by Tillie Cole
“Okay,” I said and, with a final kiss to each horse’s nose, backed away from the paddock toward the path leading out of the garden. Achille was standing tensely, his eyes flickering to mine and then the ground. “It was nice to meet you,” I said and waved my hand.
Achille didn’t respond straight away, but then said, “You too, Duchessa.” No sooner had he spoken than he turned and entered the barn. I sighed, feeling slightly disappointed. I would have liked to have seen what was in the barn, even talked to him about wine. But anyone could see he was not the type who engaged easily in conversation.
I left the garden and closed the kitsch wooden gate that framed Achille’s house so perfectly. Just as Achille had directed, the well-worn path was there to guide me home. I jogged all the way back, only this time I did not listen to music. My mind was preoccupied with replaying my meeting with Achille.
My heart kicked in my chest as I pictured him. His shy, handsome face, his sculpted body—he was incredible. The dirt on his hands and the sweat on his skin only added to his appeal.
As I reached the doors of the mansion, I shook my head. I could not think of other men any longer. I was here to be married, not on a vacation. I was betrothed to Zeno, and that was that.
I went into the house and to the stairs to my rooms. I had just put my foot on the first step when a flash of color caught my eye. I walked over to the painting of the stone cottage and studied it closely. It was most certainly Achille’s home. Though now I had seen it in the flesh, I realized that, as talented as the artist was, he could not do the picturesque scene justice.
“Do you like it, Duchessa?” I glanced to my right and saw one of the housekeepers smiling at me.
“Yes,” I replied. “Very much.”
The older woman nodded. “It is almost as beautiful as the wine itself, and nearly as sweet as the winemaker who lives there.” As the housekeeper turned to walk away, her words sank in.
“What?” I asked abruptly. The housekeeper turned to face me. “What do you mean ‘as beautiful as the wine?’”
“The merlot, Duchessa. Bella Collina Reserve.” My heart fired like a canon in my chest. The housekeeper smiled. “This is the home of our famous merlot’s winemaker. It has been in the same family for years. The son runs it now.”
“Oh,” I whispered. My eyes drifted back to the painting. I wasn’t sure if the housekeeper was still there or if I was alone. Blood rushed through my veins, and my lungs strove to take in air. I stood as still as a statue, hypnotized by the painting of the small house, fairytale-meadow garden and full-to-bursting vines that surrounded it.
And I thought of Achille. Achille, amongst the vines, hand-harvesting the grapes with such deep passion in his eyes and such intense concentration on his face . . .
“Bella Collina Reserve,” I whispered to myself. “Achille makes the Bella Collina merlot . . .”
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, staring at the painting. Eventually I returned to my rooms. I ran a bath and climbed in, letting the hot water envelope me and calm me with its lavender-scented vapors.
Achille was a private man, of that much I was certain. I didn’t know anything else about him. But I sensed he had been uncomfortable with my presence, at my unwanted intrusion into his world.
I knew he would not expect to see me again. But as I closed my eyes and envisioned that small private vineyard and the beautiful man who ran it, I resolved to return.
I told myself it was to speak to the man about my favorite wine, to see and understand the process, to ask the many questions I had.
As Achille’s blue eyes danced through my mind, I ignored the truth in my heart—that I also wanted to speak to this man again because of him. Not just the wine, but him.
I allowed myself to pretend the opposite.
I was betrothed to the prince.
I was marrying Zeno.
This was only about the merlot.
Nothing more.
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 dar
kest, 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 . . .
