A Veil of Vines

by Tillie Cole

  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 wh
en 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.