by Amanda Usen
He sat up in bed and saw a note propped on the bedside table. Late for kitchen duty. Come find me. He chuckled. Maybe they’d made more progress than he’d thought.
He rolled out of bed and picked up his pants. The weight of his cell phone in his pocket reminded him of the eternity he had spent on the phone with Mrs. Russo in the piazza last night. It had been less than half an hour, but it felt like much longer as he had watched Olivia and Alessandro talk and laugh.
His cell phone vibrated, alerting him to a new message. An unfamiliar number popped up on the screen. I will join you at Villa Farfalla this afternoon. Marilyn Russo. Speak of the devil. Mrs. Russo was coming here and her husband was on his way to Italy. For the moment, his work was done.
He checked his inbox, just to make sure he hadn’t missed a message from Colin or his mother. Empty. He assumed no news was good news and Colin’s silence meant he was enjoying having the house to himself.
He finished dressing, allowing his thoughts to return to Olivia. His work was not finished with her, not even close. Her hesitant response to his caresses had filled him with the determination not to fail her last night, and the fact that she’d slipped out of bed this morning told him he needed to try harder. He was looking forward to doing just that as soon as possible.
***
It had taken her ten minutes to wriggle out from underneath Sean’s arm without waking him up. His warm body had been spooned behind her, their perfect fit an unsettling reminder of last night. She had never woken up with Keith in that position, not even in the early days of their marriage. Her ex-husband had preferred his own space, and she had gotten used to snuggling with her pillow.
The desire to roll over and embrace Sean had gotten her up and out of bed. She had slipped into the bathroom to dress and stolen out of her room as silently as possible, afraid he would wake up any minute. She didn’t want to face him until she’d had time to think about what had happened. What did one say the morning after the only good sex of one’s life? Thanks? Oops? What was Sean going to expect from her now?
She slipped past the guests in the dining room and into the kitchen where she sat down at the trestle table and rested her head on her arms, jerking upright as the door opened. Rosa and her daughter entered the kitchen with Gia right behind them, looking fresh as a daisy and perfect, as always.
Olivia groaned and put her head back down.
“Can we have two cappuccinos, please, Rosa? It looks like our Olivia has worn herself out sleeping.”
The women giggled.
“That obvious, huh?” Olivia asked.
“What happened last night?” Her cousin sat down beside her. “You don’t look like a girl who played Juliet all night.”
Olivia weighed her options. Share her confusion or keep it to herself? Given her cousin’s experience level, she might have some insight to offer. “I ran away.”
“Before, during, or after?”
“This morning, before he woke up.”
Gia’s understanding nod made her feel a little better. “I’ve done that.”
“You have?”
“Who hasn’t?” Rosa set down two steaming cappuccinos and a tray of pastries.
“Grazie, Rosa.” Gia dragged her finger through the foam on the top of her cup. “Was Sean the first since the divorce?’
Olivia nodded.
“Well, no wonder, poor thing.”
It was the exact response Olivia needed to tell her the rest of the story. The floodgate opened. “I know it’s hard to believe in this day and age, but Keith was the only other man I’ve ever slept with…” Her cousin’s mouth fell open. “Just wait—it gets worse. I’d never…um, well…hmm.” She forced herself to say it. “I never had an orgasm during sex until last night.”
Gia’s dark eyes flew wide and she began to splutter.
“I know, I know, don’t say it. Just tell me what I should do because when I woke up this morning I was terrified.”
“Terrified of what?” Her cousin blinked several times, long lashes fluttering.
Olivia thought about that. “I’m not sure.” Thank God Rosa and Elena were in the dining room and not hearing any of this. “Gia, I don’t want to run Chameleon anymore. I have no idea what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, but I know I shouldn’t be distracted by…” She paused.
“Orgasms?”
“Maybe.” Olivia grabbed a chocolate croissant from the tray and jammed it in her mouth. She chewed, swallowed. “This past year sucked. My marriage fell apart. I almost lost Chameleon.” Her cousin raised both eyebrows. “Long story.” She continued, “My two best friends back home are doing a better job running my restaurant than I ever did, so I put my house on the market and came to Italy to tell Mamma and Papà that I want to sell Chameleon. Only instead of taking responsibility for my actions and making a plan, I’m having an affair. I’m going from bad to worse.”
“You are not bad.” Gia rolled her eyes. “I never knew how you did it anyway.”
“Did what?”
“Olivia, my God, you’ve been working since you could walk! I spent summers with your family, remember? It was fun, but we worked our butts off at that restaurant. I haven’t been to Norton in twenty years but I can’t imagine it got any easier for you when you became the owner.” Gia sipped her cappuccino. “Is the restaurant in good hands? Making money?”
Olivia nodded slowly.
“Then who cares? Don’t you think you deserve to have some fun after what you’ve been through this year? Sean’s a great guy and he’s obviously crazy about you. Enjoy it. Give yourself a break, huh?”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
Her cousin shook her head. “You and I are on opposite ends of the spectrum. You need to shake off your roots, and I need to find some.”
“What do you mean? Your roots are here.”
“No, your roots are here. My roots are somewhere in Asia, I think. Or they were the last time I heard from them. I envy you for having Zia Anna Maria and Zio Paolo. At least they care.”
“Your parents care, Gia. They just…” There was no good way to end that sentence and they both knew it.
“It’s okay. I’ve learned to place my own value on my life because they are never around. It’s very freeing. You should try it.”
Could she really shuck off the weight of her parents’ expectations and choose to do whatever she pleased? What would that feel like? Selfish, she decided. Irresponsible. Guilty. “I’ll think about it.”
Her cousin reached over to squeeze her hand. “Can I say one more thing?”
Olivia nodded.
Gia’s eyes were bright. “When you mentioned Joe and Marlene and Chameleon, I noticed you said back home. It’s always good to know where home is, don’t you think?”
“Hmm.” Olivia took another bite of pastry. Did she consider Norton home? How would she feel if she never went back to New York? She couldn’t decide if the ache she felt was homesickness or relief, so she changed the subject. “Enough about me. How was your night last night?”
Gia looked at her watch and stood up. “Amazing. I’d tell you all about it, but I have a massage client in fifteen minutes.” She crammed the rest of the pastry in her mouth and darted away from the table. Halfway to the door, she turned around, swallowed, and said, “You sure you aren’t going back to Norton?”
Olivia nodded. Pretty sure. Almost sure. Her heart ached again.
“Sean is?”
She nodded again, more slowly.
Gia’s eyes gleamed. “If you take my advice about nothing else, I hope you have the good sense to enjoy the rest of the week together…naked.” She walked out of the kitchen.
Olivia sipped her cappuccino and watched Rosa and Elena move between the kitchen and the dining room. They didn’t seem to need
her help replenishing the simple breakfast buffet, so she stayed where she was and indulged in another pastry. She looked at the cappuccino and croissants on the table in front of her, thinking of Sean and wishing she’d had the sense to stay in bed this morning.
It was too late to go upstairs and crawl back in bed with him, but she wouldn’t make the same mistake tomorrow morning. If she had the good fortune to wake up with Sean tomorrow, warm and naked, she was going to stay in bed all day. Her heart began to beat faster. Her body heated with anticipation, and she closed her eyes to savor her favorite moments from last night. The silvery flash of his eyes. His dangerous grin. The way he had looked into her eyes as her world fell apart. Heat flashed in her center. Oh yes, she was definitely staying in bed next time.
She drained her cup and stood. She had a lot of work to do first. Alessandro and Marco would be here soon. She lined tasks up in her mind. Divide and conquer.
Were there copies of the recipes somewhere? She walked over to the desk and started looking for papers. Surely Alessandro had copies somewhere. She pulled a thick sheaf of invoices out of a cubby and glanced through them. All bills. She looked closer, noticing they were past due. It wasn’t like her mother to get behind on payments. It also wasn’t like her to jam papers into cubbies and forget about them.
Olivia tucked the bills back into the desk, making a mental note to mention it to her mother later. She checked the next cubby and found photocopies of the recipes. She sighed. None of them had been scaled to size, and they were all in metric. It was going to take an hour to do the math. Maybe it was a good thing she’d gotten out of bed, after all. She opened the desk drawer, found a calculator, and got to work.
***
After a quick shower in his room, Sean found Olivia sitting at the trestle table in the kitchen, hunched over a pile of books and papers.
“Good morning.” He sat down next to her, giving her no chance of escape. “I missed you when I woke up this morning. We only worked our way through half the things on my list last night, you know.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “Back to your list, huh? I thought we had a deal, counselor. Isn’t it my turn for a fantasy?”
Her words made him release a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He wrapped his arms around her. She wasn’t on the run. She was simply busy. He bent to kiss her and she met him halfway with a sigh of surrender that made him want to lay her out on the kitchen table. His imagination caught fire trying to guess her fantasy. “Definitely. Let’s go back to bed right now,” he murmured against her lips.
“I’ve got too much work to do,” she sighed and pulled away. “Later, though, I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” He resisted the urge to corner her for another kiss. Instead, he asked, “Do you need any help in the kitchen?”
“Can you cook?” she asked.
“Nope, but I follow directions really well.”
A teasing smile played around the edges of her mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind for later.”
Desire surged through him, keeping him in his seat. “You are killing me.”
Her smile widened. “Not what I had in mind, although I do think the French have a rather curious expression for…”
He held up a hand. “If you keep talking dirty, I won’t be able to walk into the dining room.” Her wicked laugh delighted him. “I’m going to get some breakfast. After that I’m going to tour the vineyard with the rest of the guests. Then I’ll come back here and take great pleasure in following orders from you for the rest of the day…and night.” He dropped one last too-quick kiss on her lips before he stood up.
“Have you seen Alessandro?” she asked.
“Just saw him arrive with Marco.”
“Thank goodness.” She nodded and picked up her calculator again.
Sean walked back to the dining room where the other guests were milling around a buffet table of fresh fruit and rich-looking pastries. He poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed a croissant.
As he took his first bite, Mr. Marconi appeared at the door. “Buongiorno, everyone. Are you ready to tour the vineyard?”
The guests cheered and began to trickle into the foyer. Sean brought up the rear, carrying his breakfast with him. When everyone was gathered, Mr. Marconi led them out the front door and around the side of the villa.
It was already warm outside, but a light breeze stirred the air. Sean followed the dozen guests down the path toward the vineyard, admiring how the sun lit the tops of the trellises with green-gold light. Mr. Marconi pointed out the red and pink roses that bloomed around the perimeter of the vineyard, explaining that the flowers were susceptible to the same diseases that struck the vines. By watching the roses they could anticipate when the vines needed pesticide treatments. Mr. Marconi led them down a row, explaining the trellising system and how it was perfectly suited to the weather in Verona, the needs of the grapes, and the characteristics of the wines they would eventually become.
He stopped at the end of a row. “At Villa Farfalla, the first grapes picked will become Amarone. Only certain bunches can be used because they must be unbruised, skins intact, grapes loosely packed to allow air circulation within the bunch. Amarone grapes are dried for four months before they are pressed. This technique is called appassimento and has been used in Verona for thirty-five hundred years.”
Mr. Marconi led them through each section of the vineyard, explaining what each traditional grape varietal, the Corvina, Rondinella, and Molinara, contributed to Valpolicella and Amarone. Sean forced himself to focus on the grape lesson even though he hadn’t had enough coffee and the warm sun was making him sleepy. He followed the small crowd through a short break in the rows to the farthest section of the vineyard. Mr. Marconi waited for them to gather around him. “In Verona we love tradition, but we are also a practical people. The laws that govern winemaking honor tradition and quality; however, our wines will not survive if we cannot sell them. Winemaking laws must protect our industry, thus the five to ten percent of Molinara grapes usually used in Amarone can now be replaced with darker, more powerful varietals that have a more fashionable color.”
He frowned, looking down the row of pinkish Molinara, then began walking again. “I disagree with fashion. At Villa Farfalla, the woman who sells us cheese walks up a mountain to get the best goats’ milk. The man who grinds our rice uses the same stones his grandfather used. What is the saying? ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’? The Molinara is an elegant grape that lends acidity to the blend. It holds its own and keeps things lively. Last year Amarone was granted DOCG status, the highest recognition of quality among Italian wines. It is our goal at Villa Farfalla to use this honor to propel our Amarone to the top of the market—by honoring traditional grapes. One day we hope to equal the success of our legendary wine La Farfalla.”
Sean finished his croissant and followed the group across the vineyard to the barn-like building that sat below the tasting room. Mr. Marconi raised his arm. “This is the fruttaio, where we dry the grapes. If the weather holds and the grapes continue to sweeten, the harvest for the Amarone will begin at the end of the month.” He opened the door to the fruttaio. “When we bring the grapes in here, we open all the doors and windows to allow the air to circulate. The perfume of drying grapes is indescribable—intoxicating. After four months, we crush the grapes, press them, and age the wine for at least two years.”
Sean cleared his throat. “Didn’t you say you only pick the best grapes for Amarone? What do you do with the rest of them?”
“We make the Valpolicella. Although the remaining grapes are not chosen for the Amarone, they are by no means inferior. A picking crew sweeps through the vineyard to pick the rest of the grapes. They are crushed immediately. If Amarone is the heart of Villa Farfalla, then Valpolicella Classico is its lifeblood. Valpolicella is meant to be drunk young, so we have a quic
ker return on our investment.” His grin was a sharp flash of white in his swarthy face.
They filed into the fruttaio, where Sean saw neat rows of racks stacked ceiling high. Mr. Marconi gestured at the racks. “Although many wineries have switched to plastic or wooden racks for practical reasons, Villa Farfalla uses the traditional river reeds, which allow for better air circulation.” There were no grapes in evidence but the air smelled sweet, as if the souls of millions of dried grapes surrounded them in the wide room.
The crowd was silent, eyes wide, as if they too could feel the presence of history and tradition. “It is my goal to produce the best wines in Italy and bring the legend of La Farfalla back to life,” Mr. Marconi vowed.
“Will we get to taste La Farfalla?” Mrs. Schmidt asked.
“The old bottles are very valuable. Each one costs almost as much as a week at the villa, so no, I’m sorry, we won’t taste La Farfalla.” Mr. Marconi gave her a warm grin. “But I will show you the remaining bottles of the vintage. Last year we began exporting our Valpolicella Classico and just this summer our first vintage of Amarone became available in the world market. I hope you’ll like our wines enough to look for them in your local stores when you get back home. Like La Farfalla, all our wines bear a butterfly on the label, making them easy to recognize.”
He opened the door again and gestured outside. “Let’s take a quick trip through the wine cellar and the barrel tunnel before we go to lunch and taste the other wines—always the favorite part of the tour.”
Sean stayed toward the back of the crowd as they moved toward the tasting room.
The winemaking process was unbelievably complicated. With so many variables—weather, soil, varietals, sugar, and aging—it seemed impossible to believe that anyone could recreate a vintage. How many years would it take to recreate La Farfalla? A lifetime?
