Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Giovanni
I wake up before dawn. A habit despite the travel and jet lag. No point fighting it. I dress quietly, pull on boots at the door, and step out into the kind of cold that cleans out your lungs.
The vineyard is slate-blue at this hour. Rows run like ruled lines down the hill; posts damp with night. Dew beads on the wires, and the first birds test the air with thin sounds.
Somewhere far off, a tractor coughs to life and then gives up. I take the lower path, gravel underfoot, hands in my pockets, breath puffing out.
I walk until the house is a pale shape on the rise.
It looks older from here. Tile roof, thick walls, the tower that’s more charm these days than defense.
The vines on either side are still asleep.
Buds tight. Work ahead. Vineyard time keeps you honest; it doesn’t care what you want, it cares what you do every day.
I’ve worked these fields and have the scars to prove it. Discipline, my mother called it. Torture is what I called it at the time.
It took years after she was gone to realize she was right all along.
I try not to think about last night and fail. Bringing Bianca here instead of dropping her in the city. My house. I told myself it was late, the drive long, the address a mess at night. All true. Also true: I wanted her under my roof.
I snort. So much for discipline, huh, Mama?
I follow the lowest row to the end, touch the corner post with my palm like I always do, and turn back up. The path climbs. Rosemary and sage border the kitchen garden, still scenting the air, even in the cold.
I think about the kiss and then refuse to think about the kiss.
I think about discipline instead. Boundaries. She asked for time, I said yes, then made it more complicated by saying we’d fly together. I don’t regret the yes. I might regret the together part. If regret is the word for wanting the thing and knowing it makes your life harder, all at the same time.
Up near the house, the gravel widens into a circle. Olive trees stand with their silver leaves turned in the wind. The stone is still holding some of the night. I slow without meaning to; the habit of walking with your head up doesn’t die just because you’re not in your city.
I look up.
She’s on the balcony off the guest room.
Barefoot. A sweater big enough to swallow her hands.
Hair down to the middle of her back, dark and heavy and a little wild from sleep.
I can’t see the green of her eyes from here, but I imagine them clear and alert, like they were when she woke up on the plane yesterday.
She’s leaning her forearms on the rail, watching the rim of light lift behind the low hills. The sun isn’t up yet.
Something in my chest shifts as I watch her.
She doesn’t see me at first. The breeze lifts the ends of her hair and pushes it back. The sweater slips off one shoulder, and she nudges it up absently, eyes still on the east.
No makeup. No kitchen armor. The same mouth I’ve been trying not to think about is soft in the cold. She looks younger and older at the same time: young because the morning is kind, older because of the stillness that surrounds her.
I stay where I am in the yard because walking closer feels like intruding on a prayer.
She finally glances down into the garden and catches me. Surprise crosses her face quickly and leaves just as fast. She doesn’t step back. She doesn’t fuss with the sweater again. She just rests her chin on her wrist and looks at me.
“Buongiorno,” she calls, softly.
“Buongiorno,” I answer.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.
“Could.” I lift a shoulder. “Didn’t.”
A ghost of a smile. “Same. I’ll regret it later.”
Across the yard, a robin hops across the cool ground, finds something in the dirt, and flies away to eat in privacy.
“How do you take your coffee?” I ask her.
“Strong,” she says, “and often.”
“That I can do.”
“Let me make it,” she says automatically, reflex from a life of kitchens. Then she hesitates, remembering where we are and likely unsure of what her duties will be here. “Unless—”
“You’re a guest,” I say, settling the matter.
Her brows lift a fraction. She doesn’t answer. She rubs her hands along the wool on her forearms and looks past me at the vineyard. The sky brightens a step; the fog lifts and folds away.
“Beautiful,” she says.
“It is.”
“I forgot this smell,” she adds, inhaling. “Cold and green. Dirt and metal. Hard to get this in Atlantic City.”
“Do you miss it?” I ask.
She rests her cheek on her wrist now, hair sliding forward. My brain offers an image of that hair spread on the white of the pillow in the next room.
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
“Do you want to walk later?” I ask. “After we go to the city.”
“Yes,” she says without thinking. Then, “If you have time.”
“I’ll make it.”
We fall quiet again. A line of pink shows above the hills. In a minute the sun will push past, and light will hit the rows and make every drop of dew a coin.
Though she’s up there, and I’m down here, it feels like we’re watching the sunrise together.
The first edge of the sun breaks through, and the world around us warms by degree. She straightens, wraps her arms around herself, and looks down at me again.
“Coffee,” she says.
“Coffee,” I agree.
I turn toward the kitchen door. The gravel shifts under my boots. Before I reach the threshold, I look back.
She’s still there, hair dark against the new gold, sweater loose on her shoulders, watching the vineyard wake up from my balcony like she’s always belonged on it.
I go inside and put the water on.