Giancarlo’s driver arrived promptly at two o’clock and they were outside the city on the A4 before the rush hour hit. Less than two hours later the car turned onto the A21 towards Alba, skirted the town and headed into the foothills that give Piemonte its name.
    They passed dozens of vineyards with names vaguely familiar to Nicola—she’d been trying to learn more about the wines of the region—then drove down a long country road lined with cypress trees and vineyards, finally coming into view of the Cavallacci villa on a rise.
         Nicola did a little research on the property and found that its original structure dated back at least three centuries before the Cavallaccis obtained the villa in the 19th century. The structure looked to be in splendid shape, the grounds well landscaped but without the kind of geometric layout found in larger villas like Rome’s Tivoli. Nor was it one of the sober-looking neo-classical 16th century villas built by Andrea Palladio in Veneto.
         Villa Cavallacci was more rustic, though highly refined, more an extravagant, three-story farmhouse set on a lake than a pillared residence with lavish landscaping.  Given the Cavallaccis’ holdings in stone and marble, the surfaces of the villa were of superb quality and kept in pristine condition—certainly a fine advertisement for the company to anyone visiting. 
         The driver pulled up to the front of the villa, where Nicola was received by a man and woman of the staff, welcoming her and taking her bag, then showing her to her room, which was about four times the size of her dorm room and decorated in a restrained décor of ceiling beams, painted tile floors, a sofa, antique writing desk and a bed covered with very fine linens and a satin cover. The bathroom was not huge but very well appointed in marble. There were two paintings on the wall, both from the late Middle Ages, their backgrounds in gold leaf.      
         There was a knock on the open door and the woman who’d received Nicola entered, carrying a bowl of fruit and fresh roses. She asked if Nicola wanted the windows opened, Nicola nodded, and soon the smell of vineyard land blew through the room to mingle with the perfume of the roses.
         Nicola was puzzled as to why she had not yet met any members of the Cavallacci family, so, in Italian, she asked the maid, “Is the Cavallacci family here yet?”
         The woman said that only the marchese and his wife were on the premises at the moment but that the others would be arriving later or the next day for the party. This report caused Nicola further puzzlement as to why the Cavallaccis had not welcomed her in person. Then she thought that perhaps the old marchese was not well that day and that his wife was tending to him in another part of the villa.
         So, she decided, there was nothing more to do than to tour the property until she was introduced to the family. As she left the front door and began walking towards the vineyards, she heard the double honk of a car horn.  A low-slung red Alfa Romeo pulled up and Giancarlo bounded out of it, running to Nicola, taking her in his arms and saying how thrilled he was to have her at his family home.
         After a few more words of welcome, he asked, “Have you met my mother and father yet?”
         Nicola shook her head and said, “No, but I was told they’re here.”
         This surprised Giancarlo, who grimaced slightly and said, “Well, perhaps my father is not feeling well today.  I’m sure they will be out to meet you soon.”
         At that, the couple heard a woman at the front door cry, “Giancarlo! Caro! Bentornato!” 
         It was the marchesa, whose Austrian blood showed clearly in both her height and coloring, her silver-white hair pulled back in a ponytail.  She was dressed casually but with definite care—a butter yellow blouse, tailored pleated tan slacks and soft brown loafers.
         Giancarlo brought Nicola over to his mother, whom he kissed on both cheeks then said, “Mamma, permettetemi di introdurre mia amica Nicola Santini.”
         Nicola put out her hand, which was taken by the marchesa, who spoke Italian with just the slightest German accent.
         “I understand you speak Italian, Signorina?”
         “Yes,” said Nicola, “My father’s people were from the Abruzzi and my mother’s from Campania.”     
         All the marchesa responded was, “Ah,” then began speaking with Giancarlo, telling him his father was not too well that day, resting up for his birthday party tomorrow.  “I don’t think he will be at dinner tonight, but he’s basically all right. Will you two be joining us for dinner?”
         “Ah, I would love to, Mamma,” said Giancarlo, sounding like a little boy, “but I promised Nicola I would take her to dinner in Torino—she’s never been there. I hope you don't mind.”
         The marchesa gave a little shrug and said, “Well, if you promised to take la signorina to Torino, I suppose there’s nothing I can do.”
         Nicola ascribed the marchesa’s coolness both to her Austrian bloodlines and to her taking offense that her darling son would not stay for dinner.  It occurred to Nicola that perhaps the marchesa had not seen her son for a while. 
         The marchesa smiled at Nicola and said, now speaking English, “Well, then, I will see you tomorrow for the party. Buona sera.”
         Nicola looked at Giancarlo with concern.  He took her by the arm and said,  “Don’t worry.  She’s disappointed we won’t dine with her, but she’ll be very busy with preparing for tomorrow and will forget all about us.”  Then Nicola remembered what Catherine had said about impressing the family and didn’t think things were off to a good start.
         During the hour’s drive to Turin, Nicola showed sincere interest in the villa’s history, and Giancarlo knew a great deal about it, having been educated and appointed to carry on the family name and its holdings. Again he told Nicola that his interests did not lie in becoming the industrial titan his father saw him as but that his fealty to his family ran very deep.
         Giancarlo then provided a few insights into the city of Turin, saying, “Not even the Italians know Turin. They only know FIAT! FIAT! FIAT!  This is not necessarily a bad thing, however, because not many tourists go there, so the city is never noisy, never crowded.  So, we Torinesi have our restaurants and caffés all to ourselves most of the time.”
         He then noted that, despite the city’s industrial image, director Michelangelo Antonioni used Milan in La Notte, Rome in L’Eclisse and Ravenna in Il Deserto Rosso—not Turin—to depict the deadening effect of industrialization on the soul of modern Italy.
          As they drove into the center of the city, Nicola marveled at the long, graceful, justly famous series of arcades, the grandeur of its vast piazzas, and its stately and highly efficient grid pattern.  Giancarlo took her for a brief tour, past Victor Emmanuel II’s high baroque Royal Palace and the splendid Duomo of St. John the Baptist. 
         Giancarlo turned into the beautiful Piazza Carmignano and parked the Alfa. Dinner that evening was at Ristorante Del Cambio, a grand dining salon in the league of Savini in Milan, and was obviously chosen because the Cavallacci family had been going there for generations—perhaps since the restaurant opened back in 1757.  Since then it had entertained Casanova, Cavour, and Goldoni, and 19th century society adopted it as requisite for a visit to Turin.
         Yet by 1985 the restaurant had seen better days, its kitchen had grown tired, the dovetail coated wait staff geriatric and its historic furnishings—Neoclassical wood paneling, paintings on glass by Bonelli, and baroque stuccos—looked worn and lacked the luster that ever would have drawn someone like Nicola and her friends. 
         The young couple was, of course, given the Cavallacci’s usual table, although the place had so few guests that night—none of them under fifty—they might have sat anywhere they pleased.  Nicola opened the menu, which was a balance of continental and Piemontese cuisines, but she left the choice to Giancarlo, who had his favorite dishes, which included Del Cambio’s signature risotto alla Cavour, cooked in white wine, with a poached egg and Parmigiano to enrich it. They also enjoyed delicately flavored cannelloni stuffed with cauliflower, and stinco di vitello, a succulent and tender shank of veal braised in vegetables and wine. With their meal Giancarlo had chosen a fine Piedmont Barolo from an old producer named Pio Cesare.       
         Oddly, the conversation at the table seemed a bit staid to Nicola, which she attributed to the hushed ambiance of a room three-quarters empty.  Giancarlo didn't need to ask for the bill, of course, so after finishing their wine he said, “We’re not going to have dessert here. I want to take you to Torino’s most beautiful caffé, Baratti e Milano" (below).         The couple left arm in arm under a three-quarter moon, walking easily to Piazza Castello  (above) under the caress of the city’s archways.  When they got within ten yards of the caffé, they could already smell the aroma of coffee and chocolate.  When they entered they found just about every table occupied, but Giancarlo said he preferred to stand at the bar and have his coffee and dessert.
         The room was tantalizing to Nicola, everything Del Cambio was not. She listened to the music of the Piemontese dialect being spoken and watched the white-coated barristas grind, pack, adjust, steam, fizz, and present their handiwork in a manifestation of Turin’s deeply ingrained coffee culture, richer than anywhere else in coffee-obsessed Italy. The thunder of the shuddering coffee machine, the clink of the cups and saucers hitting the mahogany bar and the tinkle of the little spoons in the saucer never let up.  The barristas poured a glass of Asti spumante for some, a tipple of vermouth—a spirit invented in Turin—or a dark, bittersweet amaro digestiva for others. Giancarlo ordered a slice of sugar-dusted cake covered with satiny dark chocolate, with a filling of gianduja, the chocolate-and-hazelnut cream that was also created in Turin.
         The couple’s conversation had picked up, they were laughing, and Nicola took pleasure in wiping a smudge of gianduja from Giancarlo’s lips.
         During the drive home there was a quiet both young people seemed to welcome. Nicola had hoped they might stay over at the Cavallaccis’ house in Turin, but as Giancarlo drove out of the city she seemed resigned to spending the night in separate bedrooms back at the villa.  So that by midnight their night was ending. Standing outside in the villa’s vineyards, embracing and kissing in the moonlight, Nicola asked when they would be truly together for an entire night.  “It’s impossible while we are here with my family,” said Giancarlo. “But soon, Nicolina. I promise.”
         Neither slept well that night.