Caresa came closer until she was right before me. I had to clench my hands into fists at my sides to stop them from reaching for her. I could see the torment flickering on her face too, the understanding in her eyes when they fell to my tensed arms.
Neither of us said anything out loud. Both of us were trying to change poles on the magnetic draw that always pulsed whenever we were near one another. If possible, it was even stronger today. Now it had a taste for what we felt like joined, it refused to have things any other way.
It could never happen.
“You are nearly finished?” Caresa broke the silence first, stepping back to point at the bucket of grapes.
“It’s almost time for putting the fermented wines into the aging barrels.”
“I’m excited for that,” Caresa said and smiled. And it was a genuine smile. I could tell by the way two tiny lines creased at the corner of her eyes. “How is Rosa?”
“Missing you,” I blurted, the air between us thickening again. We both understood the subtext. I was missing her. I was missing her more than I’d imagined was possible, as if a hole caved in my heart a little bit more with each day she was gone.
Caresa lowered her head, and with such sadness in her voice, confessed, “I missed her too.”
She lifted her head. Her beautiful dark eyes caught my gaze and held it for a long moment.
“Moka?” I offered, walking to my coffee pot, desperate to put some space between us.
“Thank you.” Caresa moved to the table she had set up. When I came back, coffee in hand, she said, “I hope you can take a break now and we can start this.” Her pretty face was so hopeful.
It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I found myself agreeing. I wondered if she had any idea of the effect she had on me.
“Good,” she said excitedly. “Then maybe I can help you crush the grapes later tonight?”
My hand froze as my cup of coffee was just about at my lips. Memories of being in the barrel a few days before were suddenly all I could think about. “I’m . . .” I cleared my throat. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Caresa.”
Her face beamed with redness, and a nervous laugh escaped her lips. “No,” she sighed. “I suppose it’s not.”
She sat down and patted the chair beside her. I sat warily, my eyes raking over the sheets of paper she had brought. I stared at the pens and pencils, and the strange rubber casings placed over them.
“They are tripod grips. They’re designed to help your grip when you write,” Caresa explained. I tensed, realizing she must have been watching me closely. She picked up a pencil and held it in her hand—just like all the kids at school had done with ease.
It was pathetic really, but I envied her. I envied anyone who took these small, simple things for granted. “I got these from Rome. They help your fingers find greater purchase on a pencil or pen. We can assess whether you are showing signs of dyspraxia. If you are, these will help.” She offered the pencil to me. As she did, I saw her eyes focus on the way I was holding my cup. My fingers were not on the handle as they should be; instead I was grabbing the small ceramic cup with my whole hand.
Clumsily.
As if to highlight how hard holding this tiny cup was for me, my fingers slipped from its sides and it crashed to the ground. It shattered into pieces on the concrete floor, splashing the last few drops of my coffee under the table.
I jumped from my seat, the chair legs scraping loudly on the floor. My heart slammed against my ribs in embarrassment. I turned on my heel, trying to get away, only to stumble over the chair that I had pushed behind me.
“Achille!” Caresa called out as I righted myself and rushed out of the barn. My chest was so tight I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. The hit of fresh air helped. I hated being inside. I didn’t like to be cooped up.
I didn’t like trying to fool myself that the things Caresa had brought would do a jot of good.
“Achille.” Caresa’s breathless voice sounded softly from behind me. My hands were balled at my sides as I tried to calm myself down. Without looking back at her, I said, “I . . . I don’t think I can do this.” My voice cut out when my throat became too clogged to speak through. I swallowed, trying to push the suffocating lump away. “It’s hopeless, Caresa,” I whispered. “Just . . . let it be. I’ve got by this far. I’m . . . fine.”
A strong gust of wind whipped around me. The days were cooling rapidly now, the autumn weather closing in. I took the shirt from around my waist and put it on, fighting to snap the fasteners down the front. It was always a challenge, but my hands were shaking more than usual, making the task damn near impossible. When the shaking became too much for me to contend with, I just let the shirt remain open, the cool breeze biting at my torso.
Light footsteps sounded from behind me, and Caresa moved into my peripheral vision. I still didn’t look at her. I couldn’t . . . I was . . . I was humiliated.
But she didn’t let me withdraw. She moved into my line of sight, strong and brazen. When she laid her hand on my chest, I couldn’t help but look down. Her eyes were focused on the fasteners as her slim, unhurried fingers fastened them. When she had closed the last one, her long lashes fluttered, and she finally met my eyes. Her hand was still pressed against my flannel shirt, right over my heart.
“Achille Marchesi, I think this is the first time since we met that I’ve seen you wear something on your torso.” My stomach was tight, mortification still ran thickly in my blood, yet, at her light teasing, I found myself smiling. It wasn’t much of a smile but, for a moment, she had chased away my pain.
A teasing expression played on her face, before it fell as she said, “You don’t wear a shirt much because of the buttons, do you?”
All the fight left my body. “I have many shirts that have no buttons, that are easy to put on. But over the years I found myself unable to give in. I gave up trying to write, gave up trying to read. My father always wore these shirts. And I don’t know why, but I was damned well going to wear them too. I always get there in the end. I buy the snap fasteners to make things easier for me.”
“Normal buttons are too challenging?”
I nodded curtly.
“Your jeans have that fastener too,” she stated. “Unusual on jeans. I thought so the other night.”
I sighed. “Eliza . . . she modifies them for me. Has done since I was young. She and her husband, Sebastian, know that I have . . . limitations.”
Caresa stepped closer. I wanted to kiss her forehead. I wanted to be the person who was allowed to freely kiss her lips and confide in her my greatest fears. But I wasn’t, so I remained stock still.
A heavy silence stretched between us. I broke it by saying, “I am a hopeless case, Caresa. Ride Rosa, help me with the wine, but let this go. I have. I have come to terms with the fact that some things in life I simply cannot, and will not, do.”
“No,” she argued, a hint of fire in her hardening voice. “Don’t give up, Achille. I know it is scary, facing something that has burdened you for so long. I don’t know who encouraged you to stop trying, but you can do this. You just have to trust me.” Caresa took one more step closer until she was pressed against me. I closed my eyes at the feel of her warmth, at her peach scent filling my nose. “Do you trust me, Achille?”
I heard the nervous tremor in her voice.
I realized she wanted me to trust her.
She was worried that I did not.
“Yes.” I spoke honestly. “I trust you.”
I opened my eyes and saw relief and then happiness flood Caresa’s beautiful face. Her hands ran down my chest until they fell from my body. But before I could miss her touch, her hand wrapped around mine.
“Come back to the barn. Trust that I can help.”
I stared at her delicate fingers, so slim and soft, caged by my large rough ones. “I’m so embarrassed,” I confided, feeling my pride take the heavy hit of this confession. “You’re going to think I’m stupid.”
Car
esa’s hand squeezed mine tighter. “Achille, seeing you face a demon that has held you in its grip since childhood will not make me think you are stupid. In fact, quite the opposite. Taking this on, accepting a challenge as great as this will be—it is the single most impressive thing you could do. You are a magician when it comes to your wine, a master; anyone can see that. But do me a favor. Just . . . just close your eyes.”
I was puzzled, but did as she asked. “Picture yourself in your barn when the labels for next year’s vintage arrive. Picture yourself reading the beautiful script, proudly reading Bella Collina Reserve. Imagine the moment you see the words that will announce to the world that this is your wine.” I could see it. I could see it so vividly in my mind’s eye that I almost believed it was real. And I felt the rush of happiness it brought, to actually be able to read the words for myself.
“Now imagine being in your cottage, beside the fire.” She stopped. I wondered why. Then she spoke again, and I knew. “Imagine having your wife by your side, lying in front of the fire, her head nestled in your lap. Imagine you are reading to her in the firelight, the wood crackling in the hearth and the smell of the burning oak filling the room. You are stroking her hair as you read her your favorite story. And she has her eyes closed, cherishing the moment, knowing she is the happiest woman on earth.”
“Plato,” I said, my voice graveled and torn. “I am reading from Plato’s Symposium, about split-aparts and completed souls.”
Caresa was silent, completely silent, yet my mind was alive with thought. Because in my vision, the one she was painting so perfectly, there could only be one woman listening to me speak. She had dark hair and dark eyes and the kindest, purest soul. It was her. Caresa, as my wife, lying with me by the crackling fire, listening to Plato, my hand running through her hair.
My missing half.
Caresa’s breathing hitched. Just as I went to open my eyes, she instructed, “Then imagine your child, a little boy, just like you. You are reading him Tolkien, as your father had done with you. Imagine how full with life and pride and joy you feel. Because you have overcome your reading challenges for him, and for her—whomever she may be.”
Caresa’s voice cut out. I opened my eyes, and her eyes were glassy. “I see it so clearly,” I said. “I see them both so clearly.” I left out that it was her I could see, and the boy made by us.
“Good,” she said in a faltering voice. “Then hold on to that image. When you feel like giving up, let the image of this future give you the strength to keep going. Because it is possible, Achille. Everyone deserves the chance to read and write. Especially you.”
My head fell forward. I couldn’t take looking at her any longer. I was afraid that I might kiss her lips if I did.
“Come back inside,” Caresa said. “Let me assess where we are, then let me begin to help.” I blew out a long breath of air, but nodded, allowing Caresa to lead me back into the barn.
She did not let go of my hand until we were seated at the table. She picked up the pen again and held it out for me to take. With my heart beating wildly and sweat coating my palm, I took it in my hand. I concentrated on holding it correctly. Caresa shifted my fingers until they were in the correct position. A jolt of surprise ran through me when the pen didn’t slip. When, helped by the rubber casing Caresa had put on, the pen stayed in my hand. It didn’t exactly feel right. But it didn’t exactly feel wrong either.
“Does that help?” she asked cautiously.
I blinked; my vision had suddenly become blurry. “Yes,” I said, moving my wrist, feeling the added grip of the pen between my fingers.
“Good!” Caresa exclaimed. She took the pen from my hand and placed it on the table. Next she placed a piece of paper in front of me. I could see the words written on it.
Caresa inched closer. “Try and read the first word for me.”
I glanced away, hating that the written word made me feel this way. A warm comforting hand covered mine, chasing away some of my nerves. I pulled myself together and turned back to the page. I ran my eyes over the first word. I could see the first letter was a V, but I struggled with the second. Within moments my eyes were straining. I sat back from the table and ran my hand down my face. “I can see the letters, but I don’t understand how the word sounds. I can’t hear it in my head. Without hearing it, I don’t understand it.” I looked at Caresa, who was listening attentively. “Does that make any sense?”
“Completely,” she said. “But we can help with that. We can use the multi-sensory approach.” She edged closer. “People with dyslexia often obtain a greater grasp of the words by using three things.” Caresa lifted her hand, and I swallowed when she touched her index finger to my eyelid. “Seeing the word.” She moved her hand to my mouth, and my blood rushed faster through my veins. “Saying the word aloud.” Finally, she brushed her hand past my ear, and shivers broke out across my skin. “And hearing the word repeated back.”
She drew back her hand and took different colored pens to the page. She ran a red pen over two letters. “We can also color-code the vowels and the letters that give the word its sound. We can help you phonetically. We can help you identify the syllables. You will eventually understand the words by sounding them out in your head.”
“Really?” I asked doubtfully.
Caresa pushed the paper back before me. I ran my eyes over the letters: V I N O. I didn’t quite know what it said, but the different colors helped me make out the different letters.
“Can you decipher the letters?” Caresa asked. I told her what they were, using my finger as a guide on the paper.
Caresa’s responding smile was wide and bright and free. “Achille,” she whispered. “You are not illiterate. You understand letters. You can read letters.”
“I attended school until I was thirteen, before the king suggested I be pulled out.”
Caresa’s face became a mass of confusion. “The king encouraged you to leave school?”
“Yes. The teachers said I needed more help than they could give me—the school wasn’t equipped. It was a small village school. My father asked the king for help as we didn’t have the money to afford specialized treatment on our own. The king sided with some of the teachers who agreed I was just slow. He thought it better that I followed in my father’s footsteps and poured myself into learning the craft of winemaking, especially the merlot. He promised my father that he would get me tutors to help me along as I worked. But it never happened. By the time my father had had enough and demanded the king make good on his promise, too much time had passed.
“If I had gone back into the mainstream school, I would have been two or more years behind, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of that. I fought with my father over it. It was the only time we had ever fought. In the end, he agreed to school me at home. He tried, but in the end, my issues were beyond his grasp. He had a vineyard to run, and time just slipped away. I never knew why the king did what he did. It was as though he wanted me kept out of sight. Eventually, my father and I got used to my lack of academic abilities. I threw myself completely into winemaking, and a few years later I became the head winemaker. At age sixteen I made my very own vintage. I did it all myself; my father simply looked on.”
“2008,” Caresa murmured, that same hint of awe in her voice that she’d had the first day we met.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“That year is historic for the Savona Bella Collina merlot. It is the year the wine became better than ever before. Achille, the 2008 vintage is the most expensive bottle of merlot in the world.”
“It is?” I said in surprise, not daring to believe it was the truth.
“How can you not know this?” she asked in amazement.
“Because that part of the process doesn’t interest me. For me it is about the making and aging of the wine, not the price.”
A loving expression blossomed on Caresa’s face. “I know,” she said quietly. “Then you don’t know that the winner of the International Wine
Awards will be announced at three p.m. on the day of Bella Collina’s grape-crushing festival. You may well win again. You have not lost in years.”
“The king has always accepted the acclaim.” I laughed to myself. “I have never even seen the awards. King Santo always kept them to display over in the main estate.”
“Achille, that is awful.” Caresa was appalled, and I didn’t think she even noticed that she had once again put her hand in mine.
“I don’t mind. I don’t like being the center of attention. King Santo was good at it. Prince Zeno will be no different. If we win, he will take the praise and the award. And I’ll be content with knowing that I have produced the best wine possible. I am happy with my quiet life, Caresa. I am not born for balls and parties, crowds and big affairs. In fact, I couldn’t think of anything worse.”
I didn’t mean to upset her. But I knew I had when Caresa turned her head and pointed back to the word on the page.
“Caresa?” I asked, wanting to know what I had done wrong.
She batted her hand in front of her face and threw on a smile. It was fake. I could see it was fake. I wondered if this was the polished face of the Duchessa di Parma I was witnessing.
I decided right then that if it was, I preferred my Caresa.
Caresa’s gaze drifted out of the barn doors, then back to the sheets of paper on the table. “Let’s get on with this. I don’t want you to have to sacrifice too much time with your beloved wine.”
Minutes later, and after a long process of sounding out which letters made which sounds, I smiled. “Vino. The word is vino.”
“The most authentic learning comes when there is a connection between the student and the subject. This way, the words are familiar to you and will therefore help you better understand the rules of spelling and sounds. You are every inch a winemaker, down to your very soul. It made sense to me that we should use these familiar words.”
My chest constricted at just how much thought and energy Caresa had put into this task. A task she got nothing from.
“Thank you,” I said, knowing these two words were inadequate to describe the depth of my gratitude.