the full and fast catching up with her. Riccardo, her boyfriend, was her signal to the world that she was still a step or two ahead. A dark, lantern-jawed man in his thirties, he was improbably handsome. Against all apparent odds, he was also very cultivated and amusing. He was a cellist with an orchestra in Rome, although he was reluctant to talk about it. This was the first Friday night he'd had away from his work in months, and the last thing he wanted to do was discuss music—he wanted to remember how sensible people spent their Friday nights.
When Antonella and Edoardo arrived, they both greeted their mother warmly. Neither had met Riccardo before, and while Caterina made the introductions, Adam was able to admire the view.
Antonella's dress was made of shimmering midnight blue silk, which hung from her slender, tawny frame like liquid. The halter neck left her shoulders, back and arms bare, while the deep V neckline flirted tantalizingly with disaster. Her hair flowed freely about her shoulders but was pinned back off her forehead, brazenly revealing her scars.
He must have been staring at her like an idiot, because Harry leaned close and whispered in his ear, "It's great when you catch God at his work, isn't it?"
It was an enjoyable event, helped along by attentive waiters forever topping up champagne flutes. Signora Docci looked magnificent in an emerald green gown, its bright, bold color matching her mood. Only Maurizio seemed a little out of sorts, and only when in Adam's company. He could feel the heat of hostility coming off Maurizio, melting the memories of the easygoing rapport that had marked their exchanges earlier in the day. There wasn't much time to dwell on this before Maria came through to the terrace with news that the first guests were arriving. Signora Docci went off to do her duty in the entrance hall. Her two children and four grandchildren went with her.
"It is time for the Doccis to smile and pretend to be a family," said Riccardo, somewhat unfairly, it seemed to Adam.
The party's reputation proved to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was clear from the start that people were bent on enjoying themselves. Most arrived well within the first half-hour, a steady stream of humanity soon filling the back terrace to overflowing. Some made for the parterre and the lower terrace. It was an idyllic sight: well- dressed couples strolling in the waning sunlight against the backdrop of the rolling hills to the accompaniment of the string quartet.