Chapter Nine
Achille
Caresa had become a statue in my arms. I was racked with nerves as I bared my shame. My father had always told me that I wasn’t dumb, that my weakness in academics did not define me or how intelligent I was. But I was sure he had only said that to make me feel better.
I wasn’t like everyone else. The teachers, even the king, had made sure I knew that. He is not meant for academia, but instead for the fields, King Santo had said to my father.
I always found it strange that I could use my hands to make the wine, yet the minute I tried to hold a pencil or pen, my fingers would fail.
I couldn’t even write my name.
“When I . . . when I look at the words on a page, they never make sense. The lines blur and the letters jump around.” My breath caught in my throat. “My eyes don’t see what other people see when they read. My brain doesn’t function the same way as everyone else’s.” I laughed a humorless laugh. “I talk of Plato and Tolkien’s books, yet I haven’t managed more than a few pages in my entire life. My eyes get tired from trying to decipher each word, and I get so frustrated that I have to walk away.” I sighed, my stomach sinking. “Maybe I am just dumb after all. Maybe the teachers and King Santo were right—academia isn’t for me.”
Caresa’s head snapped up at my words. Her skin was still flushed from when we had made love. But her soft expression had changed into one so severe it took me by surprise. “They were wrong,” she said. “They were all so wrong it incenses me.” I blinked at her in surprise. Caresa shuffled from under my arms, flipped onto her stomach and rested her folded arms on my torso. “Achille, you are not dumb. One only has to be in your presence for a few minutes to see that you are one of the brightest, most talented people walking this earth.” She closed her eyes, calming herself down. I didn’t take my eyes off her, her compliment seeping down deep into my bones.
She opened her eyes. “I am not fully qualified. I have no official papers to diagnose you. But I think you are dyslexic and maybe dyspraxic. The two commonly go hand in hand.” Her eyes narrowed. “So let’s get one thing straight. You are not dumb. Your vocabulary is extensive, your understanding of any given topic is vast and sound. You are not dumb, Achille, and you are selling yourself short by allowing that falsehood to take root.”
“What is dys . . . dysle . . .” I shook my head, not able to remember the names.
“Dyslexia is when your brain struggles to make connections to words. It is not uncommon and can be aided tremendously with specialized, personal programs. Dyspraxia has many forms. It is when some of your motor skills are not as strong as others. It may be why you struggle holding a pen yet you are able to easily hold reins and make wine. There is no blueprint. Everyone is different. Some tasks you think will be difficult come easily; other simple tasks may feel like the most impossible thing in the world.”
“I find bottling the wine difficult too. Nothing else, but I struggle when it comes to bottling,” I admitted shyly. “The small pieces that are used in the process are hard for me to control.” Caresa nodded as if it made perfect sense. Nothing about this had ever made sense to me, yet she understood my problem in mere seconds.
“It is a case of crossed wires. Picture it as the brain’s usually clear path being blocked with fallen branches. We simply have to find another route, but that route can be found, no matter how hopeless it seems.” She gritted her teeth, looking so adorably fierce. “I will not allow you to think of yourself as unworthy or subpar. You are not. I won’t accept that, and you should not accept that of yourself either.”
She abruptly stopped. Not even my father had fought for me that hard. Caresa slid her hand into mine and linked our fingers together. She appeared fascinated at the joining. She squeezed them once, twice, then said, “Let me help you.”
I froze.
The offer terrified me. Caresa seemed somehow fooled by me; she thought I was something more than I truly was. I knew she had experience with this type of thing. But I didn’t want her to see me that way, stumbling through books and scribbling on paper like a toddler. I wanted her to remember me as she saw me now.
I didn’t want her pity.
I opened my mouth to tell her thank you, but that I would decline. She seemed to anticipate my answer and brought my fingers to her lips. She brushed kiss after soft kiss to each of my knuckles and whispered, “Please, Achille. Please let me do this for you. You have given me so much. Please . . . please let me at least try.”
I leaned my head back against the pillow and closed my eyes. I thought of my father sitting by the fire, reading to me. I would hang on his every word, wishing I could track my eyes over the page with the same ease as he did. Wishing I could be transported to far-off lands and other worlds, sitting by the fire, a glass of wine by my side.
I wished it didn’t have to be so hard.
“Why does it have to be so hard?” I asked, flinching in embarrassment when I realized I had spoken my wish aloud. My voice held a tremor, and my throat was dry.
“What?” Caresa asked softly.
I shrugged, thinking of the last few weeks I had with my father, watching him fade before my eyes, my hero leaving me day by day. Watching him stare each night at the picture of the mother I loved but never knew. And I thought of all those nights he had tried to help me read, but grew helpless and sad when nothing he did ever worked.
Until he tried no more.
Until I had tried no more.
“Everything,” I said quietly. “Everything just always seems . . . difficult. Nothing comes easily.” My gaze drifted to Caresa, bare and with me in my bed, and I immediately wanted to refute my claim. Everything with her was confusing, yet came easily at the same time.
But our situation was not easy. She was marrying the prince. She had only returned to Italy to marry into House Savona, to take her place as the next “queen” in the so-called royal succession.
Our situation was complex, yet I knew that falling in love with her would be the simplest thing in the world.
“Achille,” Caresa murmured. She reached up and ran her hand down my cheek. “Let me try and ease some of this for you. Please . . . I’m begging you to let me try. You can read and write, we just have to find a way through the fog.”
I looked out of the window, seeing the rainclouds beginning to move away. The stormy sky parted, allowing stray beams of moonlight to flood the vines. Stars started to appear in the dark heavens, flecks of silver in a velvet sea of black.
“Even after tonight, you should still come and ride Rosa.” I focused back on Caresa. “I see the passion on your face when you practice your dressage. It lights you up. It makes your heart content.” A dull ache formed in my chest at the thought of walking away from her, from this night. But it was worse when I thought of her losing the joy she gained from riding my father’s treasured Andalusian. Losing the smile on her beautiful face as she danced around the arena, free from worry.
“Okay,” she replied. I could tell by the roughness of her voice that I had taken her by surprise. It was a selfish offer too. Because I didn’t know how it happened so hard, so fast, but I couldn’t imagine a week going by without seeing Caresa, her finding me amongst the vines . . . the sound of her trotting around the arena as I crushed the grapes.
As hard as it would be, I could live without touching her again. I couldn’t live without occasionally bearing witness to her bright smile.
“And the winemaking?” she added. My eyebrows rose in surprise. A shy expression set on her face. “There is still a lot more of the process for me to observe. I . . . I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m rather passionate about your wine.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed, and as she laughed in return my heart jolted toward her just that little bit more. “I know,” I said, running my thumb over her bottom lip, trying to memorize exactly how she looked right then. “I know how much you adore my wine.”
“I don’t just adore your wine,” she whispered, and by the blush on her cheeks, I knew she hadn’t meant to say that.
She dropped her forehead to my stomach, then after a deep breath, lifted her eyes. “You are allowing me to ride your horse, allowing me to study the process of your award-wining wine. Please, Achille. Just give me a few weeks to try and help you with your reading and writing. Allow me the chance to show you that it is not a lost cause. Just . . . for me. Please, if not for yourself, do this for me.”
My pulse raced with nerves and discomfort. She would see all my flaws. She would see me completely exposed. But . . .
I resolved I would do it for her.
Caresa waited, breath held, for my response. With a defeated sigh, I nodded, giving her the answer she so badly wanted.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She crawled above me and pressed her lips against mine. The surprise act of affection caught me off guard, but not enough for me not to respond. My hand cupped the back of her head as the innocent kiss deepened with our escalating need.
Wanting to have her again, craving another moment of being joined so closely, I rolled her onto her back, crowding the space where she lay. Caresa broke from my mouth and looked into my eyes. “We can only have tonight.”
“I know.” I turned to look out of the window at the high moon, then back to her. “But the night is not yet over. The sun is still asleep.”
Caresa’s fingers brushed through my hair. “Then kiss me again.”
I did as she asked, exploring more of her than before. I kissed every patch of her skin, stroked every strand of her hair. This time it was slower. We savored each second, nothing rushed, everything unhurried.
But eventually sleep came calling for Caresa. It didn’t for me. I held her tightly to my chest, breathing in the peach and vanilla from her hair, the floral notes from her expensive perfume. I watched the unwanted sun begin to rise behind the distant green hills of Umbria and heard the birds bring their morning song. With every ray of light chasing shadows from my small bedroom, a little piece of me died.
I couldn’t stay here.
I couldn’t be here when she woke. I couldn’t see the flecks of gold in her eyes that I had never known were there before, nor the freckles peppering her cheeks that had grown more and more prominent with each day she spent with me in the fields under the sun.
But worse, I couldn’t hear her goodbye.
I would see her again of course, when this night had passed. When I didn’t have her scent on my skin and the fresh memory of what she felt like under me, in my bed, cradled in my arms.
As gently as I could, being careful to not rouse her from sleep, I laid her down on the mattress, pulling the comforter over her naked bronzed skin to stave off the morning chill.
I dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt then left her to sleep. I needed fresh air. I slipped on my boots and went outside. The minute the door was shut, I inhaled a much-needed deep breath. I tipped my head back, drinking in the dawn sky. Purples and pinks slashed through the fading black, the stars being forced to bed. I heard the distant sound of tractors already in the fields; the winemakers’ and farmers’ day had already begun. I shook out my hands and began the painstaking task of buttoning up my shirt and jeans—another simple task that never came easily to me.
Ten minutes later, I had tacked up Nico and made my way past the perimeter of my vineyard and out into the mass of the estate’s acres beyond. I rarely left the security of my home. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been out here. I was always out here as child, playing in the trees with my best friend, or fishing in the fully stocked man-made lake.
I arrived at the edge of another vineyard. I let my eyes drift over the already harvested vines. This was one of the mass-produced reds. I shook my head as I squeezed Nico into a steady trot. I couldn’t imagine being such a winemaker. Not being at one with the earth and the vines.
I could never be so distant or unappreciative of anything in my life.
That thought brought the image of the prince to mind. I hadn’t spoken to him in years. He hadn’t even come to my father’s funeral. Somewhere over the years he had changed from fun and kind to cold and stuck up. He looked down on everyone on this estate. He looked down on Umbria. He ignored the raw unkempt beauty of the region in favor of Tuscany’s pretty, perfectly landscaped views. The king had spent most of his days here. Zeno spent all of his days in Florence.
I knew nothing of the business side of Savona Wines. But I knew my wine was essential to the royal family’s wealth and status in the wine world. I was paid a small, living wage, though I rarely touched anything I earned. I knew it was nothing to the profits that the king, and now the prince, would be making from my blood, sweat and tears. But I cherished my home, my horses and my vines. Most of what I ate came from the land. I didn’t need much else.
At least the king would visit us twice a month, asking me to show him the work my father and I had been doing. He would sit with me and eat lunch while my father continued his work in the fields. He wouldn’t speak much, but I didn’t mind his company—he was cold in demeanor, standoffish, but not unkind. At least he cared about getting to know his employees and took an interest in the work we did on his land.
Prince Zeno couldn’t care less.
He didn’t deserve this place. Knew nothing of this rare jewel he now owned. My head convinced me I was referring to these sprawling vineyards, but my heart knew I referred to something—someone—else.
Because he didn’t deserve her either. I knew of his reputation. Even as a child he had been cocky and arrogant. He would never know Caresa’s worth. She would just be another shiny toy to add to his burgeoning pile.
The thought of her being treated this way almost caused me to scream out in frustration.
She deserved more.
She deserved someone who would love and cherish her . . . who would never be parted from her side . . . not even for a moment.
Needing to feel the rush of cool air on my face, I pushed Nico into a canter. We sped along the dirt track, kicking up the still-wet mud in our wake. We pushed on until we reached the end of the long track. I slowed him to a trot, and I saw we had arrived at the botanical gardens. Greenhouse after greenhouse stretched for the length of the land. Nico walked us past the nearest greenhouse, and I noted the rows and rows of rose bushes inside—full white flowers standing proudly on deep-green stems. These greenhouses provided fresh flowers for both the main house and for the Savona florist in Orvieto.
I scanned the area. There was no one in sight.
Acting on impulse, I dismounted Nico, tied him to a fence post and jumped over the fence. I rushed toward the greenhouse and slid back the glass door. The intense smell of the roses hit my nose like a tidal wave. There was a pair of shears on a wooden table; I took them and cut the fullest, purest white rose from a bush. I ducked back out of the greenhouse and scampered back to Nico like a thief in the dawn.
I tucked the rose in my shirt and cantered all the way back home. As I arrived, the sky was turning from purple and pink to blue. Fluffy white clouds chased away the remaining gray, promising a bright, warm day. I untacked Nico and let him and Rosa out into the paddock.
When I approached my cottage, I peered though my bedroom window. My chest tightened. Caresa was still lying in the spot where I had left her, her dark, now-wavy hair splayed out over the pillow, her chest gently rising up and down in sleep. I had never seen anything more beautiful.
I clutched the rose in my hand as I simply watched her sleep. Ordering my feet to move, I entered the cottage and padded silently into the bedroom. My hands shook as I sat on the edge of my bed, careful to not wake Caresa. She murmured in her sleep, the comforter slipping down to reveal her bare full breasts.
My cheeks blazed on seeing her body this way in the daylight. It reminded me that what had happened last night was real. We had kissed and explored and made love. She had smiled at me, cried for me, and let me hold her close.
As I placed the fragrant white rose on the pillow beside her, I wondered if she knew what she had done for me too. I wondered if she could tell that she had been my first. I wondered if she knew that I had never touched anyone the way I’d touched her. That what she had given me was more than I could ever have prayed for.
She had allowed the barriers around my heart to finally fall . . . just as quickly as I was falling for her.
Caresa moved her arm, her delicate fingers with their purple nails landing right beside the white petals of the flower. It was an appropriate symbol—white petals for my innocence, beside the hand that had taken it as its own.
I had to turn away when the stabbing pain in my stomach became too much. The rose was a pitiful token for the gift she had given me. But nothing I could give would ever be enough. She was a duchessa. I was just me—no titles, no money.
Just me.
A Marchesi would never be enough for an Acardi. It was a fool’s dream to even entertain such a thought.
I cast my head down, running my calloused hand over my face. My eyes fell on the drawer of my nightstand. Before I knew it, my hand was moving to the drawer. I opened it up, withdrawing its solitary occupant. My father’s letter sat heavily in my hands. And like I did once a day, I clumsily took it from the envelope and unfolded it.
The same wave of frustration and anger surged through me as my eyes tried in earnest to read the cursive script. And like every day, I could make out a few simple letters before they all became a jumbled mess of confusion on the page.
The letter shook along with my hands. I had no idea what my father had left me in this letter. Several months of wondering and guessing and praying for the ability to just hear from him again. He knew I couldn’t read yet he had left me a letter. I struggled to understand what he had been thinking. Why would he taunt me so?
My father was the kindest man I had ever known; there wasn’t a cruel bone in his body. Nothing about this made sense.
I averted my eyes from the letter, searching for some calm. My eyes fell on Caresa, sleeping. The sight was an instant balm to my anger. As I felt the sheets of paper between my finger and thumb, I wondered if I could get her to read it to me. I . . . trusted her. I knew she would do it if I asked.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
If my father needed to tell me something in a letter, I wanted it to be me who read it.
Then I thought of her offer. I thought of what she said could be wrong with me. That the wires in my head were simply crossed, my path blocked with fallen branches. That we could find a way to get around them, to help me see words and write them down—together.
“Okay,” I whispered, so quietly she didn’t even stir. “Okay, Caresa. I want you to show me the way.”
It was several minutes before I put the letter back in the envelope and forced myself to leave the sanctuary my bedroom had become. Falling back into my old routine, I went to my vines, with my cassette player and my grapes. And I did what I did best.
Only with Caresa’s scent still on my skin . . .
. . . and the memory of her lips against my own.
Knowing that, for a brief moment in time, we had been two halves of one whole.
*****
Two days came and went without a word from Caresa. Then on the third day, when I arrived in the barn to begin crushing the grapes from the final two rows of vines, I found her near the fire, a long table pulled close to its warmth, two seats tucked underneath.
A mobile whiteboard was standing in front of the table; pens, pencils and piles of paper were stacked upon the tabletop.
My blood cooled when I saw all the reading and writing supplies. Then it warmed when Caresa lifted her head, as beautiful as ever, if not more. Flashes of our night together instantly filled my mind. I idly wondered if she had liked the rose. When I had returned that night Caresa had gone. She had not come to say goodbye to me among the vines.
But the rose was no longer on the pillow.
I didn’t know why, but it made me feel ten feet tall.
“Achille,” Caresa called in greeting, her voice slightly breathless, her tanned skin rosy. She was casually dressed in jeans, brown heeled boots and a simple white blouse. Her hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, wisps of baby hair framing the edges of her face. It made her appear younger than twenty-three.
She must have seen me staring at her hair, because she lifted her hand and explained, “I thought today called for a power ponytail.” She laughed at her own joke.
I had no idea what a power ponytail was. Yet I smiled at the amusement she found in herself. I placed the bucket down near the crushing barrel, needing to tear my eyes from her face. I thought this moment would have been easier than it currently felt. I found myself wanting nothing more than to march over to where she stood and take her in my arms. I wanted her heartbeat pounding in tandem with my own, and her warm lips back on my mouth.
“Sorry I have not been here for the past couple of days,” she said. “I had to go to Rome. There is an American school there. It was the only place I could find what I needed. My old professor’s colleague is the principal, and he arranged for me to meet him.”
My back tensed as she spoke. I straightened and faced her. “You didn’t have to go to Rome to get these things. It’s not that important.”
Her expression fell. “It is that important, Achille. And no matter how many times you try to divert me from doing this with you, it won’t work.”
My shoulders sagged in defeat.
Caresa came closer until she was right before me. I had to clench my hands into fists at my sides to stop them from reaching for her. I could see the torment flickering on her face too, the understanding in her eyes when they fell to my tensed arms.
Neither of us said anything out loud. Both of us were trying to change poles on the magnetic draw that always pulsed whenever we were near one another. If possible, it was even stronger today. Now it had a taste for what we felt like joined, it refused to have things any other way.
It could never happen.
“You are nearly finished?” Caresa broke the silence first, stepping back to point at the bucket of grapes.
“It’s almost time for putting the fermented wines into the aging barrels.”
“I’m excited for that,” Caresa said and smiled. And it was a genuine smile. I could tell by the way two tiny lines creased at the corner of her eyes. “How is Rosa?”
“Missing you,” I blurted, the air between us thickening again. We both understood the subtext. I was missing her. I was missing her more than I’d imagined was possible, as if a hole caved in my heart a little bit more with each day she was gone.
Caresa lowered her head, and with such sadness in her voice, confessed, “I missed her too.”
She lifted her head. Her beautiful dark eyes caught my gaze and held it for a long moment.
“Moka?” I offered, walking to my coffee pot, desperate to put some space between us.
“Thank you.” Caresa moved to the table she had set up. When I came back, coffee in hand, she said, “I hope you can take a break now and we can start this.” Her pretty face was so hopeful.
It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I found myself agreeing. I wondered if she had any idea of the effect she had on me.
“Good,” she said excitedly. “Then maybe I can help you crush the grapes later tonight?”
My hand froze as my cup of coffee was just about at my lips. Memories of being in the barrel a few days before were suddenly all I could think about. “I’m . . .” I cleared my throat. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Caresa.”
Her face beamed with redness, and a nervous laugh escaped her lips. “No,” she sighed. “I suppose it’s not.”
She sat down and patted the chair beside her. I sat warily, my eyes raking over the sheets of paper she had brought. I stared at the pens and pencils, and the strange rubber casings placed over them.
“They are tripod grips. They’re designed to help your grip when you write,” Caresa explained. I tensed, realizing she must have been watching me closely. She picked up a pencil and held it in her hand—just like all the kids at school had done with ease.
It was pathetic really, but I envied her. I envied anyone who took these small, simple things for granted. “I got these from Rome. They help your fingers find greater purchase on a pencil or pen. We can assess whether you are showing signs of dyspraxia. If you are, these will help.” She offered the pencil to me. As she did, I saw her eyes focus on the way I was holding my cup. My fingers were not on the handle as they should be; instead I was grabbing the small ceramic cup with my whole hand.
Clumsily.
As if to highlight how hard holding this tiny cup was for me, my fingers slipped from its sides and it crashed to the ground. It shattered into pieces on the concrete floor, splashing the last few drops of my coffee under the table.
I jumped from my seat, the chair legs scraping loudly on the floor. My heart slammed against my ribs in embarrassment. I turned on my heel, trying to get away, only to stumble over the chair that I had pushed behind me.
“Achille!” Caresa called out as I righted myself and rushed out of the barn. My chest was so tight I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. The hit of fresh air helped. I hated being inside. I didn’t like to be cooped up.
I didn’t like trying to fool myself that the things Caresa had brought would do a jot of good.
“Achille.” Caresa’s breathless voice sounded softly from behind me. My hands were balled at my sides as I tried to calm myself down. Without looking back at her, I said, “I . . . I don’t think I can do this.” My voice cut out when my throat became too clogged to speak through. I swallowed, trying to push the suffocating lump away. “It’s hopeless, Caresa,” I whispered. “Just . . . let it be. I’ve got by this far. I’m . . . fine.”
A strong gust of wind whipped around me. The days were cooling rapidly now, the autumn weather closing in. I took the shirt from around my waist and put it on, fighting to snap the fasteners down the front. It was always a challenge, but my hands were shaking more than usual, making the task damn near impossible. When the shaking became too much for me to contend with, I just let the shirt remain open, the cool breeze biting at my torso.
Light footsteps sounded from behind me, and Caresa moved into my peripheral vision. I still didn’t look at her. I couldn’t . . . I was . . . I was humiliated.
But she didn’t let me withdraw. She moved into my line of sight, strong and brazen. When she laid her hand on my chest, I couldn’t help but look down. Her eyes were focused on the fasteners as her slim, unhurried fingers fastened them. When she had closed the last one, her long lashes fluttered, and she finally met my eyes. Her hand was still pressed against my flannel shirt, right over my heart.
“Achille Marchesi, I think this is the first time since we met that I’ve seen you wear something on your torso.” My stomach was tight, mortification still ran thickly in my blood, yet, at her light teasing, I found myself smiling. It wasn’t much of a smile but, for a moment, she had chased away my pain.
A teasing expression played on her face, before it fell as she said, “You don’t wear a shirt much because of the buttons, do you?”
All the fight left my body. “I have many shirts that have no buttons, that are easy to put on. But over the years I found myself unable to give in. I gave up trying to write, gave up trying to read. My father always wore these shirts. And I don’t know why, but I was damned well going to wear them too. I always get there in the end. I buy the snap fasteners to make things easier for me.”
“Normal buttons are too challenging?”
I nodded curtly.
“Your jeans have that fastener too,” she stated. “Unusual on jeans. I thought so the other night.”
I sighed. “Eliza . . . she modifies them for me. Has done since I was young. She and her husband, Sebastian, know that I have . . . limitations.”
Caresa stepped closer. I wanted to kiss her forehead. I wanted to be the person who was allowed to freely kiss her lips and confide in her my greatest fears. But I wasn’t, so I remained stock still.
A heavy silence stretched between us. I broke it by saying, “I am a hopeless case, Caresa. Ride Rosa, help me with the wine, but let this go. I have. I have come to terms with the fact that some things in life I simply cannot, and will not, do.”
“No,” she argued, a hint of fire in her hardening voice. “Don’t give up, Achille. I know it is scary, facing something that has burdened you for so long. I don’t know who encouraged you to stop trying, but you can do this. You just have to trust me.” Caresa took one more step closer until she was pressed against me. I closed my eyes at the feel of her warmth, at her peach scent filling my nose. “Do you trust me, Achille?”
I heard the nervous tremor in her voice.
I realized she wanted me to trust her.
She was worried that I did not.
“Yes.” I spoke honestly. “I trust you.”
I opened my eyes and saw relief and then happiness flood Caresa’s beautiful face. Her hands ran down my chest until they fell from my body. But before I could miss her touch, her hand wrapped around mine.
“Come back to the barn. Trust that I can help.”
I stared at her delicate fingers, so slim and soft, caged by my large rough ones. “I’m so embarrassed,” I confided, feeling my pride take the heavy hit of this confession. “You’re going to think I’m stupid.”
Caresa’s hand squeezed mine tighter. “Achille, seeing you face a demon that has held you in its grip since childhood will not make me think you are stupid. In fact, quite the opposite. Taking this on, accepting a challenge as great as this will be—it is the single most impressive thing you could do. You are a magician when it comes to your wine, a master; anyone can see that. But do me a favor. Just . . . just close your eyes.”
I was puzzled, but did as she asked. “Picture yourself in your barn when the labels for next year’s vintage arrive. Picture yourself reading the beautiful script, proudly reading Bella Collina Reserve. Imagine the moment you see the words that will announce to the world that this is your wine.” I could see it. I could see it so vividly in my mind’s eye that I almost believed it was real. And I felt the rush of happiness it brought, to actually be able to read the words for myself.
“Now imagine being in your cottage, beside the fire.” She stopped. I wondered why. Then she spoke again, and I knew. “Imagine having your wife by your side, lying in front of the fire, her head nestled in your lap. Imagine you are reading to her in the firelight, the wood crackling in the hearth and the smell of the burning oak filling the room. You are stroking her hair as you read her your favorite story. And she has her eyes closed, cherishing the moment, knowing she is the happiest woman on earth.”
“Plato,” I said, my voice graveled and torn. “I am reading from Plato’s Symposium, about split-aparts and completed souls.”
Caresa was silent, completely silent, yet my mind was alive with thought. Because in my vision, the one she was painting so perfectly, there could only be one woman listening to me speak. She had dark hair and dark eyes and the kindest, purest soul. It was her. Caresa, as my wife, lying with me by the crackling fire, listening to Plato, my hand running through her hair.
My missing half.
Caresa’s breathing hitched. Just as I went to open my eyes, she instructed, “Then imagine your child, a little boy, just like you. You are reading him Tolkien, as your father had done with you. Imagine how full with life and pride and joy you feel. Because you have overcome your reading challenges for him, and for her—whomever she may be.”
Caresa’s voice cut out. I opened my eyes, and her eyes were glassy. “I see it so clearly,” I said. “I see them both so clearly.” I left out that it was her I could see, and the boy made by us.
“Good,” she said in a faltering voice. “Then hold on to that image. When you feel like giving up, let the image of this future give you the strength to keep going. Because it is possible, Achille. Everyone deserves the chance to read and write. Especially you.”
My head fell forward. I couldn’t take looking at her any longer. I was afraid that I might kiss her lips if I did.
“Come back inside,” Caresa said. “Let me assess where we are, then let me begin to help.” I blew out a long breath of air, but nodded, allowing Caresa to lead me back into the barn.
She did not let go of my hand until we were seated at the table. She picked up the pen again and held it out for me to take. With my heart beating wildly and sweat coating my palm, I took it in my hand. I concentrated on holding it correctly. Caresa shifted my fingers until they were in the correct position. A jolt of surprise ran through me when the pen didn’t slip. When, helped by the rubber casing Caresa had put on, the pen stayed in my hand. It didn’t exactly feel right. But it didn’t exactly feel wrong either.
“Does that help?” she asked cautiously.
I blinked; my vision had suddenly become blurry. “Yes,” I said, moving my wrist, feeling the added grip of the pen between my fingers.
“Good!” Caresa exclaimed. She took the pen from my hand and placed it on the table. Next she placed a piece of paper in front of me. I could see the words written on it.
Caresa inched closer. “Try and read the first word for me.”
I glanced away, hating that the written word made me feel this way. A warm comforting hand covered mine, chasing away some of my nerves. I pulled myself together and turned back to the page. I ran my eyes over the first word. I could see the first letter was a V, but I struggled with the second. Within moments my eyes were straining. I sat back from the table and ran my hand down my face. “I can see the letters, but I don’t understand how the word sounds. I can’t hear it in my head. Without hearing it, I don’t understand it.” I looked at Caresa, who was listening attentively. “Does that make any sense?”
“Completely,” she said. “But we can help with that. We can use the multi-sensory approach.” She edged closer. “People with dyslexia often obtain a greater grasp of the words by using three things.” Caresa lifted her hand, and I swallowed when she touched her index finger to my eyelid. “Seeing the word.” She moved her hand to my mouth, and my blood rushed faster through my veins. “Saying the word aloud.” Finally, she brushed her hand past my ear, and shivers broke out across my skin. “And hearing the word repeated back.”
She drew back her hand and took different colored pens to the page. She ran a red pen over two letters. “We can also color-code the vowels and the letters that give the word its sound. We can help you phonetically. We can help you identify the syllables. You will eventually understand the words by sounding them out in your head.”
“Really?” I asked doubtfully.
Caresa pushed the paper back before me. I ran my eyes over the letters: V I N O. I didn’t quite know what it said, but the different colors helped me make out the different letters.
“Can you decipher the letters?” Caresa asked. I told her what they were, using my finger as a guide on the paper.
Caresa’s responding smile was wide and bright and free. “Achille,” she whispered. “You are not illiterate. You understand letters. You can read letters.”
“I attended school until I was thirteen, before the king suggested I be pulled out.”
Caresa’s face became a mass of confusion. “The king encouraged you to leave school?”
“Yes. The teachers said I needed more help than they could give me—the school wasn’t equipped. It was a small village school. My father asked the king for help as we didn’t have the money to afford specialized treatment on our own. The king sided with some of the teachers who agreed I was just slow. He thought it better that I followed in my father’s footsteps and poured myself into learning the craft of winemaking, especially the merlot. He promised my father that he would get me tutors to help me along as I worked. But it never happened. By the time my father had had enough and demanded the king make good on his promise, too much time had passed.
“If I had gone back into the mainstream school, I would have been two or more years behind, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of that. I fought with my father over it. It was the only time we had ever fought. In the end, he agreed to school me at home. He tried, but in the end, my issues were beyond his grasp. He had a vineyard to run, and time just slipped away. I never knew why the king did what he did. It was as though he wanted me kept out of sight. Eventually, my father and I got used to my lack of academic abilities. I threw myself completely into winemaking, and a few years later I became the head winemaker. At age sixteen I made my very own vintage. I did it all myself; my father simply looked on.”
“2008,” Caresa murmured, that same hint of awe in her voice that she’d had the first day we met.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“That year is historic for the Savona Bella Collina merlot. It is the year the wine became better than ever before. Achille, the 2008 vintage is the most expensive bottle of merlot in the world.”
“It is?” I said in surprise, not daring to believe it was the truth.
“How can you not know this?” she asked in amazement.
“Because that part of the process doesn’t interest me. For me it is about the making and aging of the wine, not the price.”
A loving expression blossomed on Caresa’s face. “I know,” she said quietly. “Then you don’t know that the winner of the International Wine Awards will be announced at three p.m. on the day of Bella Collina’s grape-crushing festival. You may well win again. You have not lost in years.”
“The king has always accepted the acclaim.” I laughed to myself. “I have never even seen the awards. King Santo always kept them to display over in the main estate.”
“Achille, that is awful.” Caresa was appalled, and I didn’t think she even noticed that she had once again put her hand in mine.
“I don’t mind. I don’t like being the center of attention. King Santo was good at it. Prince Zeno will be no different. If we win, he will take the praise and the award. And I’ll be content with knowing that I have produced the best wine possible. I am happy with my quiet life, Caresa. I am not born for balls and parties, crowds and big affairs. In fact, I couldn’t think of anything worse.”
I didn’t mean to upset her. But I knew I had when Caresa turned her head and pointed back to the word on the page.
“Caresa?” I asked, wanting to know what I had done wrong.
She batted her hand in front of her face and threw on a smile. It was fake. I could see it was fake. I wondered if this was the polished face of the Duchessa di Parma I was witnessing.
I decided right then that if it was, I preferred my Caresa.
Caresa’s gaze drifted out of the barn doors, then back to the sheets of paper on the table. “Let’s get on with this. I don’t want you to have to sacrifice too much time with your beloved wine.”
Minutes later, and after a long process of sounding out which letters made which sounds, I smiled. “Vino. The word is vino.”
“The most authentic learning comes when there is a connection between the student and the subject. This way, the words are familiar to you and will therefore help you better understand the rules of spelling and sounds. You are every inch a winemaker, down to your very soul. It made sense to me that we should use these familiar words.”
My chest constricted at just how much thought and energy Caresa had put into this task. A task she got nothing from.
“Thank you,” I said, knowing these two words were inadequate to describe the depth of my gratitude.
Caresa passed me another sheet and the pen from before. Two hours later, I had completed a worksheet where I had to trace out the shape of letters. We had gone through eleven words on the reading sheet, and I was now the proud owner of an iPod.
“It is filled with audio books so at night you can read along with the actual books.” Caresa had brought me a stack of books that she wanted me to try and read a sentence or two from each night. The audio book would read along with me so I could see and hear the words. Afterwards, I would sound them out—eyes, lips and ears. “It has voice control so you can ask for the book rather than have to find it by the written title. I have put them in the same order as the books so you won’t accidentally read the wrong one.”
The iPod, she told me, also had on it every opera and concerto piece that I could imagine. She told me it would be easier to listen to in the fields than the old cassette player.
Over a week later, after days and days of intense schooling, she brought her laptop and uploaded some more music. As Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony played through the portable speaker she had brought, she turned to me. “Have you ever heard this symphony by Beethoven before?”
“Yes,” I said, listening to the vaguely familiar music.
“Do you know that this symphony is regarded as Beethoven’s best?” I shook my head. Caresa sat beside me as we listened to the dancing strings. “I wanted to share this with you.” She nudged me affectionately. “I know how much you love opera, but I have never heard you play music outside of the Italian greats.” She winked at me. “Some people might think you show a strong bias to our fellow countrymen.”
I huffed a laugh. “Some people may be right.”
Caresa giggled, the sweet sound filling both the room and my veins. “When I was researching more techniques for us to try, I suddenly remembered Beethoven.” She nodded toward the speaker. “Beethoven wrote nine symphonies. This one is the most complex, the most celebrated and the most famous. It was the standout work of his life.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed.
Caresa turned to face me. “Beethoven lost his hearing, Achille. One of the world’s greatest composers lost his hearing. A composer, a man who wrote music, listened to music, lived for music, lost the very sense essential to his work.”
“That’s awful,” I said, shaking my head in sympathy.
“No,” Caresa said forcefully. “In the end, it was arguably his greatest blessing. Achille, he wrote this symphony when he was deaf. His greatest masterpiece was produced without the ability to hear sound. Don’t you see?” I waited with bated breath for her to continue. “What challenges us, what should break us, can in the end be our greatest blessing. Because our failures can make us great. Our most basic of human adversities can inspire within us an almost superhuman strength. Our weaknesses are simply our untested wings waiting to be flown.”
In the week that followed, with every new sentence learned and new word written down, I listened to the symphony, allowing Caresa’s words to circle my mind.
One night, as I tried to read by the fire, with Beethoven playing in the background, I realized that what and how Caresa was teaching me was working. I let myself imagine the future Caresa had helped me to visualize that day outside the barn.
And I knew that she was right. My wings were simply untested, but each and every day, they were readying themselves for flight just that little bit more.
To fly toward Caresa, the woman who was rapidly becoming my sun . . .
. . . to Caresa, the woman who was lighting my way from the dark.