Chapter 18
FRANKIE
Thank God for Candi.
I spy her getting out of her car in a little black dress and studded Chelsea boots as I make my way down the paved stone walk to the public tasting room at Bellanti Vineyards.
I’m twenty minutes early even after taking extra care with my appearance this morning, dressing in one of my new suits and styling my hair in a long fishtail braid over one shoulder. I kept my makeup light; my aim was to look professional, but very approachable.
Still, my nerves are up—a bit of a jitter in my gut that won’t stop.
Maybe a quick chat with an old friend will do the trick in settling me down.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m nervous about, honestly.
Though in the back of my mind, I do know.
I want to prove myself to Dante, and earn my keep here at the Bellanti estate.
And beyond that, I don’t want my husband to regret giving me this job. Or decide to take it away. Being a kept woman with no occupation was never my goal. The exact opposite, in fact.
“Candi!” I wave, catching her eye.
Her smile is big and welcoming. “Frankie. How are you? Wow, that’s an amazing suit.”
“Thank you.”
I stop next to her on the walk and look down at my clothes, relieved I made the right choice.
It only took two hours of changing my mind every few minutes to decide on this outfit.
The suit is lavender-and-white striped linen, and underneath I’m wearing a cotton-silk blouse with pintuck detailing.
My three-inch nude Manolo Blahniks are fresh out of the box.
“You here on business?” I ask.
“Always,” she says.
“Me too. It’s my first day on the job. Can I walk you in?”
“Of course,” Candi says. “But only if you catch me up on all the hot gossip.”
We chat about the goings-on in Napa as we head to the tasting room, neither of us in a hurry.
Candi hasn’t been to Bella Notte yet, so I recommend it highly.
When she asks about my sisters, I give her the rosy version of what they’ve been up to.
The sun is brilliant and pleasantly warm, so we pause outside the tasting room doors for a bit, soaking it up.
The whole time, I debate whether I should tell her about Armani’s crush, but I’m not sure I know either of them well enough to play matchmaker just yet. And even though Armani is my favorite Bellanti, he’s still a Bellanti—and I know firsthand what being tied to them is like.
“So, how’s married life?” she asks.
“What?” Her question pulls me away from the noise in my head. “Oh, it’s…well, it’s an adjustment.”
“Ha! I can imagine. They all seem so aloof and unreadable. Although Armani smiles every now and then. I guess Marco does too, at least when he has a woman on his arm.”
“Yeah. And when does he not?” I quip. We laugh. “The little Bellanti definitely has a way with the ladies. But you’re right about the unreadable thing. I’m still figuring out Dante.”
She’s off to check on a delivery, so we say goodbye after making loose plans to get coffee soon.
Smoothing my hands down the front of my suit, I take a breath and stride into the tasting room.
It’s empty save for a middle-aged man with blonde hair and a neatly trimmed beard standing behind the bar.
He’s in the standard black button-down uniform, with a name tag that says Greg.
I approach with a smile and extend a hand.
“Greg, I’m Francesca Bellanti. I’ll be the sommelier this afternoon.”
He makes no attempt to hide his surprise. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bellanti. I’m the tasting room manager.”
I ignore the stilted way the words tumble from his mouth. I’m getting a bit of a combative vibe from him and I need to smooth it over. No tension in the tasting room to sour the guests’ experiences.
“Thank you, you as well. May I see today’s schedule, please?”
He takes a clipboard from the wall behind him.
Beautiful wine cases are stacked floor to ceiling behind the bar, and along the far wall of the room, each rack is filled with Bellanti wines.
My chest swells at the sight. This is what success looks like.
This is what a winery should be: a showcase of hard work, expertise, and delectable craftsmanship.
I thank Greg and take the clipboard. He puts his hands on the bar and watches me as I flip through the pages of wine selections, with fruit and cheese pairings listed beside each one. I pull a pen from my pocket and mull over the wines on the list.
“May I?” I gesture to the wine racks behind the bar.
“Of course. Make yourself at home. I’ve got a bit to do in the back.” His smile is tight as he leaves me.
Taking my time, I look for the bottles on the list, which I pull and set on the bar.
Curious about the entire selection available here, I peruse the other vintages around the room and pull a few additional bottles that catch my eye.
Before long, I have an impressive row lined up.
Considering the fruit and cheeses that are being offered today, I rearrange the line up with the wine I think will pair best and mark my suggested changes on the schedule.
When I’m done, there are only two wines left from the original list. Oops.
But Dante did give me the job, at least for today, so I’m going for it full throttle.
I stand back and look at my selections, nodding approvingly, and then put all the others back. Greg comes in and does a double take at the lineup. He presses his lips into a thin line, as if he’s holding himself back from saying what’s really on his mind, and then clears his throat.
“None of these are on the schedule, Mrs. Bellanti.”
“That is correct. Well, these two are.” I tap the corks with my finger.
“Mrs. Bellanti, I’ve been the tasting room manager for five years. My team and I carefully plan out the daily selections weeks in advance.”
I get it. I’m stepping on toes. Too bad, so sad.
“And you and your team obviously do a spectacular job, considering the ongoing success of Bellanti tasting events,” I say.
“But I couldn’t help noticing the framed newspaper article on the wall in the entry that alludes to today’s date marking the anniversary of Bellanti Vineyards opening all those years ago.
Today is the winery’s birthday, if you will. ”
Greg’s brow lifts as if he’s not quite following me. “True; however, we only celebrate milestone birthdays. That article marked the 50th. This year is nothing special.”
I put up a finger. “I have to disagree. Every year should be celebrated. It’s an opportunity to market the history of the wines, and considering that we’re coming into fall wedding season, it’s the perfect way to cross-market to that demographic.
Let our anniversary help celebrate yours…
you see what I’m getting at? In fact, there should be a specific selection marketed just for anniversaries. ”
Frowning, Greg steps in front of me. “Most of what you’ve chosen is exponentially more expensive than what was on the list. We don’t want the guests sampling wines they won’t buy.”
“Understood. However, the vintages I’ve chosen—and in this order—tell a much better story of the vineyard, don’t you think? From simple table wine to world-renowned blends. If they love it, they’ll buy it. Regardless of price.”
He crosses his arms, and I know he’s not going to see my vision. I’m plowing ahead with it anyway. “But the cost, Mrs. Bellanti. We’ll be pouring out hundreds of dollars. Thousands.”
“Which means every person who comes through these doors will walk back out with stars in their eyes, knowing firsthand how spectacular our wines are.”
Greg is unmoved.
With a sigh, I say, “Fine. Go ahead and dock my pay and I’ll cover the cost myself. These are our selections.”
He doesn’t say another word to me as we set up the room.
At 11:30 sharp, he opens the doors to a line of people waiting to get in.
It doesn’t take long for the room to fill up, guests seated both inside and out on the shaded patio.
I work my way from table to table with the waitstaff, describing the wines, tossing out tidbits about the vineyard, and mentioning the winery’s anniversary.
Outside, a silver-haired couple stops me to ask about the red they’re sipping.
It’s the priciest wine on today’s list, but that doesn’t stop them from picking my brain about every last nuance and enjoying their glasses to the last drop.
As I stride back inside and join Greg at the bar, I feel a pang of pride. He has a line of guests to ring up for purchases, and to my delight, most every bottle he sells is from the high-end line that I selected. He gives me a side-eye, smiling a little bit, and I take that as a truce.
Just then, the couple I’d been speaking to earlier comes up and orders a few cases of the Elite Reserve—our most expensive wine. For their daughter’s upcoming wedding, they tell me, and an extra bottle for their own anniversary at the end of the month.
“How wonderful. Congratulations to your whole family,” I say warmly.
Cocking my head, I watch Greg flick his eyes up good-naturedly as he completes the sale and arranges for some of the waitstaff to help load the cases into the couple’s car.
“Okay, okay,” he finally says. “You were clearly right about the selection and the anniversary thing. I’ve never had so many people mention the winery’s anniversary before.”
“Probably because you don’t celebrate it. Hopefully, that changes after today.”
He laughs. “I’m sure it will.” He swipes the credit card of another guest ordering multiple cases of wine, then lowers his voice. “Just between us, we used to have a staff member who did a bang-up job planning the wine lists, but her replacement is a bit of an idiot.”
As if on cue, Jessica walks in wearing a dress much too short to do actual work in.
“Speak of the devil,” Greg murmurs under his breath.
She makes her way toward us, her expression morphing from cocky confidence to shock as she takes in the open bottles of pricy wine on the bar. Beelining straight to Greg, she scowls as she hisses, “Who’s the stupid asshole who fucked up the wine tasting?”
The waitstaff must see the Look in her eye, because they all disappear like roaches when a light goes on. Luckily, the last guest has already wandered to the outside patio—which is a relief, since Jessica wasn’t a bit concerned about keeping her voice down.
I cross my hands on the countertop and smile sweetly. “Asshole? Maybe. But stupid, I am not. Is there a problem?”
Jessica’s brows shoot up. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed me. But she does now.
“Frankie. So good to see you again. And with all your clothes on, for once,” she says.
“Well,” I say, smile still pasted to my face, “you do have to get a little naked for truly mind-blowing sex.”
Oh, does that feel good as it comes out of my mouth. Jessica’s nostrils flare.
“Not if he’s banging you over a desk,” she points out.
I nod, pretending to mull it over. So we’re doing this. I’m flying pretty high after the successful event, so fine. I’m all in. Leaning over my arms, I say, “That’s a great suggestion, sweetie. We don’t have a desk in our bedroom, but maybe we’ll have to get one.”
Greg is looking between us, clearly enjoying the show. He suddenly stiffens and Jessica’s entire demeanor changes as Dante strides into the room.
Taking in the scene, he looks at me with one eyebrow hitched. “How’s your first tasting going?” he asks.
Jessica tries to put a possessive hand on his arm but he moves away, taking a closer look at the more expensive bottles lined up on the bar just like she did a moment ago.
“Have a look at today’s sales receipts,” I tell him. I nudge Greg, who prints out a receipt with the grand total and hands it to Dante. He looks over it, then shifts his gaze up to me.
“How did you do this?” he asks.
I shrug. “We uncorked some of the rarer vintages for the lineup, which people seemed to appreciate, and we played up the fact that it’s the winery’s anniversary today. I suggested we push the Elite Reserve as the perfect anniversary wine. As you can see, the guests agreed.”
Dante lowers the paper and smiles.
It’s a real smile, a rare one, both ends of his lips curving up. My heart flips and I can’t help but smile back, even though his quickly disappears again.
He leans over the bar and gives me a kiss on the cheek. His lips linger, his voice low so only I can hear. “Don’t forget, you have work to do on that other project as well.”
Then he kisses me again, his warm lips pressed against my temple. I pull in a breath as sweet warmth cascades over me. He winks as he walks away.
When I turn back to Jessica, I realize this entire day was worth it.
She’s positively green with envy.
It is perfection.