A Veil of Vines

by Tillie Cole

  I was no longer alone.

  Yet today, I felt it. The storms and rain came harder in this region during this time of year, and there was a good chance of snow toward Christmas. Caresa and I had decided that on days like today, she should not come to me so late at night. As I checked the window again, seeing the rain had not yet let up, I knew she wouldn’t.

  But I needed to see her. The memory of my father’s last hours, and Zeno’s strange arrival at my vineyard today, had set my mind racing.

  And I didn’t want to be alone.

  I threw on my boots and headed to the door. A white rose lay on the side table in the living room. I had retrieved it today for when Caresa came to me tonight.

  She wouldn’t be coming, so I would take it to her.

  Tucking the rose into my shirt, I stepped out into the rain. Within minutes I was drenched, so I walked, not bothering to run, along the dark track toward Caresa’s rooms. She had told me which rooms were hers, and that a private balcony led straight to her door.

  I arrived at the stairs of her balcony unseen and climbed my way to her door. Through the slightly open drapes, in the dull lamplight, I saw Caresa, sleeping in a large four-poster bed. She was so beautiful that I didn’t even care if the rain had soaked me through. It had been worth it just to see her like this.

  Lifting my hand, I tapped on the glass of the door. I was quiet, so as not to draw attention, but loud enough that it would hopefully rouse Caresa from sleep. Caresa’s dark eyes fluttered open and fell in the direction of the tapping—they fell directly on me.

  She blinked in confusion before a wide smile graced her lips, and she leaped from the bed. She padded over to the door and pulled back the drape. I gazed at her through the glass. She was wearing a short silk nightdress, and, even with her usually perfect hair in slight disarray, she was flawless. I couldn’t believe she was mine.

  The lock turned on the door, and Caresa opened it quietly, a look of disbelief on her face. Before she could speak, I reached into my now-sopping shirt and brought out the rose. It was wet too, the petals limp. I shrugged as I handed it over. “It looked better before the rain.” I couldn’t help the small smile that pulled on my lips when Caresa covered her mouth to mute her sudden laugh.

  She took the flower and held it to her chest. “I love it,” she whispered. “Limp or not.”

  Reaching down with her free hand, she took hold of mine and guided me inside. I ducked into her room, and my eyes widened as I took in the size. This was just her bedroom, yet it was at least twice the size of my entire cottage. Paintings in gold frames adorned the walls, and the rich hardwood floors were covered in expensive rugs.

  Caresa ducked her head. “Achille?”

  I glanced down at my wet clothing. Caresa tried to coax me forward, but I stayed in my place. “I’m soaking,” I said, backing toward the door. “This room . . . I should go. I just wanted to see you and give you the rose.” I dropped my head. “I . . . I missed you tonight.”

  “Hey,” Caresa said and placed her hands on my face. “You’re not leaving. You just got here.” She glanced behind us to a set of doors that I assumed must lead to yet another room. “The doors are locked from inside. No one can come in. No one ever comes in anyway. We won’t be caught.”

  I felt out of place in this room, in this mansion. In all the years I had lived on the land, I had never once been inside. Other winemakers had been here, at dinners and such, but my father and I had never been invited.

  “My clothes are too wet. I don’t want to mess up the room,” I said. Rainwater was already pooling at my feet.

  Caresa glanced down at the expanding puddle and stepped closer. “Then let’s get you out of them.”

  I followed her to the bathroom. Like her bedroom, it was opulent and extravagant, all white marble and gold finishes. I stopped beside the bathtub, and Caresa placed a towel on the floor. I stepped onto the plush white towel and shook my head. Water dripped down my face. “What is it?” Caresa asked as her hands began unsnapping the buttons on my shirt.

  “Nothing,” I said hoarsely as she peeled my shirt from my back and discarded it in the tub. Her rooms, although vast, were warm. Her gentle hands fell to the waistband on my jeans. She snapped open the modified button, pulled down the zipper, then pushed the jeans down my legs until I was naked. Her hands ran up the damp skin of my legs, my waist and my stomach. I hissed as she leaned in and pressed a single kiss to the middle of my chest.

  She took another towel and dried every inch of my bare skin. And as she did, I couldn’t stop staring at her face. If I hadn’t already known she loved me, I would have known in that moment. The way she silently cared for me. The way she cherished my body. The way she rose onto her tiptoes and ruffled the towel through my wet hair. She took the towel off my head and smoothed back my hair that had fallen in front of my face. “There,” she said reverently. “Now I can see those beautiful blue eyes I adore so much.”

  God, I loved her too.

  She tied another dry towel around my waist, took my hand and led me to her bed. It was huge, twice the size of my bed. When I had arrived at her door tonight and seen her sleeping, all I could think was that she looked so small. The woman who owned my heart drowning in a sea of white.

  Caresa climbed in and held up the comforter for me to climb in too. I dropped the towel and shuffled forward until I was in her arms. I closed my eyes as my head lay over her chest.

  Her heart beat quickly.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked as she stroked her hand over my forehead.

  I held her a little closer. “I needed to see you. I . . .” I swallowed, trying to chase away the remaining sadness. “I kept thinking of my father tonight . . . of when he died.” Caresa held her breath. It was the first time I had ever mentioned his passing to her. “I kept thinking of things he had said. I kept thinking of how weak and frail he was.” I sucked in a quick breath. “I . . . I needed you. I . . . I didn’t want to be alone . . . not tonight.”

  “Achille,” Caresa whispered, shifting on the bed until she lay on her pillow opposite me. She held my hand in the space between us. Her grip on my fingers was iron tight. “Then I’m happy you came,” she said and bowed her head to lay a kiss over my knuckles. In an instant, I felt better. Just being beside her, being in her presence, was all the balm my soul needed to heal.

  “I’m glad I came too.” I looked around the room. “It’s good to see where you stay when you’re not with me.”

  “You have never been in the mansion?”

  “No.” I shook my head and couldn’t help the smile that appeared on my lips. “I feel very out of place here. I’m afraid I’ll break something priceless.”

  Caresa shifted closer still, her warm body pressing against mine. “The only thing in this room that is priceless to me is you. So you don’t have to worry.”

  “I love you.” I brought my lips against hers.

  “I love you,” Caresa said when she pulled away.

  We lay there in silence for a while, content to just stare at each other.

  “The prince came to see me today,” I said.

  The shock was evident on Caresa’s face. “Zeno came to your vineyard?”

  I nodded. “He said he wanted to get to know the winemakers on his land more. Wanted to understand the products better.” I thought back to us sharing a coffee, of how awkward he was. “He seemed different to when we were children. The same in some ways, but . . . different.”

  Caresa’s brow furrowed. “When you were children? You knew Zeno as a child?”

  Exhaling a long breath, I said, “He was my best friend. Zeno was the only friend I ever really had. He would come to Bella Collina in the summer, and we would play on the tracks and in the nearby woods. We would fish and ride bikes.” I shrugged. “Then, one day, he just stopped coming around. I asked my father if I could come to the mansion and ask where he was, why he didn’t want to be my friend anymore, but my father told me to leave it be.” I blinked
away the memory. “I never spoke to Zeno again until today. He took me by surprise. I never thought I’d ever speak to him again in my life.”

  “You were best friends?” I could hear the disbelief in her soft voice.

  “Yes. My only friend . . . until you.”

  Caresa’s eyes glossed over. Then she looked away and said, “I never knew you knew Zeno, Achille. You never said.”

  “Because I don’t know him anymore. We were children. He left the estate for Florence, and I never had any contact with him again . . . until today.” I pressed my forehead to hers. “But I am thankful to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he brought you to me. He left you here on my estate, and God made it so we would cross paths. So although I don’t know him anymore, I am thankful to him.”

  Caresa’s lips found mine. When we broke from the kiss, she said, “I can’t believe he came to see you. I’m glad. I’m glad he is trying.”

  “I guess so.” I laid my head back over her chest. My arm wrapped around her waist and, just as my eyes began to close, pulled by sleep, I saw an old book on her nightstand. A book I knew very well. “Plato’s Symposium,” I said and felt Caresa still.

  “I have been reading it,” she confessed. I caught the embarrassment in her tone. But all it did was make my heart explode.

  “Mi amore?” I asked.

  “Mm?”

  “Read to me,” I requested. She didn’t move for several seconds, but then she leaned over to the table and retrieved the book.

  I closed my eyes as Caresa’s soothing voice lulled me to sleep. As I drifted off, I thought of the room she stayed in, of the expensive nightgown she wore, and wondered if I was enough.

  But then, as she spoke of jealous gods and drifting souls, I let all my worries float away. She was here with me now. That was all that mattered.

  The issues we had to face would still be there tomorrow. So for now I let her words wash over me, until I fell asleep, completely content.

  Chapter Twelve

  A few weeks later . . .

  Achille

  I heard the music coming from the mansion as I put Nico and Rosa back in their stables. Even through the thick trees that blocked my view of the house, I could see the Christmas lights sparkling against the evening sky. I could see every window in the house was lit, and I could hear the music blaring from within.

  It was the first day of December, and the day of the annual Bella Collina Christmas masked ball. Every aristocrat from Italy had come to the prince’s home for the event. A tradition that had been upheld by the Savonas for over three hundred years. A night where the lords and ladies of Italy gathered in Renaissance dress and Venetian masks to dance and drink and remember that they are someone.

  Caresa had not been able to get away for the past four days. So I had waited for her in her bed every night, a single white rose on her pillow.

  The past month had carried on much the same as normal for me. My wine was almost ready to bottle, and then . . . then I didn’t know.

  But for Caresa, things had only grown busier. Every day she had to discuss wedding plans, go to lunches and attend dinners with Zeno . . . and every day she grew sadder and sadder. She clung to me every night, made love to me as though she would lose me. And it killed me.

  But I had to get this year’s wine made. And if I was being honest, the thought of her declaring to her family and friends that she was choosing me over the prince scared me to death. I didn’t want to lose this life, but I didn’t want to lose her.

  The thought made me feel sick.

  As did the thought of Caresa now in the mansion, dressed in a beautiful period gown, on the arm of the prince. I wanted nothing more but for her to be on mine—she should have been on mine—but I had no place in a party such as that.

  An hour later, as I sat at home trying to read, the music and my curiosity got the better of me. Throwing on my boots and a shirt, I took a single white rose from the always-stocked vase I kept at the cottage and stepped out onto the path. Gently falling snow landed on my face as I trudged up the hill toward the mansion.

  When I reached the highest point, I stopped and looked down at the bustling estate. Christmas lights hung everywhere. The gardens were scattered with lights, illuminating their perfect landscaping. Then my eyes fell on what I knew was the great room. Inside, I saw people dancing, swirling reds and golds and greens.

  I made myself move again, wanting a closer look. I ducked past large shrubs to avoid the attention of the increased security that had been brought in to protect the exclusive guests. I came to a large window and peeked inside, making sure to stay in the shadows.

  And my eyes widened. The ballroom was a mass of color. Venetian masks of all colors and shapes and sizes were spinning around as the guests waltzed to a live orchestra. Laughter rang out over the music. I had never seen anything like it. It was as though I had been transported back in time. In this moment, the royal family was very much alive and well . . . and I was a winemaker looking in at a life that wasn’t his.

  And then I saw her.

  And I saw him.

  The crowd moved to the sides of the ballroom and clapped as a couple walked down the stairs. Zeno was dressed in royal blue with an elaborate silver mask. And Caresa . . . my Caresa, wore a deep-red sleeveless ball gown, a corset squeezing in her small waist. Her dark hair was curled and pinned up off her face. She wore long golden earrings and a pretty golden Venetian mask with golden feathers bordering the sides. Her full lips were bright red . . . she was a vision.

  Then my stomach fell. Because this was Caresa, the Duchessa di Parma. This was the woman she had been raised to be. Music began, and like the most perfect couple, she and Zeno began to waltz, their movements as perfect as they looked. The watching crowd clapped and stood in awe of the royals as they danced, as they whirled across the floor.

  A part of my soul died.

  It had been a fantasy. All of it. Seeing Caresa like this, I . . . I couldn’t disgrace her. Because I would. If she chose me over Zeno, she stood not only to lose her family, but her title and her honor. Caresa laughed and smiled as she danced, and even though my heart was breaking, I found myself smiling slightly too.

  No one would ever own my heart like Caresa. But that did not mean that we, us as a couple, were right for her. My feet backed away from the window, and I forced myself to turn from the sight of the woman I loved in another man’s arms. I wandered listlessly to the stairs that led to the balcony. I climbed each step, knowing the door to her bedroom would be open. She always left it open for me now, so I could climb into her bed at night, if she didn’t make it into mine.

  I slipped inside, and like I did the first night I was here, I drank in the room. The incredible room that suited Caresa’s birthright perfectly. It was almost, almost, as beautiful as her.

  Sitting on the side of the bed—the side where she slept—I ran my hand over the copy of Plato’s Symposium on her nightstand, then the pillow on which she slept. I laid the rose on her pillow and stared at the delicate flower on the pristine pillowcase.

  I wasn’t sure how long I sat there for, but I eventually made myself move and leave her rooms. This time I wasn’t steady in my walk back to my home; I ran. I ran, needing to feel the biting cold pinching at my face and the ice-cold wind filling my gasping lungs. The surrounding vineyards were white from the newly fallen snow, and the dark sky above was cloudless, the stars like diamonds up above.

  In that moment, they appeared just glittering as the masked ball. As unreachable too. Too far out of grasp, unattainable in their beauty . . . just as far out of my world as Caresa’s was from mine.

  I ran all the way home, the heavy soles of my boots crunching on the icy mix of soil and grass. I darted into my cottage, needing its familiar comforts to calm me down. But it offered none. For months, my father’s ghost had haunted these rooms—his seat by the fire, his calming voice in the night. But now, as I looked at the fire, as I thought of my bed,
he had been replaced by Caresa. Day by day she had consumed every part of my life just as sure as she had consumed my soul.

  And it hurt. It hurt because no matter the plans we had made, no matter the love we shared and the needs of our hearts, it couldn’t work. None of this could ever work.

  We had been fools to think so. Struck from our senses by love.

  And it hurt. It hurt so much I couldn’t breathe.

  I staggered into my bedroom and slumped onto the edge of my bed. My elbows landed on my knees, and I ran my hands through my hair. As I looked up, my eyes fell to the nightstand . . . and the letter inside called my name.

  I needed my father right now. I needed to hear his voice. I needed his help . . . I had nowhere else to turn. My reading had improved so much over the last month. And I . . . I knew I could do this.

  I had to do this.

  My fingers trembled as I opened the drawer and took out the envelope. I took in a long, deep breath, but it took me four more inhales and exhales before I could open the back and pull the four pages from their home.

  A wave of emotion overwhelmed me, and I had to glance away. I closed my eyes and imagined my father’s face. Smiling at me as he tried to teach me to read and write. Telling me that I could do it. Telling me that I could do anything if I only tried.

  With that image in my head, I steadied my hand and let my eyes meet the page. And so I read, trying to make his memory proud . . .

  My dearest son,

  If you are reading this, then know one thing: I loved you. Most fathers love their children, but you have always been special to me. You were a gift I never expected to be given. But better than that, you exceeded anything I could ever dream.

  You may have wondered why I would write you a letter. You may have wondered, why, with the challenges you face, I would be so cruel. But if you are reading this letter, I know it is because you have sought out the help you always should have been given. The help I should have moved heaven and earth to get you.