Riccardo stepped forward and shook hands with the two women. His dark hair was tidily pulled back into his signature ponytail, which fell stylishly over his black linen shirt. His easy smile revealed near-perfect teeth, yet did not improve on his rather odd expression, his tight-set eyes, or his shelf of undomesticated brows.
“Campari and soda for me,” Andrea said, walking to the buffet bar to assist Morgan. She stood close, her smooth arms feeling cool against his arm, beneath a thin cotton shirt.
“I’ll have the same,” echoed Riccardo, realizing that no one was listening.
“I’ve heard so much about you from Creta and Justine,” Andrea said, turning to face Morgan. “I must say, you exceed my expectations.”
“How so?” he asked with a dry mouth. He expected to be embarrassed by whatever answer was forthcoming. And he was right.
“I expected the tanned, dashing archaeologist, but you’re somewhat more handsome. A little taller. More hair.”
“I’m glad I don’t disappoint,” he said, sighing deeply, as though his breath had been arrested by alarm, and raising his glass to toast his palpable relief.
“Not at all.” Andrea smiled at him as she turned and walked toward the historian. “Tell me, Riccardo, are you part of the renowned Chia family of vintners?”
From across the room, Justine noted that her father stared at Andrea as though he’d been left standing naked. She walked toward him, brushed his cheek with her fingers, then turned and poured herself a glass of champagne.
Morgan put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and hugged her lightly. “This was your idea, honey.”
Justine wondered just what he meant by that. She watched him walk across the room to join Andrea and Riccardo. My idea? Is he talking about Riccardo . . . or Andrea?
“Exactly,” Riccardo said, answering Andrea, pleased at the attention. “Are you familiar with our wines? We’ve been making Brunello at Castello Romitorio for more than two decades.”
“Has your family been affected by the recent scandals about doctored wine and olive oils?” asked Morgan, joining Andrea and Riccardo. He had not been pleased that Justine had invited Riccardo for the weekend, nor that they had been forced to ride together. Not that he had anything against the young man. Decent sort for a historian, he’d told himself.
“Not directly, although in Italy you’re guilty until proven innocent. With our slow justice system, by the time you’re exonerated, you’re out of business.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Andrea, her brown eyes on Morgan suggesting that she was wondering why he brought up the scandals. “Your wines are excellent. Surely this will blow over.”
“It is difficult to see wine written about in the way you’d write about terrorism. Even in The New York Times,” Riccardo said, his voice intense, his accent becoming more pronounced. His hand tightened around his glass of Campari. “Not in tune with our world. Italy is a land of subtleties and innuendo. Fortunately, I have a day job.”
“Dinner is served,” Maria announced from the hallway. Lucrezia motioned everyone to a chair. She and Justine were on either end of the redwood table, Riccardo and Andrea together on one side and Morgan alone on the opposite side. Candles and a chandelier lighted the room, over which presided The Woman with Long Hair, Picasso’s painting of Justine’s grandmother.
“Will you do the honors, Morgan?” Lucrezia handed him a bottle of Tommasi Classico ’98. She had forsaken white linen this evening for a delicate black silk with wrists trimmed in miniature black satin roses. Small emerald earrings, the color of her eyes, shone when she turned toward her ex-husband.
“Not a bad wine for a competitor,” grinned Riccardo. “Women call it earthy.”
“And men call it complex,” added Morgan, offering Andrea the first taste. She held the wine in her mouth for several moments before swallowing, her cheeks closing in under her high cheekbones. “Lingering sweet cherry,” she said, drawing out the words, then licking the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. She nodded her approval.
“The Etruscans may have been the first to make wine,” Riccardo said after he’d swirled the liquid around in his mouth. “The vines . . . they were over thirty feet high, some of them climbing up into trees. At that height, they could catch sea breezes.”
“What is this I hear about an Etruscan appellation near Naples?” asked Lucrezia. “Do you know anything about that, Riccardo?” She and Riccardo had met when he and Morgan arrived, before they dressed for dinner. She found him unassuming and warm, a man who would not bend easily to her ex-husband’s expectations.
“I think you mean Asprinio di Aversa, one of the world’s smallest and most obscure appellations. They’ve planted less than 150 acres,” answered Riccardo, continuing to savor the Tommasi. “Nearly 2,000 years ago, Pliny the Elder wrote about the wine. As I recall, it went something like this: ‘The vines espouse the poplars and, embracing their brides and climbing with wanton arms in a series of knots among their branches, rise level with their tops, soaring aloft to such a height that a hired picker stipulates in his contract for the cost of a funeral and a grave!’”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Andrea. “Bravo. Very sensual.”
Morgan was uncharacteristically quiet, watching the wine swirl in his glass as he turned it slowly by the stem. “Pliny the Elder wrote extensively of the Etruscans in Naturalis Historia,” he said casually, still twirling his wine. “I’ve been most impressed by his observations on Etruscan hydrology. He pointed out that the system they built under Rome was perhaps the most stupendous of all, ‘as mountains had to be pierced for their construction.’”
“And the Tarquinians built the canals through Capitoline and Palatine hills wide enough for wagons full of hay to drive through,” added Lucrezia, her hand gently turning her single-strand emerald bracelet like a wagon wheel.
Maria set down the first course, a nudi gnocchi—Morgan first, as usual. She paused, drew her cheeks into an embracing smile, and straightened her slightly frayed white apron before returning to the kitchen.
“Tarquinius, from Etruria, was the first king of Rome. It was during his reign when much of the historic city was established,” said Riccardo, watching the new pasta dish make its way down the table. “The low-lying marshland was unbuildable before Etruscan hydrology drained the area. Today, this master plan is attributed to the Romans and taken for granted.”
“I hear that Chuisi is also a remarkable achievement. Is that right, Riccardo? Have you seen the underground water system there?” Justine pushed her hair behind her ear, the delicate gold filigree Etruscan earrings she’d purchased in Volterra catching the light.
“Si, signorina,” said Riccardo. “I’ve been there . . .”
“The three-tiered tunnel complex once provided drinking water as well as sewer drainage to Chuisi,” Morgan interrupted, finishing off his gnocchi. “Great gnocchi, Maria,” he called toward the kitchen. Turning back to the other guests, he added, “But the Chuisi water system fell into disuse after the Romans conquered the town.”
“First, King Porsenna of Chuisi defeated the Romans,” Riccardo went on, nonplussed by Morgan’s interruptions. “He should have destroyed them right then and there instead of returning to his throne. Anyway, now the complex under the city has been reclaimed. You can go down into the bowels of the hill and view the well and the canals. Dozens of sarcophagi!” He was either oblivious to the tightening muscles around Morgan’s mouth or choosing to disregard his nemesis’s competition. Morgan appeared to find competition with an underling tiresome.
Justine watched Riccardo with fascination. What an unpretentious man, she thought. He’s himself, even when he ruffles Dad’s feathers. I like his courage.