A Veil of Vines

by Tillie Cole

  Achille blinked and cast his stunned eyes around the celebrating crowd. And I saw it, I saw the moment he realized he had won, and I saw the pride and passion flare on his handsome face.

  But my heart broke anew as he looked around him, as he stood alone, no one to share in his joy. No one to tell him that he deserved this, that they were proud of him for all that he had achieved.

  That he was worthy of all this adoration.

  Looking lost and so very alone, he stumbled back into the shadows. He turned and made his way down the tunnel. The crowd descended upon the servers that had appeared with small samples of the award-winning merlot. Acting on instinct, I left the stage and rushed toward the tunnel.

  Pia was beside the mouth of the tunnel. I met her eyes as I passed. They narrowed at my hasty retreat toward the fields. But I didn’t stop. I kept running through the tunnel until I arrived at a field and saw Achille disappearing through a far row of vines.

  Not giving up on my chase, I stumbled over the uneven ground until I hit the row. He was almost at the other end. “Achille!” I shouted. He froze in his tracks.

  He didn’t turn around as I hurried to meet him, but he didn’t run away either. When I caught up to him, out of breath, his shoulders were tense.

  “Achille,” I said again. I reached out my hand and pressed it against his back. Achille heaved out a long sigh and turned. My hand slid to his stomach. But his eyes never met mine. They stayed focused toward the sounds of laughter and music coming from the courtyard.

  Distant.

  “Achille,” I repeated one last time, stepping closer to him. I wanted to close my eyes and savor his addictive scent. But I kept my composure. “You won, Achille. Your merlot won again.” He didn’t seem to react. His face was blank, only the slight crinkles around his eyes showing that he’d heard my words.

  His skin under my palm was scalding, the muscles hard. This was as close as I had been to him in weeks. When we’d studied lately, I had forced myself to keep my distance, as difficult as that was. But right then, I wanted nothing more than to be close. I wanted him to look at me and smile. I wanted to share this special moment with him.

  But that was all crushed when his jaw clenched and he said, “You looked good together on that stage, Caresa.”

  His eyes finally found mine. Pain, raw and uncensored pain, shone back at me. “Achille,” I whispered, hearing my voice crack. He made himself smile, but if anything that was even more devastating. Because I had seen Achille when he was happy.

  This was nothing like that.

  “You had better get back to your guests,” Achille said. “The prince will be looking for you.”

  He moved to turn away, but I found myself wrapping my arms around his waist and holding him as close as I had wanted to from the minute I saw him in the tunnel. I pressed my cheek against his chest and refused to let him go. Achille was a statue in my arms, until, with a pained sigh, he wrapped his arms tightly around my back.

  “I’m so proud of you,” I whispered into the warm fabric of his flannel shirt.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and fought back the rising lump in my throat as his lips brushed a soft kiss to the top of my head. I held him tighter. I wasn’t sure how I would ever let him go now that I had allowed myself to fall once again into the safety of his arms. “You deserve this. I’m so very proud.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, a rasp in his voice. And then he pulled back. My arms dropped to my sides as he gave me one last long, agonized look and left the row of vines for the protection of his small, isolated vineyard.

  I felt cold without his warmth.

  I let the tears that had built fall. I allowed myself to face the truth—I was completely, soulfully, in love with Achille Marchesi.

  And that had just complicated things exponentially.

  “Caresa?” I turned to look back toward the courtyard, only to see Zeno at the bottom of the row wearing a confused expression. As I walked toward him, I schooled my features, once again the duchessa approaching her betrothed. “What are you doing down here?” he asked, searching the now-empty vines for clues.

  “I just needed to get away for a moment. The atmosphere in there became very overwhelming.”

  I could see Zeno carefully assessing my answer. But then he shrugged. “You are expected to be present to mingle with the guests. Some of the ladies from the furthest points of Italy were looking to meet you. Maria said we have about an hour before we must get ready for the dinner tonight.”

  “Of course, the coronation,” I said dully as we walked back through the tunnel that, moments ago, had led me straight to Achille. Now it was guiding me back into the life of a duchessa, the future queen.

  A future queen whose heart was currently trailing behind its counterpart as he trudged alone, back to his simple life, with tears in his eyes and, it seemed, a fracture in his heart.

  *****

  “Your father was a great king, a true leader for those of us who still regard true Italian history and heritage as a priority.”

  I feared my face would twitch with the effort of sustaining my smile. As I glanced at Zeno beside me, I could see he was living the same lie.

  The lie that we were happy.

  Barone De Luca sat in the seat next to Zeno, holding up his glass of champagne. There were at least fifty people at our table. The decorations were grand and the courses many. The great dining room was swathed in red and gold, hung with oil paintings dating as far back as the Renaissance and before. This room had seen many monarchs.

  I wondered what those days had been like. Coronations back then would have been public, of course, but then the king or queen would have been brought back to celebrate quietly in estates such as these. I wondered what these oil paintings would tell us of those coronations, if they could talk. Would they speak of money and politics and crowns and elegant jewels? Would they talk of palaces being constructed, red velvet cloaks and gilded thrones?

  Of course, in this relatively modest gathering, there was nothing of the sort. No crown was being placed upon Zeno’s head. No orb made of gold sat on Zeno’s lap. No golden staff was in his hand, no ampulla and spoon anointed his head, declaring to God and country that he was the newly chosen, holy king.

  Instead there was a dinner, speeches that reminisced about monarchs of old. There was wine and laughter, and talk of the “good old days” before the people overthrew the royal family. But it was nothing like I imagined tonight would be. I actually felt sad for Zeno, sitting at the top of the table, listening to how great his family once was, knowing he was failing in his family’s business now.

  “Your father was a great man, Zeno. And I am sure you will be just the same. The country may have forgotten the true ways of Italy, but we in this room have not. We bow to you as our true king.” The barone raised his glass. “Il re è morto, lunga vita al re!”

  The king is dead, long live the king!

  Every glass was raised, the toast was echoed and we all took a cementing sip. Barone De Luca sat back down. Zeno signaled for the table to rise, and we slowly adjourned to the great room next door. Pia fell in step beside me. I knew whatever tension had arisen between us today had passed.

  Pia linked her arm through mine. She was dressed in an elegant white and black Chanel dress with her hair pulled back in a French roll. My long-sleeved, floor-length gown was silver and encrusted with Swarovski crystals. I wore my hair pulled up at the sides by two delicate 1920s diamond clips. The gown was perfectly fitted and shimmered like glass in the light of the low-hanging chandeliers, the low back of the dress leaving my skin completely bare to the bottom of my spine.

  “You look beautiful,” Pia said. She looked over at Baronessa Russo, who was pawing her hands all over Zeno, desperate for his attention. “It’s why she’s acting that way, I’m sure,” Pia said, tilting her head in the baronessa’s direction.

  But as I looked at her, all I felt was pity. No doubt she had been raised to believe she could have one day mar
ried the much-coveted prince. Every day I was here her chances of that fell greatly.

  “I feel sorry for her,” I said aloud. Pia just laughed and shook her head.

  Pia and I sat down across from the fireplace with Contessa Bianchi. The guests milled about the room, making idle conversation. After a while, Zeno moved toward the roaring fire, and the sound of a spoon hitting a crystal champagne glass chimed around the room. The chatter stopped, and when I looked up, I saw that Zeno had his head cast down, waiting for the room to hush.

  He lifted his head and looked around at his guests. “Tonight is not only a memorable night for me, but one for my fiancée too.” My muscles became blocks of ice, and a trickle of unease ran down my spine. In my peripheral vision, I saw Pia’s head turn to face me in alarm, but my eyes were locked in Zeno’s direction.

  Zeno smiled and met my eyes. “The wedding date is set, and our two houses will soon merge.” He paused—for effect, I was sure. “Could you please come up here, Duchessa?”

  Quiet murmurs ran around the room like a slow rolling wave. But I stood and made my way to his place beside the fire. He turned to face me. I was sure my eyes were wide as I waited for what would happen next.

  Zeno took my hand. “Duchessa, we have been betrothed since we were children, and now have a wedding set for only weeks away.” I swallowed as he reached for my hand—my left hand.

  My bare left hand.

  Zeno’s thumb ran over my ring finger. He smiled. “We are engaged, yet you have still to receive a ring to let everyone know that you are mine. I think this is long overdue.” I shuddered as he said the word “mine”. It was as though my heart physically rejected his claim. And of course it would. It already belonged to another.

  The room was tense, the air thickening with expectation. Zeno reached into his pocket and, in front of the blazing fire, dropped to his knee and stared up into my eyes. “Caresa Acardi, Duchessa di Parma, would you do me the honor of becoming my bride, the woman who will live her life by my side?”

  Zeno opened the red velvet box in his hand, and the ladies in the room gasped. Inside was a princess-cut diamond ring. The gold of the band shone like the brightest of suns, and the huge diamond threw its reflection around the room like a spray of perfect little rainbows.

  It was at least five carats.

  But all I could see when I stared down at this most impressive ring was Achille. All I saw when I looked into Zeno’s face was Achille’s blue eyes as he praised me for choosing a bunch of grapes correctly. I saw his timid smile as he allowed himself to laugh at one of my jokes, at the moments my upper-class breeding caused me to say something superficial and Achille, with his quick wit and sarcasm, reminded me of how silly it sounded. But more than that, as Zeno kneeled before me, all I saw was the dream of it being Achille who was asking me to be his bride. To be the woman who would help him harvest the grapes then lie with him at night in front of the fire. And he would read to me . . .

  . . . of Plato and split-aparts.

  My throat was thick as the vision in my head became so very real it tricked my heart. Tears ran down my cheeks, but not for the reason the guests believed.

  Because this moment was my ruin.

  This moment, where the reality of what my life would become hit home.

  This ring, this symbol of eternal, never-ending love, as beautiful as it may be, felt like a prison collar as Zeno slipped it onto my finger. An expensive collar, but a collar nonetheless.

  The room broke into rapturous applause, taking my tears as a sign of being overcome with happiness. The duchessa finally getting a token of love from the prince.

  They couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Zeno’s eyes narrowed as he got to his feet. He knew I did not care for him in a romantic way, and I knew he grew suspicious of my tears.

  “Bacio!” a member of the crowd called out, prompting murmurs of agreement from the rest of our guests.

  Kiss!

  I didn’t want it. I never wanted his lips to remove the taste of Achille from my mouth. I didn’t want to betray the night I had spent with Achille with this farce. But then Zeno cupped my face and pressed his mouth to mine, abruptly eradicating Achille from my flesh . . . eradicating all I had left of the man I loved.

  And I hated it. I hated how his mouth moved against mine. I hated how his tongue swept around my lips and dipped slightly into my mouth. I hated Zeno’s grip on my face. But worst, as our chests touched, I hated how his heart beat. Out of step with my own—no symphony, no in-sync rhythm . . . just unmatching and distant.

  Zeno pulled back and dropped his hands from my face. He was pale, as if the reality of our situation had just hit him too.

  He moved away from me as the ladies rushed around me, holding up my ring for their inspection. Zeno was being slapped on the back, but he looked a little lost underneath his usual confident mask.

  “Duchessa!” the women cooed. “It is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen! You are so lucky!”

  I smiled, nodding my head and giving rote answers when I could find the strength. And I played the part for another two hours, until at last I could make my excuses to leave. I said my last goodbye and darted for the stairs.

  With every step, my heart seemed to drain, until it was a desert in a drought, starved of life and thirsting for any kind of relief. The ring felt like a ten-ton weight on my finger, pulling me down. And with every step, Zeno’s kiss blazed hotter and hotter on my lips, ripping away the memory of Achille’s kiss that I had clung onto, with a heady desperation, for weeks.

  And now it was gone. I had pushed Achille away, giving us just that one, special night, but now all I could think of was being back in his arms. I wanted him in every possible way. I wanted his arms and lips and skin on my skin. I wanted him inside me, loving me just as much as I loved him, hearts beating in unison, blood rushing for the vital touch of the other.

  As I reached my room, I let the tears fall. But I also gave in to my heart. I fled through the balcony doors, allowing my pumping blood to guide my feet. The cool breeze snapped at my wet cheeks as I ran as fast as my heels would allow to Achille’s home.

  The night was dark, the stars creating a blanket of diamonds and glittering golds. It was late, too late, but I had to get to Achille. Like Cinderella, I too was running from a prince at midnight. But where she had run reluctantly back to her rags and simple life, I was running into the arms of a man who boasted just the same. Cinderella could keep the jewels, the carriage and the prince. I wanted the vineyard, the faded jeans and the golden touch of a beautiful winemaker.

  I slammed through the gate of Achille’s cottage, the solar lamps leading me to his wooden front door. I rattled the handle, fighting for purchase with my shaking hands until it opened and invited me inside. I ran straight through, into the living room. The fire was burning, a single chair sitting before it. The books I had given Achille to read were stacked beside it, along with a pen fitted with the tripod grip and a pad of paper.

  My chest ached at the sight.

  Did he sit here every night, learning and trying?

  Alone, always alone.

  Pavarotti played quietly from an old record player in the corner. Flickering lamps and the fire’s orange embers coated the whitewashed walls in a warm glow.

  This was Achille’s life. Music and wine and loneliness. He deserved more. He deserved more than anyone could give him.

  “Caresa?” Achille’s rough voice came from the doorway. He stole my breath; he was damp from the shower, his black hair wet, water dripping down his back. A towel was around his neck, and he wore black pajama bottoms.

  I felt a sudden wash of peace travel through me at just being near to him. Such peace that it was a healing balm to my pained soul. A peace that I knew, with everything that I was, only Achille could give me.

  Something had happened in the universe the day we had met. There was a cosmic shift, some destined alteration to the very fabric of who we were. The sun and the moon
had aligned and cast us into one another’s hearts, never to be torn apart.

  “He said that once you find that person, your ‘split-apart’, you are blanketed by such belonging, such desire, that you will never want to be without it . . . as Plato said, ‘. . . and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment’.” The memory of Achille’s words circled my mind.

  Belonging.

  Desire.

  They don’t want to be separated . . . not even for a moment.

  Were we those wandering lost souls reunited at last?

  “Caresa? What is wrong? What happened?” Achille stepped forward, worry etched onto his perfect, beautiful face.

  I threw myself against him. My arms wrapped around his waist, and I held on tightly. I felt his hot skin on mine, our bodies perfectly aligned, just like the stars that had guided us to this very moment.

  To this vineyard.

  To each other.

  “Caresa? You’re scaring me,” he whispered as he held me tightly against him. I wanted to punish myself. How could I have walked away from this? How could I have ever left this feeling? How could I have ever left this man?

  I’d seen the pain in his eyes today as Zeno was touching me. I had seen him searching for someone to smile at him as his merlot was deemed the best in the world.

  That should have been me. It all should have been me.

  But I had no idea how any of this could or would play out. We were destined for different paths. We were from such different worlds, yet shared the same soul. It all seemed so very impossible.

  “Just hold me,” I whispered as I turned my cheek to press against his warmth. I closed my eyes, and just allowed this man to embrace me. I allowed his hands to run through my hair as he pressed tender kisses to my head.

  Eventually, Achille guided me back to face him and cupped my cheeks with his palms. He searched my eyes as a tear rolled down my cheek. He caught the tear with his thumb. “What has caused these tears? Why are you so sad?”

  I didn’t think my actions through. I didn’t think anything through at all. Instead I rose onto my tiptoes and pressed my mouth to Achille’s. Achille groaned as I brought our mouths together in prayer, my hands pressing in worship to his cheeks. I had barely tasted his lips or absorbed his warmth before he pulled away and staggered back from me.