Page 120 of The Wrong Vintage
“Why don’t they ever just talk to each other?” Toni groans as Grant and Hepburn whirl through another misunderstanding.
Alba rolls her eyes. “Because then there’d be no movie.”
I grin, heart light. “And yet,” I point out, “they still fall in love.”
We decide finger food is the only reasonable choice for dinner, which—unsurprisingly—means pizza.
I order mine plain Margherita. Tomato, basil, and fresh mozzarella never does you wrong.
Alba goes fordiavola, extranduja, unapologetically spicy. Toni, gets what she always does, pizza bianca—olive oil, garlic, and a creamy ricotta cheese sprinkled with shaved black truffles, which are in season right now and have come fresh from Piedmont.
As we steal each other’s slices of pizza, we watchNotorious.
Cary Grant again, and this time with Ingrid Bergman, wrapped in shadows and cigarette smoke, her eyes luminous as moonlight.
“Oh, but when he says he loves her.” Toni sniffles at the end when Devlin steals the love of his life away from Claude Rains’s Alexander Sebastian’s Nazi grasp.
We open a bottle of Alighieri Amaro to go with the tiramisu and startCasablanca, because any black-and-white movie marathon is incomplete without it.
“Or are you not that kind of woman?” Alba speaks along with Bogart.
“I know people always talk about the 'of all the gin joints' blah blah as being the great line, but for me, it’s always the last one,” Toni says sleepily.
“Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” I declare in my best Bogie impression.
“Exactly.”
Toni’s head drifts into my lap; her hair fans out like spun silk.
Alba’s feet, clad in Chanel slippers, rest against mine.
The popcorn bowl sits forgotten, tiny white moons scattered across the rug.
In the dim glow of the projector, I glance at their profiles: Toni’s sharp cheekbones, Alba’s steady calm, and I realize how rare this tableau has become.
“I wish we did this more,” I murmur, voice hushed against the pulse of the film.
“We will,” Alba replies without hesitation, her tone forging an unbreakable promise. “We just…need to be in the same city more often.”
Toni lifts her head, a sleepy grin tugging at her lips. “Promise?”
“Promise.” I stroke her hair.
The adventures of a woman, during World War II, who doesn’t know which man she loves become the background as Toni sleeps and Alba asks me how I’m doing.
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly.
“You want to talk about it?” Alba asks carefully.
I shake my head. “It’s about Nico and…Papà and….”
“You’re not ready,” Alba murmurs.
I nod. “I’m not ready.”
“Where are you sleeping tonight?” Alba asks.
I chuckle. “With Nico.”
