by Amanda Usen
He kissed her cheek before he rose and strode toward the vineyard. His passion for the vines reminded her of the way Marlene talked about Chameleon. Olivia sat up straight in her chair, lifting her face to the evening breeze. She inhaled deeply, smelling grass and the faintest hint of growing grapes in the air. Her espresso was cold, but she bolted it, licking the bitter brew from her lips. Cooking smells wafted across the patio. Wonder stirred inside her as she realized that for the first time in a very long time, the smell of food didn’t make her feel tired.
***
Sean picked up the phone next to his bed and dialed for the operator, glad he could still access the contacts in his cell phone. When an operator came on the line, he recited Russo’s number and waited for the call to go through.
“Mr. Russo, this is Sean Kindred,” he said when Russo picked up.
“Why haven’t you been answering your cell phone?” Russo sounded harried, as usual.
“No signal. I’m getting another phone tomorrow, and I’ll text you the number as soon as I can. Do you have any information for me?” He hoped to keep this conversation brief.
“Marilyn is in Padua. At the Hotel Loggia Antica. Five hundred bucks a night.”
Sean stifled a smile. Mrs. Russo knew just how to push her husband’s buttons. “I’ll Google it. Maybe I can catch her tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight?’
“Jet-lagged. Why don’t you send any new messages or pictures to my email? I’m sure I can find a computer around here somewhere.”
“I’ll do that. Let me know as soon as you have news.” Russo hung up.
Sean replaced the phone on the table and left his room. As he descended the stairs, he admired the family photographs that lined the stairwell. He paused to take a look at a photograph of a hawk-faced boy picking grapes, wondering if that was Olivia’s grandfather. The sun-dappled vineyard seemed to stretch for miles alongside him. There was so much peace and contentment in the photo that Sean stared at it for a long time before he continued down the stairs and out the front door, turning left to loop around the side of the villa. He could just see the roof of the building he had spotted from his bedroom window, so he continued along the path until he reached stone steps cut into the hillside.
The air was warm and smelled sweet. The lush green grass and tall evergreen trees glowed beneath the late afternoon sun. The cloudless blue sky looked full of promise. He checked his cell phone again, as if it would suddenly, magically, get a signal. So much for international roaming. He followed the steps down the escarpment until he reached the front porch of the building set in the hill. Business hours were chalked on a sign out front, so he assumed he didn’t need to knock. A bell tinkled as he opened the door. He stepped inside.
The room was empty.
“Hello?” Silence.
He shut the door and looked around the long, narrow room. The walls held racks of wine bottles. Colorful displays featured all manners of corkscrews, diffusers, decanters, chillers, and everything relating to the enjoyment of wine. A wine list was chalked on the wall behind a small bar that showcased more beautiful rose-colored marble. Padded wooden stools sat at the bar and the atmosphere invited him to take a seat and choose a sample, although there was no one behind the bar to serve him.
He spotted a door at the back of the room and moved toward it. From the outside, the structure looked larger than could be explained by this shallow room. There must be more to see.
He knocked once before he turned the knob. Cautiously, he poked his head through the doorway. Still no sign of life, except for a quiet whooshing noise. He stepped into a narrow, dim hallway and peered into the first open door on his left.
It looked like a laboratory. Beakers, pipettes, and test tubes were scattered over the long counter. Cabinets lined the wall above the workstation. At the back of the room, racks held unfamiliar equipment. To his right, cardboard boxes were stacked to the ceiling and a basket held labels and packing tape. This must be where the wine was tested and later shipped.
He continued down the hall. The next room held a computer, a desk, a bank of filing cabinets, and a couple of chairs. Perhaps he could find someone to let him use the computer to check his email. He found two more doors at the end of the hall. The one at the very end was locked. He turned to the right and cautiously stepped into the last room.
A muffled sob broke the silence and he froze, halfway into the small kitchen. A dark-haired woman sat on a small stool next to an industrial-sized dishwasher. Her head was down.
The door whooshed shut behind him.
She looked up and gasped.
“I’m sorry.” He offered a small smile of contrition. “I didn’t see anyone out front, so I…”
She hurriedly wiped her eyes and ran her hands through her dark, curly hair. “I wasn’t expected any visitors today! I’m so sorry. I came back here to wash glasses.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m not really a visitor. I came with Olivia Marconi.”
She wiped her hands on a towel and rose, smiling. “I’m Olivia’s cousin, Giovanna.”
“Sean Kindred.” He took her hand.
“Ah—the American. Zia Anna Maria mentioned you already.” She chuckled.
“That can’t be good. I didn’t get the impression she liked me very much.”
Giovanna’s grin got wider and her dark eyes flashed with humor. “She’s basically harmless.” She pulled the handle of the dishwasher up and eased a steaming rack out of its middle. She slid a new rack into place and pulled the handle down to start the cycle again. “Come on, it’s happy hour. Isn’t that what you call it in America? In Verona, every hour is happy.”
“I could tell that by your tears.” He hoped she wouldn’t take offense at his gentle teasing, and he was glad when she laughed and led him back down the hall to the tasting room.
She gestured toward the stools at the marble counter as she walked behind it. “Have a seat.” She reached for two glasses, grabbing a bottle from the line up on the bar. “This one always cheers me up. High alcohol content.”
The red wine swirled into the glasses. When she was finished pouring, she set the bottle down and raised her glass.
“Salute!”
He took a sip. It was full-bodied in the way he expected a red wine to be, but it didn’t turn his cheeks inside out or suck all the moisture from his mouth. “What am I drinking?”
“Valpolicella, naturally. The lifeblood of Verona.”
He tilted his head to the side, deciding that alcohol and jet lag made an interesting combination. He tried to count how many hours he’d been up, failed, and took another sip of wine. “I like it.”
She nodded. “I’ve been all over the world and never found a wine I love more than this one.”
“All over the world? I’ve barely been out of New York.”
“New York is nice. I spent summers with the Marconis in Norton until I was thirteen. Then I went to boarding school. After that, University and beauty school. Lately, I’ve been traveling, but I’m broke. And tired. Getting old I guess. Anyway, I decided to come home and help Zia and find a nice Italian husband.” She made a face. “So far it’s not going as planned, but I think that’s because I’m only attracted to wicked men.”
Hence the tears, he supposed.
He picked up the bottle and poured more wine in her glass. “Salute,” he said and she laughed. “I thought Verona was full of romance and happily-ever-afters, the home of Romeo and Juliet…”
She peered over the top of her glass at him. “Have you ever read Romeo and Juliet? Everyone dies!” She sighed. “Every time I hope it will end differently. I want Romeo to get the Friar’s message. I want Juliet to wake up faster, so that Romeo doesn’t drink the poison. I want someone to survive. It never happens, and each time the pain is exquisite. I love that pla
y. Such passion.”
“I think you just summed up your thing for wicked men right there. The ending is always the same.” He smiled. “You must like it.”
“I think you might be right.” She tilted her glass and he watched her savor the garnet-colored liquid. She licked her lips. “Fortunately, wine is the sure cure for a broken heart.”
“I thought it was time that healed all wounds.”
“Wine is faster.” She reached for a clean glass and pulled another bottle of wine out from under the counter. As she opened the bottle, Sean saw a familiar-looking hand-drawn butterfly on the label.
“Taste this.” She poured red wine into the glass and handed it to him.
He sipped. “What am I tasting for?”
“Beauty and complexity—like the flight of a butterfly. The wine should take you on a journey and leave you feeling breathless and still—the way you feel when a butterfly lands on your hand. You can’t hold it; you can only enjoy it. Vivi nel presente! Live in the moment.”
He sipped. The wine was good but not awe inspiring. “I’m no wine expert, but I’m not getting that from this.”
She poured the wine into the sink. “It just needs time.”
“That label looks familiar. Is this one of your exports?” he asked.
She shook her head. “This is Zio Paolo’s first Amarone, for private sampling only. It’s too young to drink; really it shouldn’t even be in a bottle yet. The rest of the vintage is still in barrels but we tapped a few bottles just for kicks. You might have seen one of our Valpolicella labels. Zio began exporting those last year.”
He winced, realizing he must have seen the label the night Olivia had served him wine and asked him to stay with her.
Giovanna leaned toward him to whisper, even though there was no one else in the room. “Zio Paolo is going to recreate La Farfalla, I just know it.” She sat back, looking pleased with herself.
“The butterfly?” he asked. “Like the one on the label?”
“Not just a butterfly. The Butterfly. The most incredible wine Verona has ever tasted. The one that gave the villa its name.”
Her enthusiasm was catching. “Tell me more.”
She refreshed their glasses. “Over fifty years ago an exquisite wine was created. The vintner had such high hopes for it, he named it La Farfalla—the Butterfly. Of course, no one knew what it would become because Amarone needs at least two years to mature—but it became the perfect Amarone.”
“What’s Amarone?” he asked.
“The king of Valpolicellas. Complex. Special. Valpolicella is best drunk young, but the Amarone can take age, and when certain techniques are employed, it can withstand decades. La Farfalla is such a wine.”
Intrigued, Sean asked, “What kind of techniques are you talking about?”
She raised her hands. “No one knows. The vintner’s son got old man Conti’s daughter pregnant just before the vintage had been tasted. There was a huge scandal, a shotgun wedding was planned, and then the vintner and his son disappeared. That season the grapes were picked, dried, fermented. The wine was barreled and bottled, but it wasn’t the same. Neither was the Conti family. Sofia’s heart was broken and La Farfalla’s secret was lost.”
“That must have been devastating.”
“The Conti family continued to make wine, but eventually La Farfalla came to mean something entirely different here in Verona. It means…gone, like the vintner, like the vintage. Ironically, Sofia Conti’s daughter ended up getting pregnant out of wedlock many years later—by a grape picker who moved on with the harvest. You can see why the butterfly thing stuck, hmm?”
“Why didn’t they change the name of the villa?”
Her laugh was dry. “It doesn’t work that way around here. Everyone knows everything. When Nonna bought the estate from Sofia a couple years ago—”
Sean raised his glass. “Wait, I thought the villa had been in the family for years.”
Giovanna shook her head. “That’s just what it says on the website.”
Sean chuckled. “Nice.”
“Our family has always lived in Verona, but the villa and the vineyards belonged to the Contis. Nonna bought the estate and moved back here with Zia Anna Maria and Zio Paolo when Olivia took over the restaurant in New York. They are trying to reclaim the name La Farfalla and make it mean something beautiful again. Unfortunately, it’s been one problem after another lately.”
“Really?” It looked pretty successful to him. “What kind of problems?”
“Cash flow. Staffing. Broken equipment. Bad luck. Nothing unusual for starting up a new business, but it’s been two years, and the newness has worn off. I think Zia has bitten off more than she can chew. That’s part of the reason I came home, although Zia would probably drink poison before she’d actually ask anyone for help.”
“That reminds me of someone else I know. Like mother like daughter?” he asked.
“Exactly.”
He nodded, thoughts returning to her story. “What happened to Sofia and her daughter?” he asked.
“Old Sofia passed away just after Nonna bought the estate. The daughter had been gone for years—an accident, I think. I don’t remember.”
“And her child?”
“A son.” She cleared her throat. “Too long a tale for now. Unless you want another glass of wine?”
Sean shook his head. The room moved with him. “Better not.”
“Ah, well.” She picked up their empty glasses and set them in a rack under the counter.
She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and glanced at the display. “Oh! It’s almost time for dinner. I’ll walk with you so I can see Olivia again, but I won’t be able to join you for dinner. I have a date.”
Sean gave her a look. “Another wicked man?”
“I’m optimistic about this one.” She tucked her phone into her pocket. “Speaking of eternal optimism, tomorrow night is the last performance of Roméo e Giulietta at the Arena. You and Olivia should go.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. Is it easy to get tickets?”
“Zia always has tickets.”
“Great.” Sean pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket and showed it to her. “No signal,” he said. “Any advice?”
She grinned. “I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened to me in foreign countries. You need to pick up an Italian phone in the market and get a new phone number for your stay here. American phones rarely work in Italy, no matter what they tell you back in the States. Even if you could get it to work, the bill would give you a heart attack. Better to spend a few Euros on a new phone. In fact, buy one before you get here next time. They sell them in the States.”
He rolled his eyes. “My carrier told me it wouldn’t be a problem as long as I paid the fee.” He wondered if there was a chance to kill two birds with one stone. “Any chance there’s a market in Padua? I need to catch up with a client, or rather, his wife.”
“You’re in luck. Padua has an excellent market and it isn’t far away.”
“Can I walk?” he asked, hoping his luck would hold.
She laughed. “Not quite. Take the train or ask Zio Paolo to give you a ride.”
“I’ll do that, thanks. Do you think someone will let me use a computer tomorrow?” He’d need a map to find the hotel.
“You can use one now, but you’ll be late for dinner.”
“Tomorrow is fine. I’m starving.” A sudden thought made him smile. “You’re the villa masseuse, right?”
She nodded.
“I don’t suppose you have time for a new client this week?”
“You don’t think Olivia will mind?” Her wicked laugh sent a prickle of apprehension skating just below the surface of his thoughts. A beautiful woman laughing like that should give him ideas, but
the only thoughts he had were of Olivia. “Not me—your cousin. She’s so tense she practically vibrates. Think you can de-stress her?”
“Absolutely. In fact, I insist. On the house.”
“No need for that.”
She shook her head. “I don’t charge family.”
“I’m not family,” he countered. “Let me pay for it. Please. I’d love to help fund your future travels.”
Her lips twitched. “In that case, are there any other spa services you’d like to arrange for her? If she hasn’t changed in the last five years, she’s disgustingly beautiful but has been cutting her own hair and nails—with a paring knife.”
“Give her whatever she wants or whatever you think she needs.”
Giovanna was openly grinning now. “Any particular colors or scents you prefer?”
“This is for her, not me,” he reminded her. Or was he reminding himself? The thought of Olivia spending the day getting scrubbed, smoothed, relaxed, and slathered with good-smelling lotions roused something primal inside him. He ignored the temptation to admit he had a thing for painted toenails. “Make her happy.”
Chapter 7
Olivia returned to the kitchen determined to finish chopping the herbs before her father emerged from the vineyard for dinner. She stopped short when she saw her mother and Alessandro glaring at each other over the prep table nearest the stove. They ignored her, so she walked silently to her cutting board, thankfully on the other side of the kitchen, and began to work.
Her mother put her hands on her hips. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you will teach the guests. That’s why they are coming—to learn how to cook.” Her words were staccato, like the sound of Olivia’s knife on the board.
Olivia glanced up to see how Alessandro was taking her mother’s tone. Not well. His nostrils flared and he drew himself up to his full height. Even with the table between them, he dwarfed her stout mother, who ignored his huffy display and bent her head to the pasta on the table in front of her.
Oh boy. Why hadn’t she fought off the compulsion to return to the kitchen? She would have gladly accepted the guilt for shirking her responsibility in order to avoid this little collision.
