I turned away abruptly, desperate to escape her attention and my wayward thoughts. My heart was stuttering simply by being beside her. I wasn’t used to these feelings.
I wasn’t used to this kind of attention from anyone, period.
“I can’t believe it,” Caresa murmured from behind me. My shoulders stiffened. The next thing I knew she had walked around me. I reluctantly met her eyes with my own and was taken aback by the intensity of the fascination I saw there. “Achille,” she murmured. My name sounded like a prayer from her lips. “I can’t believe I’m actually here, with you.”
“Me? Why?”
She reared back, a furrow marring her brow. “My father is part-owner of these vineyards, and even he does not know who makes the Bella Collina Reserve. As the child of a wine distributor, specifically of the Bella Collina merlot, meeting you is . . .” She shook her head. Her gaze lowered, and then, shyly peeking up at me through her long lashes, she said, “Achille Marchesi, I have three loves in my life: psychology, horses and wine.” She shrugged, and the adorable action almost destroyed me. “Especially the Bella Collina merlot. There is nothing like it for me. It is, in one word . . . ” She paused, then proudly announced, “Perfection.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of reply that praise warranted.
Caresa waited for me to speak. When I did not react, she cast a long gaze around the vineyard. “I can’t believe I’m standing in the vineyard where the merlot is made, grown and nurtured.” She reached out to touch a bunch of grapes beside us. “You hand-harvest all of these?”
“Yes,” I replied, watching with assessing eyes as she delicately lifted the fruit in her hand. I wanted to see if she knew what she was doing. That question was answered when she said, “These are not ready yet, are they? I can tell by the color of their skin. They are not a deep enough red?” Her eager face looked to me for confirmation. I studied the grapes in question, then felt a small smile pull on my lips. “You are right.”
“I am?” she said breathlessly.
I nodded.
“Achille?” Caresa asked. “Do you do all this alone? The picking, crushing, fermenting, bottling . . . everything?”
A sudden stab of pain sliced through my chest. I cleared my throat and rasped, “I do now.”
Sympathy flooded her pretty face. She did not push me for a longer answer, for which I was thankful. The truth was, I had been on my own for the past two years. With his illness, Papa hadn’t been able to do much of anything except advise. He had been too ill to attempt manual labor, but he was always there beside me, instructing me, keeping me in check. I never realized how much I had relied on his advice until he was gone.
Life for me now was just so . . . silent.
“How can you be sure they are ready?” Caresa asked, pulling me back to the here and now. “The pressure to make such a sought-after wine must be so difficult to handle.”
I shrugged.
“It isn’t?” Her eyes were wide as she waited for my answer. Her black lashes were so long that they were like fans as she blinked, her cute nose twitching as a loose strand of hair tickled the tip.
I could scarcely look away.
“No.” I bent down and took a bunch of grapes from the bucket at my feet. I plucked off a single grape and held it out. “This is ready. I know this by the shape, the weight, the color, and by the taste.”
“How do you ‘just know?’” she inquired, studying the grape in my hand as if it were the world’s most unsolvable puzzle.
“Because these grapes are my life. My grandfather was the original winemaker of this vintage, then my father, and now me. I do not use machinery in any part of the process because everything I know is kept here.” I pointed to my heart, then to my head, then to my roughened hands. “There has not been a day in my life when I have not been out here with these vines, harvesting or producing the wine. It is all I have ever known. This vineyard . . . it is my home, in every sense of the word.”
Caresa’s smile came slowly to her mouth. And when it did, I was trapped in her pull, fascinated by the golden skin on her cheeks. “This is your heart’s passion. Your why in life,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
I thought of the happiness I found out here each day, knowing there was nothing else in the world I would rather be doing. In fact, without this vineyard in my life, I wasn’t sure what my purpose would be, how I would find peace and joy.
“Yes.”
“It’s why your wine is the best. Passion fused with knowledge always births greatness.”
A sudden warmth burst in my chest at her words. Your wine is the best . . .
“Thank you,” I said honestly. A heavy silence followed. I needed to get back to work, but I did not want to be rude by walking away. As I tried to make myself speak, to explain, I realized that I didn’t really want her to leave. Shock rippled through me. I lifted my hand and ran it through my hair.
“Achille?”
I dropped my hand to my side.
Caresa’s eyes went to the bucket of grapes at my feet, then back to me. “Could I . . . would it be possible, if I . . . helped?”
Taken aback, I clarified, “You want to help harvest the grapes?”
Caresa smiled and nodded. “I have always wanted to understand your wine. How it is made, the process.” She took a deep inhale. “I would be honored to see you work.”
I glanced down at my dirty hands and my even dirtier jeans. I allowed myself to look Caresa over. “You will not remain clean,” I warned. “It is messy work. It is hard work.”
“I know,” she replied. “When I lived in Parma when I was young, or when visiting for the summer, I helped in our family’s vineyard. I know the effort it entails.” I was surprised by the quiet hard edge to her voice. She was the aristocracy. I did not know many people of the upper class, but the ones I had met or seen were not the type of people to spend their days in the fields, working from sunup to sundown.
Caresa must have taken my silence for refusal. Her arms wrapped around her waist, and the flash of hurt on her face was almost my undoing. “It’s fine, really,” she said and forced a smile. “I understand. It is a sacred process, and a secretive one to boot.” She shook her head and moved past me. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
She made her way toward the end of the row of vines, and I found myself saying, “You are the duchessa. You are the lady of the house. This will soon be your land. You may do as you wish.”
Caresa stopped dead in her tracks. Her back tensed. Her shoulders stiffened, then dropped, and she looked back at me, her bright eyes dulled. “I would rather you agreed not because I am the future wife of the prince, but because I am a genuine lover of wine and utterly fascinated by you and your work.” My stomach rolled at the sound of the sadness in her gentle voice. She looked so small and fragile.
Then I remembered that she had not long arrived in Italy from America. Maybe she knew no one either.
I had no experience with this type of situation. I had upset her. I could see that. I never wanted to make anyone sad.
I averted my eyes to stare at the ground beneath my feet. “Then please stay.”
I heard Caresa’s quick inhale of breath. When I looked up she was watching me closely. I rocked on my feet. “I will show you. Not because of who you are, but because you want to know and love my wine.”
Caresa didn’t move for several seconds. As color filled her cheeks and a happy smile returned to her face, she walked back and stopped before me. “So where do we begin?”
Confused by the heady feeling of blood pumping fast around my body, I turned and dragged the bucket at my feet to the next section of vines. Caresa was instantly by my side. I bent down and leaned in to a bunch of grapes. As educated by my papa, I studied them, feeling their weight, gauging their color.
The feeling of her warm breath sent shivers down my spine, bringing goose bumps to my skin. My hands froze on the grapes as the warmth hit the back of my neck. I turned around; Caresa was very close,
watching me over my shoulder, fascination clear in her expression. At my movement, her eyes fell from my hands on the grapes and collided with mine.
I didn’t move.
Nor did she.
We just stayed still, breathing in the same air.
A gentle breeze skated over her hair, blowing the loose strands across her face. The wind broke whatever spell had been cast on us. Caresa moved back. She pushed her hair from her eyes and, red-faced, apologized. “Sorry, I was trying to see what you were doing.”
I cleared my throat, ignoring the pulse slamming in my neck. “Checking the quality of the fruit,” I explained. Shifting to allow her closer, I pointed to the grapes. “Please, come closer.”
Caresa didn’t hesitate, taking only a second to crouch beside me, concentrating on my hands. The breeze blew over her hair again, and the scent of peach and vanilla filled the air.
“You are checking the coloring and weight?” Caresa asked, unaware that I was staring at her . . . that my heart was beating too fast. Her skin was flawless, so soft and pure. Her hair was dark and shiny like the finest Perugian chocolate.
Caresa turned to face me, and I immediately refocused on the grapes. “Yes.” I lifted the bunch in my fingers. “They must be heavy. It means they are full of juice and should hold the perfect amount of sweetness. The red skin must be deep in tone, with no patches of lighter flesh.”
Caresa nodded, drinking in my every word. A surge of something unrecognizable took hold of me as she listened, as she learned . . . as she shared in this with me. I pulled my hand back from the grapes. “Would you like to feel them?”
Caresa’s eyebrows rose, but she quickly nodded, eager to be taught. She placed her hand underneath them. “How should I do it? How will I know what I’m looking for?”
I was unsure how to explain it. I had to show her. I had to guide her.
Feeling my cheeks flood with heat, I brought my hand under hers and, with my palm and fingers, guided her to the grapes. I leaned in closer, so close that our cheeks were only a few centimeters apart. “Feel the heaviness in your fingers,” I instructed. “Allow your fingertips to press lightly into the flesh to test its fullness.” Caresa gently, and with an innate delicacy, did as I said.
“Like this?” she whispered, sotto voce, as if the very sound of our voices might disturb the grapes, currently so happy at home on the vine.
“Yes.” Guiding her hand further, I slipped my fingers to a single grape and, taking hold of one of her fingers, used it to rotate the grape in a circle to check the coloring. Caresa was as methodical and patient as the task required, extra-careful not to snap the precious fruit from its stem.
“It’s perfect,” she murmured and turned her face toward me. She blinked, once, twice. “It is, isn’t it? Perfect?”
“Yes,” I rasped, unsure if my reply was referring to the grape or to her.
Caresa’s breath hitched. “So it is ready to pick?”
Using the hand still on hers, I took the grape from its stem. “The last test is the taste.” I placed the single grape in the palm of her hand. Taking another grape for me, I brought it to my mouth and bit into its fleshy ripeness. The burst of intense sweetness immediately told me what I needed to know.
Caresa watched my every move, then as I tipped my head toward her in encouragement, she took the grape into her mouth. Her eyes widened when the taste hit her tongue. A light groan left her throat, and she momentarily closed her eyes. When she swallowed, she opened her eyes and whispered, “Achille . . . how do you make them taste like this?”
“What did you notice?” I asked, fascinated by her first experience with the process.
Her eyebrows pulled down in thought, her cheeks hollow as she examined the aftertaste in her mouth. “Extremely sweet. Juicy and soft,” she said. “Is that right?”
I felt a flutter of pride for her and could not help but smile. “Yes. This means these grapes are ready.”
A happy laugh slipped from her lips as she stared at the grapes. “I see now,” she said reverently. “I see why you do this by hand. Machines could not give you these moments, could they? They cannot measure what our senses are capable of telling us.” Her gaze met mine. “I truly see it, Achille.”
I nodded curtly, tearing my eyes from her elated face. I took the secateurs from the bucket. “Would you like to cut them?”
“Yes, please,” Caresa said. As before, she let me guide her hand with my own. My arm brushed hers as she took the grapes from the vine. Pulling back, I dragged the bucket near to where she crouched. As carefully as she had performed everything else, she laid the grapes down on top.
She exhaled deeply, then with fire in her deep brown eyes, asked, “And now we do it again?”
My lip hooked up into a smirk. “I must get through three rows by the end of today.”
“Then I can most certainly help with that,” she said, her voice laced with excitement.
I shuffled along to the next bunch, Caresa my eager shadow. And just as before, I talked her through every step. Ever the perfect student, she readily absorbed every word and every movement. As I watched her eat another grape, assessing the taste and texture, I couldn’t help but think that my father would have loved her. He wasn’t a complex man. He never understood why people complicated their lives. He loved me, had loved my mother and loved what he did. But as much as that, he loved these vines.
His heart would have swelled if he could have seen Caresa, the future mistress of this land, share so passionately in his life’s work.
“They’re ready,” Caresa said, pulling me from my musings. I took a grape from the same vine, just to make sure she was correct. As the intense flavor graced my palate, the sweetness levels at their peak, I turned to a silent, watching Caresa. “You are right.”
I sat back as Caresa cut down the bunch and placed it in the bucket. And for the next three hours, her smiles came frequently as she sorted the ripe grapes from their unripe neighbors.
With Pavarotti playing in the background courtesy of my father’s ancient cassette player, we completed the three rows ahead of schedule. And for the first time in seven months, I realized how much I enjoyed not doing the harvest alone.
It was . . . nice for someone to share in these moments.
And I liked Caresa’s smiles.
They were almost as sweet as the grapes.
Chapter Five
Caresa
I stood up, stretching my aching muscles. My legs shook from being crouched down for so long. Yet, despite the aches and pains, I felt good. Better than I had in a long time.
The sound of boots on the ground approached from behind me. When I turned, Achille was walking toward me. He had taken the last bucket of grapes to the barn. I had stayed behind to make sure no bunches of grapes on the row had been missed. They had not. I hadn’t really thought Achille would have made that kind of mistake anyway.
His eyes were on me, and as I looked up our gazes clashed. Achille swiftly turned his attention to the ground and ran his hand over the back of his neck. I noticed he did that when he was nervous. Throughout the morning, Achille had mostly kept quiet. He wasn’t one to waste his words. Everything he said was direct and offered with purpose—an instruction or explanation or, my favorite, praise that I had done something right. But there was no awkwardness in our lack of conversation. Words had not been needed. In the silence, he displayed his greatness. At times, I had been utterly taken aback by how much he knew about wine, how carefully and beautifully he cared for each precious step. It felt as if noise and idle chatter would have only soured the process.
I didn’t know his age. He didn’t look much older than me, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. But what he knew about the harvest was astounding.
There was no doubt that Achille was beautiful. I thought so even more now, his bare torso glistening in the bright sunshine, his dark stubble shadowing his chiseled face. But more attractive still was the love he devoted to his work. In the few hours we had
spent out here in the field, I saw more of his heart than he could have ever have expressed in words. His cheek would twitch with pride when I did something right. His nostrils would flare slightly, eyes drifting to a close, long lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks, when he savored a perfectly flavored grape. His lips would purse slightly in concentration as he felt a bunch in his rough palm, eyes cast away so he could simply feel. His trust in his instincts showed him the way. He was simplicity incarnate, yet simultaneously so complex. I wanted to get inside the mind of this maestro of viniculture. Wanted to hear his thoughts out loud.
Wanted to understand what true greatness felt like.
“Are . . . are you hungry?” Achille asked, dragging me back to the present.
I opened my mouth to speak, and my stomach growled. I couldn’t help it. I laughed, placing my hand over my stomach. My laughter caught on the breeze and echoed around the vineyard.
Achille was staring at my mouth, his lips slightly parted. The sight quickly sobered me. I schooled my expression, and Achille seemed to snap out of whatever trance he had been in.
“I have food.” He turned on his heel, heading toward the barn. I followed, wondering why my laughter had held him so captive. As I passed through the low-hanging trees toward the barn, I noticed the horses grazing in the paddock.
When I entered the barn, my eyes widened at the sight. Barrels were packed high, rows and rows stretching along the vast space. The barn seemed large from outside, but inside it was huge. To the side were a couple of fermenting vats, and beside them an old basket press. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that all his tools were made of wood. In modern-day winemaking, all tools had generally moved toward the mechanical. Presses were mostly pneumatic. This made the process quicker, easy to handle, with consistent and measurable results.
Quicker production equaled more profit.
Wooden equipment and hand-harvesting were viewed by many as unnecessarily traditional. I had never been persuaded. To me, the old-fashioned ways showed true human skill, using one’s knowledge and judgment over computers and gauges. It showed that the winemaker cared for his craft, nurturing his wine like parents nurtured their children.