Chapter Four
Achille
I stood in the center of the barn and listened carefully. She didn’t move for a while, but then I heard the sound of her feet walking away. When her footsteps faded to silence, I headed out of the barn and turned right, walking through the trees until I was at the perimeter fence of my vineyard. The duchessa cast one last look at my home then followed the track toward the main house of the estate.
She was dressed all in black, her dark hair pulled back in a bun. She started to run, and in a couple of minutes she had disappeared down the valley, only for her distant silhouette to appear again five minutes later as she ran up the hill toward her home.
I leaned against the fence and watched until she was gone. My eyebrows pulled down. People hardly ever came to this part of the vineyard. The king had been strict with the other workers about where they could go—my small patch of the estate was strictly off-limits to most.
The king was always terrified someone would discover the secret of our merlot. So for years it had only been my papa and me. When Papa died seven months ago, it left only me. I didn’t mind my own company so much. I had never been one for friends, and what little family I had lived in Sicily. I only saw my aunt a couple of times a year. The last true friend I had stopped speaking to me when I was younger, and I had come to the conclusion that he was only my friend because he lived on this land and there was no one else around the same age. Very few people had come by since.
That was just how it was.
Nico neighed from the paddock, the sound reminding me that I had to get back to work. But with every step I took, all I could do was replay the last hour. That was the Duchessa di Parma. That is who the prince is marrying.
Several weeks ago the prince’s secretary had gathered the staff and told us of the upcoming marriage. I didn’t know what I’d expected of the duchessa from America, but I hadn’t expected her to be so . . . so . . .
I sighed, wiping a hand down over my face, shoving those thoughts far from my mind. My hand fell to my side, and I went into the barn. The oak barrels that the new wine would be aged in were stacked and ready for the end of harvest. I had only just begun to collect. The weather this summer had delayed the grapes’ development slightly. If there was one thing my father had taught me, it was that the grapes could not be picked until they were absolutely perfect. I was a week or two behind where I expected to be, but the extra time had given me the most promising bunches of grapes I’d had in years. And considering the recent vintages were regarded as the best, I felt a heady rush of excitement swirl in my blood at the prospect of the most excellent wine this year’s harvest might bring. It was the first year I would be completely alone in this endeavor, no experienced voice guiding me.
It both terrified and excited me.
I began tipping the buckets of grapes into the stomping barrel. By the sixteenth bucket, my stomach was growling. I cut off a hunk of the Parmesan cheese that was on the table beside me and drizzled aged balsamic vinegar over it. I also grabbed the last of the bread Eliza had brought me yesterday. Eliza was a housekeeper at the main house and the wife of one of the oldest winemakers on the estate. She and her husband, Sebastian, had been my father’s best friends. Ever since his passing, Eliza had made sure my pantry was always stocked with food. Especially during the harvest. I had little or no sleep for a good few weeks each October, and things like food came second to the winemaking process.
But I loved it.
I lived for this time of year. Everything led up to this point. This was when I was most content.
This was when I felt most alive.
I inspected the grapes again as I ate, making sure each was perfect. As the sun began to descend in the sky, I poured the rest of the grapes into the barrel, only stopping when the final bucket was empty.
Kicking off my boots, I cleaned my feet, rolled up my jeans and stepped into the barrel. The grapes immediately began to split and spill their juice. The stems were hard under my feet, but they were essential to making the darkest, deepest red wines.
Many minutes passed by, and the minutes changed into hours. Once the grapes had been crushed, I felt my muscles begin to ache. They ached liked this at the same time each day, when I had pushed my body to the maximum.
I jumped from the barrel and cleaned my feet. For the next few hours, I pressed the wine and began the process of fermentation.
I looked up out of the doors to see a sea of stars shining in the cloudless sky. The moon hung low, illuminating the water from the sprinklers as they sprayed the vines. It was a light show of silver threads, green leaves and red fruit.
Bringing my hand to the back of my head, I walked out of the barn and closed the doors tight. Nico and Rosa saw me come out and immediately headed for their stables, knowing what was to come. I jumped over the paddock’s fence, grabbed their buckets of feed from the tack room and carried them to the stables. The horses quickly ducked inside. I filled their water and put out some hay. When I came back, Rosa was standing in my way.
“Hey, beautiful,” I greeted her, running my hands over her ears and along her neck. Rosa stood as calm and still as ever. That was all down to my father. He had a way with horses that I never would. Nico was mine; I rode him every day. Rosa was too small for my build, so she had to make do with being lunged and schooled in hand.
As Rosa walked away, I felt a deep pit burrow in my stomach. She seemed so lonely and lost without my father. As if she knew her purpose was exhausted with him gone. We used these horses for work in the fields. Without my father, Rosa was lost.
Her and me both.
Papa had trained her in dressage, spent time with her every day making sure each move was perfected and polished. I was sure Rosa missed dancing across the paddock with my father on her back. I had no such skill with which to help.
A wave of guilt crested in my chest.
I just love horses. I used to ride competitively . . .
I blinked as the duchessa’s words suddenly came forward, drifting through my mind. I thought of her big brown eyes and soft smile as she had talked to me about Rosa and Nico. Remembered the awe and sadness in her voice as she spoke of her old horse.
I looked down at my bare arm. Shivers had broken out along my skin. I didn’t feel cold, but the temperature had dropped, so I rationalized that must have been it.
I left the paddock and made my way home. Solar lights lit my way along the garden path. When I entered the cottage, I walked straight to the fire and threw on some newly cut logs. My muscles ached and I needed heat. As the fire sprang to life, I shed my clothes and climbed into the old shower. The hot water relaxed my tense neck and shoulders. The scent of burning wood hung in the air. I didn’t move, head hanging forward, until the water turned tepid, then freezing cold.
I threw on some sweatpants, let my wet hair drip-dry and made some coffee in my moka pot. I took some ready-made fresh pasta from the fridge and poured myself a glass of my 2010 merlot.
Before I sat down to eat, I put a new vinyl on my father’s old record player. When the needle scratched the vinyl, Verdi’s La Traviata came crackling through the ancient speakers.
For a moment, as the opening bars filled the quiet of the room, I stared across at the single wooden chair beside the fire. Once there had been another opposite. If I closed my eyes, I could see my father sitting, reading his book—out loud to me, as always—his favorite opera playing in the background. From when I was a young boy, we had sat beside that fire each night after a hard day’s work, and he had read his favorite stories to me. From the classics—my favorite being The Count of Monte Cristo, his being Sherlock Holmes—right through to fantasy—my favorite was The Hobbit, and his was The Lord of The Rings. But his absolute favorite, and my absolute favorite too, was philosophy. He would talk to me of Plato and Aristotle and their philosophies on love. He would talk about my mother, who he loved beyond measure. And he would talk about how she was the other half of his soul.
He would tell me how, one day, I would find my other half too.
Since he had been gone, the old house seemed devoid of life. The single, now solitary, chair beside the fire sat just as lonely as my heart.
I opened my eyes and stared into the climbing red and orange flames. I blinked away the sheen of tears from my eyes, refusing to let them fall.
The music reached a crescendo, and I went back into the kitchen to retrieve my food and wine. I brought them back to the front room and sat down on the seat before the fire. I ate my food quickly, then washed and put away the single dish.
Feeling exhausted, I turned off the lamps in my small home one by one. I made my way to my bedroom and, as I did every night, sat on the edge of my bed. With a deep breath, I pulled out the envelope from my nightstand and opened the back. As carefully as possible, I pulled out the three-page letter. With shaking hands, I let my eyes rake over the perfect cursive writing, studying every single word. And like every night, as I scanned each page, I felt my heart break in two.
A lump rose to my throat, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
I inhaled deeply and skirted my fingers over the paper before folding it back up. I put it in the envelope and placed it back in its drawer. I got under the covers and turned out the lamp. The dark sky was visible through my open shutters, and I stared up at the bright stars beyond. The sound of the horses huffing and walking around the paddock met my ears, as did the whirring of the sprinklers watering the vines. As I closed my eyes, tiredness sneaking in, I found myself picturing a pair of large, kind brown eyes, and a soft, gentle laugh catching on the breeze.
Curiously, the image momentarily displaced the sinking-pit feeling in my stomach that had burrowed within me seven months ago, and made it easier for me to breathe.
*****
The sun had barely risen the next morning when I tackled the next row of vines. I had just filled three buckets when the sound of rustling leaves filled the two-second pause of the cassette player as it changed songs. Noticing a flicker of movement to my left, I looked up, only for the air to freeze in my lungs.
The duchessa appeared at the end of the row, wearing similar black fitness clothes to yesterday. Her lips curved into a smile as she gave me a small wave. I got to my feet, my heart thundering in my chest.
Why is she here? I thought as I dusted off my dirtied hands on the thighs of my jeans.
The duchessa approached, and the closer she got, the more I noticed a strange expression on her face. It appeared to be one of disbelief. Or perhaps awe or . . . I wasn’t sure.
“Hello again,” she said. She leaned in and ran her hand over the vines beside us. Her fingers padded along the leaves and grapes as though they were made of gold, as though they were most precious things in the world.
“Hello,” I replied, confusion at her presence thick in my voice. The duchessa smiled wider when she looked back at me, and I saw a faint blush light up her olive-skinned cheeks. Her brown eyes were bright, and strands of her dark brown hair had escaped her high bun. I liked it. It made her look less . . . regal. Less important.
I waited nervously as she rocked on her feet, her skintight fitness clothes showing off her slim but curvy figure.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m back,” she ventured. I brought my eyes back up to meet hers. Her gaze dipped under my attention, and she shook her head, a self-deprecating laugh escaping her full pink lips. It only served to confuse me even more.
“Are you okay, Duchessa?”
She straightened her shoulders. “It’s Caresa. Please call me Caresa, Achille. I hate being called ‘Duchessa.’ The title hasn’t truly existed for over a century anyway, not really.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say. The duchessa—no, Caresa—batted her hand in front of her face and took a deep breath. “You’re probably wondering why I’m back?” she repeated, her eyes fixed on my face as if trying to read it. I showed no emotion. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I was too busy staring at her pretty, flustered face. Her nervousness strangely brought a lightness to my chest.
I wondered why.
“You are lost again?”
She laughed softly. “No, I admit I’m not that good with directions, but thankfully I’m not so bad that I’d forget the path home after a day.” She rubbed her forehead, looking as if she was anxious about something. “Look, I’m terrible at getting my words out at times. But” —she stepped closer and searched my eyes— “You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Last night, when the housekeeper told me about this place . . .” She paused. “I didn’t realize this was it. That you were him.”
I looked around us; I had no idea who she thought I was. “I . . . I don’t understand,” I said, watching Caresa’s blush intensify.
“I haven’t been very clear, have I?” She covered her eyes with her hand in embarrassment. She lowered it again and said, “Achille, you are the maker of the Bella Collina Reserve merlot, yes?” It seemed as though she already knew the answer, but there was definitely a hint of a question in her tone.
“I . . .” I began and then stopped speaking. The king had always asked for my father’s and my discretion regarding our wine. He never wanted anyone to know about this small vineyard and the Marchesi family that produced it. But as Caresa’s open, expectant face froze, awaiting my response, I could not lie.
I . . . her face . . . she . . . she made me not want to lie.
“Yes,” I whispered, heart racing fast.
Her reaction was immediate. Caresa’s whole face lit up with an incredibly joyful smile. For a moment, I thought I was overcome with finally telling a virtual stranger about this vineyard, but as I stared at her dark features, feeling further and further drawn in by her impossible beauty, I knew that wasn’t it . . .
. . . it was . . . her.
She was exquisite.
She was lovely.
She was . . .
I turned away abruptly, desperate to escape her attention and my wayward thoughts. My heart was stuttering simply by being beside her. I wasn’t used to these feelings.
I wasn’t used to this kind of attention from anyone, period.
“I can’t believe it,” Caresa murmured from behind me. My shoulders stiffened. The next thing I knew she had walked around me. I reluctantly met her eyes with my own and was taken aback by the intensity of the fascination I saw there. “Achille,” she murmured. My name sounded like a prayer from her lips. “I can’t believe I’m actually here, with you.”
“Me? Why?”
She reared back, a furrow marring her brow. “My father is part-owner of these vineyards, and even he does not know who makes the Bella Collina Reserve. As the child of a wine distributor, specifically of the Bella Collina merlot, meeting you is . . .” She shook her head. Her gaze lowered, and then, shyly peeking up at me through her long lashes, she said, “Achille Marchesi, I have three loves in my life: psychology, horses and wine.” She shrugged, and the adorable action almost destroyed me. “Especially the Bella Collina merlot. There is nothing like it for me. It is, in one word . . . ” She paused, then proudly announced, “Perfection.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of reply that praise warranted.
Caresa waited for me to speak. When I did not react, she cast a long gaze around the vineyard. “I can’t believe I’m standing in the vineyard where the merlot is made, grown and nurtured.” She reached out to touch a bunch of grapes beside us. “You hand-harvest all of these?”
“Yes,” I replied, watching with assessing eyes as she delicately lifted the fruit in her hand. I wanted to see if she knew what she was doing. That question was answered when she said, “These are not ready yet, are they? I can tell by the color of their skin. They are not a deep enough red?” Her eager face looked to me for confirmation. I studied the grapes in question, then felt a small smile pull on my lips. “You are right.”
“I am?” she said breathlessly.
I nodded.
“Achille?” Caresa asked. “Do you do all this alone? The picking, crushing, fermenting, bottling . . . everything?”
A sudden stab of pain sliced through my chest. I cleared my throat and rasped, “I do now.”
Sympathy flooded her pretty face. She did not push me for a longer answer, for which I was thankful. The truth was, I had been on my own for the past two years. With his illness, Papa hadn’t been able to do much of anything except advise. He had been too ill to attempt manual labor, but he was always there beside me, instructing me, keeping me in check. I never realized how much I had relied on his advice until he was gone.
Life for me now was just so . . . silent.
“How can you be sure they are ready?” Caresa asked, pulling me back to the here and now. “The pressure to make such a sought-after wine must be so difficult to handle.”
I shrugged.
“It isn’t?” Her eyes were wide as she waited for my answer. Her black lashes were so long that they were like fans as she blinked, her cute nose twitching as a loose strand of hair tickled the tip.
I could scarcely look away.
“No.” I bent down and took a bunch of grapes from the bucket at my feet. I plucked off a single grape and held it out. “This is ready. I know this by the shape, the weight, the color, and by the taste.”
“How do you ‘just know?’” she inquired, studying the grape in my hand as if it were the world’s most unsolvable puzzle.
“Because these grapes are my life. My grandfather was the original winemaker of this vintage, then my father, and now me. I do not use machinery in any part of the process because everything I know is kept here.” I pointed to my heart, then to my head, then to my roughened hands. “There has not been a day in my life when I have not been out here with these vines, harvesting or producing the wine. It is all I have ever known. This vineyard . . . it is my home, in every sense of the word.”
Caresa’s smile came slowly to her mouth. And when it did, I was trapped in her pull, fascinated by the golden skin on her cheeks. “This is your heart’s passion. Your why in life,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
I thought of the happiness I found out here each day, knowing there was nothing else in the world I would rather be doing. In fact, without this vineyard in my life, I wasn’t sure what my purpose would be, how I would find peace and joy.
“Yes.”
“It’s why your wine is the best. Passion fused with knowledge always births greatness.”
A sudden warmth burst in my chest at her words. Your wine is the best . . .
“Thank you,” I said honestly. A heavy silence followed. I needed to get back to work, but I did not want to be rude by walking away. As I tried to make myself speak, to explain, I realized that I didn’t really want her to leave. Shock rippled through me. I lifted my hand and ran it through my hair.
“Achille?”
I dropped my hand to my side.
Caresa’s eyes went to the bucket of grapes at my feet, then back to me. “Could I . . . would it be possible, if I . . . helped?”
Taken aback, I clarified, “You want to help harvest the grapes?”
Caresa smiled and nodded. “I have always wanted to understand your wine. How it is made, the process.” She took a deep inhale. “I would be honored to see you work.”
I glanced down at my dirty hands and my even dirtier jeans. I allowed myself to look Caresa over. “You will not remain clean,” I warned. “It is messy work. It is hard work.”
“I know,” she replied. “When I lived in Parma when I was young, or when visiting for the summer, I helped in our family’s vineyard. I know the effort it entails.” I was surprised by the quiet hard edge to her voice. She was the aristocracy. I did not know many people of the upper class, but the ones I had met or seen were not the type of people to spend their days in the fields, working from sunup to sundown.
Caresa must have taken my silence for refusal. Her arms wrapped around her waist, and the flash of hurt on her face was almost my undoing. “It’s fine, really,” she said and forced a smile. “I understand. It is a sacred process, and a secretive one to boot.” She shook her head and moved past me. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
She made her way toward the end of the row of vines, and I found myself saying, “You are the duchessa. You are the lady of the house. This will soon be your land. You may do as you wish.”
Caresa stopped dead in her tracks. Her back tensed. Her shoulders stiffened, then dropped, and she looked back at me, her bright eyes dulled. “I would rather you agreed not because I am the future wife of the prince, but because I am a genuine lover of wine and utterly fascinated by you and your work.” My stomach rolled at the sound of the sadness in her gentle voice. She looked so small and fragile.
Then I remembered that she had not long arrived in Italy from America. Maybe she knew no one either.
I had no experience with this type of situation. I had upset her. I could see that. I never wanted to make anyone sad.
I averted my eyes to stare at the ground beneath my feet. “Then please stay.”
I heard Caresa’s quick inhale of breath. When I looked up she was watching me closely. I rocked on my feet. “I will show you. Not because of who you are, but because you want to know and love my wine.”
Caresa didn’t move for several seconds. As color filled her cheeks and a happy smile returned to her face, she walked back and stopped before me. “So where do we begin?”
Confused by the heady feeling of blood pumping fast around my body, I turned and dragged the bucket at my feet to the next section of vines. Caresa was instantly by my side. I bent down and leaned in to a bunch of grapes. As educated by my papa, I studied them, feeling their weight, gauging their color.
The feeling of her warm breath sent shivers down my spine, bringing goose bumps to my skin. My hands froze on the grapes as the warmth hit the back of my neck. I turned around; Caresa was very close, watching me over my shoulder, fascination clear in her expression. At my movement, her eyes fell from my hands on the grapes and collided with mine.
I didn’t move.
Nor did she.
We just stayed still, breathing in the same air.
A gentle breeze skated over her hair, blowing the loose strands across her face. The wind broke whatever spell had been cast on us. Caresa moved back. She pushed her hair from her eyes and, red-faced, apologized. “Sorry, I was trying to see what you were doing.”
I cleared my throat, ignoring the pulse slamming in my neck. “Checking the quality of the fruit,” I explained. Shifting to allow her closer, I pointed to the grapes. “Please, come closer.”
Caresa didn’t hesitate, taking only a second to crouch beside me, concentrating on my hands. The breeze blew over her hair again, and the scent of peach and vanilla filled the air.
“You are checking the coloring and weight?” Caresa asked, unaware that I was staring at her . . . that my heart was beating too fast. Her skin was flawless, so soft and pure. Her hair was dark and shiny like the finest Perugian chocolate.
Caresa turned to face me, and I immediately refocused on the grapes. “Yes.” I lifted the bunch in my fingers. “They must be heavy. It means they are full of juice and should hold the perfect amount of sweetness. The red skin must be deep in tone, with no patches of lighter flesh.”
Caresa nodded, drinking in my every word. A surge of something unrecognizable took hold of me as she listened, as she learned . . . as she shared in this with me. I pulled my hand back from the grapes. “Would you like to feel them?”
Caresa’s eyebrows rose, but she quickly nodded, eager to be taught. She placed her hand underneath them. “How should I do it? How will I know what I’m looking for?”
I was unsure how to explain it. I had to show her. I had to guide her.
Feeling my cheeks flood with heat, I brought my hand under hers and, with my palm and fingers, guided her to the grapes. I leaned in closer, so close that our cheeks were only a few centimeters apart. “Feel the heaviness in your fingers,” I instructed. “Allow your fingertips to press lightly into the flesh to test its fullness.” Caresa gently, and with an innate delicacy, did as I said.
“Like this?” she whispered, sotto voce, as if the very sound of our voices might disturb the grapes, currently so happy at home on the vine.
“Yes.” Guiding her hand further, I slipped my fingers to a single grape and, taking hold of one of her fingers, used it to rotate the grape in a circle to check the coloring. Caresa was as methodical and patient as the task required, extra-careful not to snap the precious fruit from its stem.
“It’s perfect,” she murmured and turned her face toward me. She blinked, once, twice. “It is, isn’t it? Perfect?”
“Yes,” I rasped, unsure if my reply was referring to the grape or to her.
Caresa’s breath hitched. “So it is ready to pick?”
Using the hand still on hers, I took the grape from its stem. “The last test is the taste.” I placed the single grape in the palm of her hand. Taking another grape for me, I brought it to my mouth and bit into its fleshy ripeness. The burst of intense sweetness immediately told me what I needed to know.
Caresa watched my every move, then as I tipped my head toward her in encouragement, she took the grape into her mouth. Her eyes widened when the taste hit her tongue. A light groan left her throat, and she momentarily closed her eyes. When she swallowed, she opened her eyes and whispered, “Achille . . . how do you make them taste like this?”
“What did you notice?” I asked, fascinated by her first experience with the process.
Her eyebrows pulled down in thought, her cheeks hollow as she examined the aftertaste in her mouth. “Extremely sweet. Juicy and soft,” she said. “Is that right?”
I felt a flutter of pride for her and could not help but smile. “Yes. This means these grapes are ready.”
A happy laugh slipped from her lips as she stared at the grapes. “I see now,” she said reverently. “I see why you do this by hand. Machines could not give you these moments, could they? They cannot measure what our senses are capable of telling us.” Her gaze met mine. “I truly see it, Achille.”
I nodded curtly, tearing my eyes from her elated face. I took the secateurs from the bucket. “Would you like to cut them?”
“Yes, please,” Caresa said. As before, she let me guide her hand with my own. My arm brushed hers as she took the grapes from the vine. Pulling back, I dragged the bucket near to where she crouched. As carefully as she had performed everything else, she laid the grapes down on top.
She exhaled deeply, then with fire in her deep brown eyes, asked, “And now we do it again?”
My lip hooked up into a smirk. “I must get through three rows by the end of today.”
“Then I can most certainly help with that,” she said, her voice laced with excitement.
I shuffled along to the next bunch, Caresa my eager shadow. And just as before, I talked her through every step. Ever the perfect student, she readily absorbed every word and every movement. As I watched her eat another grape, assessing the taste and texture, I couldn’t help but think that my father would have loved her. He wasn’t a complex man. He never understood why people complicated their lives. He loved me, had loved my mother and loved what he did. But as much as that, he loved these vines.
His heart would have swelled if he could have seen Caresa, the future mistress of this land, share so passionately in his life’s work.
“They’re ready,” Caresa said, pulling me from my musings. I took a grape from the same vine, just to make sure she was correct. As the intense flavor graced my palate, the sweetness levels at their peak, I turned to a silent, watching Caresa. “You are right.”
I sat back as Caresa cut down the bunch and placed it in the bucket. And for the next three hours, her smiles came frequently as she sorted the ripe grapes from their unripe neighbors.
With Pavarotti playing in the background courtesy of my father’s ancient cassette player, we completed the three rows ahead of schedule. And for the first time in seven months, I realized how much I enjoyed not doing the harvest alone.
It was . . . nice for someone to share in these moments.
And I liked Caresa’s smiles.
They were almost as sweet as the grapes.