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“You can do that, but then you’ll have to carry me off at the other end, and then to the Huntsman box. I’ve been subjected to a lot of humiliation lately. My tolerance is high. Don’t think for one second that I’m not prepared to make a scene. If you don’t think Antonio wants that, then you better tell me what happened.”
I brace myself for Cristiano’s brand of restrained anger, but there’s a spark of amusement in his expression.
“There isn’t much to tell right now. Someone was in the garage where Antonio keeps the car. A workbench was moved. It could have been anyone. There’s likely an innocent explanation.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
He shrugs. “It’s my job to treat everything out of the ordinary like a threat, but most issues that catch my attention are benign.”
“Thank you,” I say as we approach the landing pad. Although I’m not convinced he’s told me everything.
The helicopter is over the top, like all things Huntsman.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been on one. My father owned one, and we would take it to the apartment in the city, or when we were traveling a distance and the rural valley roads would make the trip too long.
But even a fancy helicopter doesn’t stop me from worrying about Antonio.
I turn to Cristiano while he can still hear me over the chopper. “Given the circumstances, why are you escorting me when you could be doing something more important? I’m not going to run, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“You are important. The only person who doesn’t seem to realize that is you.”
* * *
The momentI set foot on the ground, I’m surrounded by burly men—with guns concealed under their jackets, I’m certain. It feels unnecessary, but given the issue with the car, I’m not surprised.
The guards shuttle me to the Huntsman box with only moments to spare before the start of the race.
Cristiano stands directly behind my seat, and even when I turn to ask him about Antonio’s grid position, he doesn’t take his eyes off the crowd.
“One,” he replies, watching intently for any sign of trouble. “He won last year.”
Why am I not surprised?
While waiting for the race to begin, I look to the area where my family’s box had been. It’s been twelve years since I was last here, and I can’t tell one box from another.
As I scan the seats, I notice spectators gawking in my direction. I’m sure the gossips are having a field day with my sudden return—sitting in the Huntsman box, no less.Let them have their fun. It’s not something I can control.
The announcer’s voice booms over the intercom, urging the dawdlers to be seated.
He welcomes everyone, reminding the crowd about all the weekend festivities, and he makes a wish that the vines planted this year grow fertile and lush, bringing sweet, juicy fruit when they reach maturation in a few years.
The new vines are the future of the region.
“Now for the presentation of the camellias,” he announces in a cheery voice, to much whooping and hollering.
Porto is known for many things, but in the spring it’s the city of the camellias. Before the race starts, each participant will do a lap around the track, stopping his car in front of the stands and presenting a camellia to a woman of his choosing. Unless this year is different, the drivers are all men.
The recipient of the flower isn’t always a love interest. She can be a friend, a relative, or a random spectator minding her own business.
When I was a girl, like many others, I waited with bated breath to see who would get Antonio’s flower. He always presented a white camellia, signifying adoration, never a red one that represents love and passion. He always gave his flower to his mother, or to an elderly woman, or to a young girl no older than five or six. I always prayed he would stop the car in front of my family’s box and present me with his flower. But he never did.
While everyone claps and cheers, their eyes focused on the track, or on the big screens that amplify the exchange, I can’t help but wonder if Antonio will give me a flower, or if he’ll continue his tradition of offering it to someone too old, or too young, to provide fodder for the gossips.
Antonio’s car begins to take the lap. He passes the Huntsman box without a glance. I hate that my heart sinks a little when he drives past.
I keep my eyes glued to the car as he takes an unusual second lap. They don’t stray from him, not for a second. Not when he stops the car. Not when he takes the steps, two at a time, to the box where I’m seated. Not when he stands in front of me with quirking lips.
His eyes shimmer with mischief as he hands me a red camelliaanda red rose. After a curt bow of his head, he turns and jogs down the steps.
