“It’s just a little bit of everything, isn’t it?”

Nicole doesn’t answer, and she may not have heard me, but I’m just enjoying watching her shake her head in mild disbelief.

She watches the scenery roll by through the tinted limousine window. I don’t know if Nicole’s shaking her head at the flawless weather, the empty roads, or just how goddamn gorgeous the rolling, green hills are out of Venice.

“What was that?” she asks quietly, still staring out the window.

“The blue skies, the green hills, Italy in the spring—it’s all just too much, isn’t it?”

Nicole shrugs without looking away from the window. It’s the best response I could’ve hoped for.

“I never imagined in Europe…”

My heart starts its ridiculous, overexcited thumping in my chest again when Nicole turns away from the window and toward me.

When she nudges her sunglasses up slightly, my whole central nervous system seems to start firing itself up to a dangerous degree.

I raise a brow at her and grin. “You never imagined that even in Europe, things could be so amazing?”

“Finishing each other’s sentences now, are we?”

“Was that not the thought you were about to finish, my wife?”

“I’m afraid not, my husband. I was just thinking that, in Europe, riding in a vehicle this size would be rare. I figured it’s mostly Smart cars and shit and fancy high-speed trains and such.”

Although the traces of a smirk are belying the dead-serious tone of her voice, I can’t help answering my new bride with a matching degree of faux-seriousness.

“You’re here for your wedding. You should expect—no, demand the largest tank of a limo available at all times, no matter how short the trip.”

“Why, because it’s the American way?”

“Maybe coincidentally, but more than that, it’s the married way! At least the newly wedded way of approaching transport.”

Nicole’s smirk has grown to a half-amused, sardonic smile by the time her head turns lazily back towards the window.

“Italy wouldn’t be this beautiful if everyone who came here to be romantic had that attitude.”

Nicole perks up a bit as the limo makes a slow, careful turn onto the long driveway towards the winery.

“I bet the grapes benefit from the cleaner air anyway,” she continues.

My smile is already there to greet hers when she turns back to me.

A shared sense of ridiculousness—that’s one thing we seem to have going for us, at any fucking rate.

It makes sense, because this is a ridiculous situation we’re in. But, as ridiculous situations go, I am sure enjoying this one.

And Nicole is, too—or she seems to be at least.

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t we have the driver let us out here so we can walk the rest of the way?”

“Yes. Why don’t we, husband?”

“It’s a private tour, anyway. They can wait a couple of extra minutes. I’ll make it worth the guide’s time,” I mutter while engaging the intercom to the driver. “Mi scusi, signore—”

I don’t need to continue, because the chauffeur gently presses the brakes before I let out another word. It can be said that any experienced limo driver worth his salt is familiar with every nuance of the newlywed dynamic, and the tone of my voice probably told him to stop before my words had the chance.

“I guess he speaks Italian,” Nicole quips.

“All I said was ‘Excuse me’. Sometimes, that’s all you need, I guess.”

“Sometimes, all I need is some Prosecco fresh from the maturation barrels.”

“Hey, you speak the language! Sort of.”

“What does ‘sort of’ mean?” Nicole asks half-angrily as the chauffeur opens the rear door. She slips out onto the gravel before I can answer.

Obviously, I answer anyway.

“Usually, they’re just called oak barrels—but, I like ‘maturation barrels’ better.”

“Mm, I bet you do.”

Nicole’s getting way ahead of me already, not even bothering to look back. Maybe she really is annoyed, or maybe she can’t resist the allure of that sweet, light, deceptively simple—or is it deceptively complex?—blend of citrusy, almost tropical flavors straight from the maturity barrels, as she delightfully calls them.

I jog a few feet along the gravel to catch up with her.

“You’re as excited for the tour as I am, it would seem,” Nicole comments, popping the moment’s little balloon of tension with her pinprick of a joke.

“I knew it! You’re really in Italy for the wine. Admit it.”

“You’ve got me, Dante. It’s too bad I didn’t learn what a liquor store is until my plane ride over. My face was red, I can tell you.”

“This’ll be better than what you can get in any liquor…Hey, Giorgio!”

The owner of the winery is a bit of a legend with anyone who’s traveled to this area more than a couple of times, for nothing more than being such an abnormally fucking warm and friendly presence.

Like now, Giorgio comes out to greet us well before we arrive at the reception area or inside at all.

“Ah, Signore Walsh! I had a feeling when I heard a party of two...well, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy the tour! It’s as private as can be.”

There are certain things that you witness only once in a lifetime. Things that logically seem like they must be outright fucking impossible.

But when you do see them—during that once-in-a-lifetime moment—it seems so real that you won’t even fucking dare question it.

Even as the days go by and you remember that one crazy moment, you ask yourself if it was real at all, and you try to tell yourself that you must’ve imagined it—maybe because you’re in another part of the world and still a bit jet lagged or at least feeling sort of swampy— but you know that’s bullshit because you feel fucking great, and you still saw it with your own eyes.

This must be the place for one of these moments now, because I swear on all the Prosecco in northeast Italy that Giorgio just waved at us before simply vanishing in front of our eyes.

It’s even more real because I have a witness with me—my wife, technically—and who better than her to corroborate what I just saw?

“That was Giorgio, but he just vanished. You saw that, right?”

“He just walked back into that little house down there. He was quick, though.”

“Oh. Because, I swear...”

“We’re still getting a tour, right? Or at least some wine?”

“I can provide both—I guess that’s what Giorgio meant by ‘private.’”

“Che bello! I learned that one on the plane for real. Come on, less talking, more heading down to where the wine and grapes and stuff are.”

I had no plans to be a tour guide today, or ever, but I’m suddenly so enlivened by the idea of showing Nicole around I start walking fast toward the vineyard before I even realize what I’m doing.

“If it’s grapes you want, they’re all around here. Beautiful Glera grapes as far as the eye can see.”

This time, Nicole actually runs a few feet to catch up with me.

“Alright, alright. I’ll look at some grapes already—but I don’t want to consume any until they’ve been properly fermented.”

“In maturation barrels.”

The side of Nicole’s hand whacks my forearm with some force. I still barely feel it through my shirt, but I grab my forearm dramatically.

“Hey! Ow! Don’t you realize that I love that you call them that?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever realize that.”

“Oof. This might be a long marriage—not that I’m complaining.”

“Signor Walsh!”

Like an expert illusionist, Giorgio is now standing behind a wooden table at the side of the path—with an open bottle and a couple glasses already poured.

“Giorgio! I thought you vanished.”

“Never, signor. I just do not believe in keeping my clients waiting.”

“We don’t mind waiting a little, just so you know,” Nicole says with a smile. “You ran back to that house like you had to put out a fire or something.”

“I do believe in providing as much privacy as I can, signora. Especially in these most romantic and bella of surroundings.”

Nicole’s eyes fall slightly to the gravel, and an obvious blush fills her cheeks.

“That’s not a problem for us, uh, Giorgio, and besides, we’re in public.”

“Please forgive Giorgio’s florid language, Nic.”

“Oh, please pardon me, signora. I still get carried away in these most auspicious of environs.”

“First of all, Giorgio,” Nicole begins, already picking up a glass as she speaks, “your English skills beat the crap out of many native speakers I know back home. Second of all…”

Nicole’s speech is interrupted by a charmingly large swig of wine, worthy of a long-distance bicyclist hydrating from a water bottle.

“Slow down, Nic. You need to appreciate the subtle flavors, the undertones, the mouthfeel…”

“With all due respect, Signor Walsh,” Giorgio interrupts, “I believe that is a load of, how should I say, absolute horse shit.”

Nicole comes close to spitting out her next swig when she hears this.

“So, you don’t want people to appreciate all your hard work, Giorgio?” I ask. “I mean, the painstaking, endless process that goes into each bottle…”

“I think the young lady is appreciating the wine as much as anyone I’ve ever seen. Those people who swish the wine around, analyzing it, only to spit it out afterwards, those are the people who turn my hard work into a waste. Now, what was that second thing you were about to say, signora?”

“Oh, I was just saying that I’ve never toured a winery before, and I’d never imagined it would be like this, I guess. But I’m loving it. So, if we could try a couple more glasses for the road, you are forgiven for whatever the hell you all thought I was mad about.”

Nicole starts on the remains of her glass, and I think Giorgio tries to offer me one, but I’m too beguiled by this incredible woman to even fucking notice.

What I do notice, however, is a sudden sadness that seems to take over Nicole after she finishes the last sip.

“Do not despair, signora. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“I’ll buy you all the fucking Prosecco in Italy if you want, Nicole.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t know. Maybe I’m ready to head back into town now. Thanks a million, Giorgio.”

Nicole places the glass gently back on the table.

“Whatever you want, Nic,” I say.

She sighs deeply. I don’t know why her mood just seemed to drop like a fucking bowling ball from a balcony, but as we walk back towards the limo, all I want to do is lift her spirits back up.

If only I knew how.

Such things used to come so naturally to me, but they suddenly start getting harder when I start caring this much.