Free The Lesson by Virginia Welch Page A

pronunciation. He never seemed to mind. On the contrary, every effort she made to speak Italian he found to be charming, which, of course, was just another feature that made him more charming.
    “Wine?” he asked, as he pulled open an upper cabinet door.
    Gina saw at least a dozen bottles of various sizes and colors, all imported, French and Italian. She had not had a drink in a long time, but no one drinks pasta without wine, at least not in the home Gina had grown up in. One little glass wouldn’t hurt. He poured her a glass of something pinkish. She took a sip. She didn’t know enough about wines to realize she was drinking a rosé—she wasn’t even old enough to drink legally—but she did know it was delicious, much better than the strong, dark red wines her parents drank with dinner.
    She helped set the table and prepared a simple green salad. Rolando turned on the radio to a foreign station. Gina recognized it as an Italian broadcast though she understood none of what the announcer was saying because he spoke too fast for her to translate. But when the announcements were over, gentle music came on, instrumentals mostly, romantic and lulling, a fitting backdrop to spaghetti and wine. As they finished the details for the meal, they made small talk, mostly about schoolwork and mutual friends, though she noticed that Rolando did not bring up Michael’s name even once, and she didn’t dare. When Rolando said the pasta was al dente, he drained it and they sat down to eat. But before they did so he offered her another glass of wine. She knew from experience that two was her limit, so she said a second glass would be fine. As they ate she pondered how to ask about Michael without actually asking about Michael. After some time she deduced that Rolando was not going to be forthcoming, so she decided to take a direct approach.
    “Do you hear from Michael much?” She made a point of looking at her plate and not at him while she inquired, to make the question as casual as possible.
    “Almost never. He’s very busy.”
    “What’s he up to these days?”
    “This and that. Work.”
    Rolando pronounced “this and that” like “thees” and “thot.” His charm was bottomless, enhanced by his thick dark lashes and well-built torso. He wore a navy blue polo shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, paired with khaki trousers and expensive brown leather loafers. His shirt was neatly tucked in around his firm waist, which only enhanced his manly shoulders. His look was so collegiate, so casually elegant, so like the look of money that came naturally to many Santa Clara guys. Rolando may not be living large now, but he clearly came from a family of means.
    About this time Gina became aware that she was feeling the wine. She castigated herself for dwelling on some guy’s muscular torso when she should be behaving herself . Well there’s no harm in looking. I have eyes in my head. I can’t help seeing what’s right in front of me. Everything about him was adorable, even if he was a bit of a rake. She reminded herself not to get carried away. It’s the wine, she told herself, but she was still clear headed enough to get what she came for. She wanted to know more about Michael.
    “Does he like his work?”
    “Sì. He likes it.”
    Rolando, who normally loved to talk, especially to girls, inexplicably had no news about Michael, or at least nothing he wanted to share. She was frustrated at his sparse response, but she didn’t want to be the one asking all the questions, especially when it came to Michael, so she decided to stop asking altogether. She didn’t want to be obvious.
    For a while they ate in awkward silence, other than the droning in the background of some Latin lover, singing a long, sad, stupid song accompanied by a mandolin. The music started to bother her. The radio seemed loud now, and it only accentuated the fact that the conversation had stalled. And the spaghetti, her favorite dish, was not as good as she hoped.