Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty One
Bianca
We leave the house without making a plan.
The back doors open, and we step straight onto the path between rows.
Late afternoon, the sun is still bright, but the air is starting to cool with an evening wind.
The dirt is packed and dry under my shoes.
The vines run in endless lines. It’s ordinary in the best way.
Gio falls in beside me without taking my hand. He doesn’t have to. The awareness is there the whole time. Under that, I’m aware of everything else. Birds somewhere. The sound of evening approaching.
Everyone has long gone home, so the quiet of the fields settles into me.
“North block?” he asks.
“Show me where that Sangiovese starts,” I say.
He points us up a gentle rise. No speeches, no tour guide voice. Just rows, wire, leaves, and the two of us moving in the same direction.
“Vigna Torre,” he says, like he’s trying the words on again.
“Primo Raggio,” I counter, automatically.
He glances at me, amused. “You’re relentless.”
“When I’m right.” I tip my head, mock-solemn. “Which is often.”
He hums as if he might allow it. For now.
We take the shallow slope between two rows, leaf canopies rattling in a breeze that doesn’t quite make it down to us. The wires are taut; the shoots have been tucked and clipped with a precision that makes the organized chef in me unreasonably happy.
“You train on Guyot here?” I run my fingers lightly beneath a cane, careful not to snag anything tender.
He nods. “Single in the cooler rows, double where the soil is more lively. You want the fruit to see the morning and hide from the worst of the afternoon.”
I swing my arm, letting the robe I put on earlier back in the room feel like a lifetime ago. I’m in a simple outfit now. A pair of comfortable jeans and an oversized sweater that drapes over my body just right.
We pass a yellow bin stacked empty at row’s end, the stain of last harvest’s work still ghosted along its rim.
I picture hands here in September, a quick flick of the wrist, the clatter of clusters dropping into plastic, the jokes and the curses, the weight building one cut at a time.
Work has a sound; I hear it even when the rows are quiet.
“How many pickers?” I ask.
“Depends on the day.” He ticks off numbers in his head. “Two crews during the push. One local, one from farther south. We keep them housed well. Paid well. Fed well.”
“Fed well,” I repeat, because it matters in my bones. “What’s well?”
“Morning—espresso, cornetti, fruit. Midday—pasta, protein, greens. Big jugs of water. Dinner—whatever the cook decides and as much as they want.”
We continue up the slope until we get to the right vines. Up close, the Sangiovese leaves are dark and confident, five lobes crisp against the sky. Tiny green clusters are there if you know how to look.
The clusters are baby-small, hiding under leaves like they’re shy. I touch the air beside one.
“This is the parcel?” I ask.
He nods toward the stone tower on the hill. “From here to the cypresses. The tower keeps its eye on it.”
“Vigna Torre,” I say, teasing on principle.
His mouth curves. “Primo Raggio,” he says back, the words easy between us now.
We walk again. A lark zips up and out. The dirt changes slightly underfoot, finer, then a little rougher. Small things you notice when you’re not talking much. I like this kind of quiet, the shared kind that isn’t empty. He lets me set the speed. I don’t speed up.
“What did you do out here when you were a kid?” I ask.
“Escaped,” he says. “Got into trouble. Came back with scraped knees, bruises, dirt on my face.”
I smile, picturing a young boy with dark hair and eyes, running wild through the fields. “So a streak of rebellion even then.”
“A streak,” he agrees.
“You don’t strike me as the running wild and free type,” I say.
“For a while, I was a carefree child,” he says. “Then I had to grow up. Fast.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t prod. I have a feeling it has to do with losing his father at such a young age. Being moved from the only life they knew and starting fresh in New Jersey.
We come to a break in the rows where a small track crosses. He steps ahead and offers a hand. I take it. His palm is warm and steady, and the contact sends a quick streak of heat up my arm. This time, he doesn’t release my hand. He tucks it into his and keeps walking.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“That I like it here,” I say, surprised to hear it out loud.
“That surprises you?” he asks.
“A little,” I admit. “I didn’t expect quiet to feel…useful.” I glance down the row. “Usually quiet means my brain gets loud. Here it doesn’t.”
He squeezes my hand once. “Good. Then it’s doing its job.”
We stop where the rows open to a view. The vineyard falling away, the tower off to our right, the house small and bright below.
Wind pushes a loose strand across my mouth; Gio reaches without thinking and tucks it behind my ear. The touch is simple. My chest does something that’s not simple at all.
“Tell me what you want for the rest of the day,” he says. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. Just today.”
“Walk,” I say. “Then sit somewhere and watch the sun go down. Eat something.”
“That sounds like a perfect plan,” he says.
We crest the next rise, the rows parting like a curtain, and a small knoll comes into view. A single tree, and under it, a blanket already spread, a wicker basket set beside a pair of low cushions, the corner of a linen napkin lifting in the breeze.
Candles on long stands are buried in the ground surrounding it, the flames fluttering in the breeze.
I stop. “You planned this.”
“I’m thorough,” he says, unbothered. “And I listen.”
“But we didn’t make a plan,” I say, half laughing as he leads me off the track toward the tree.
“I had a feeling,” he answers and leads me to it.
We kick our shoes off at the edge of the blanket. The springy grass under the blanket cushions my feet. The basket smells like summer—tomato, basil, something salty. He loosens the strap and lifts the lid.
Inside: a bottle resting against a wrap of cool cloth, two tumblers, a small jar of bright olives, paper-wrapped sandwiches still warm at the center, and a container of strawberries.
“You always keep a picnic kit ready?” I ask, easing down onto a cushion.
“Only when the company is worth it,” he says, and the way he says it is not a line. He passes me a glass and pours a deep red wine into it.
I lift the glass and breathe it in—cherry and something floral, a little savory through the middle. “Sangiovese again?” I ask. “You’re wasting some serious money on me.”
“Not wasted. Never,” he says seriously. “The face you make when you try it, your little sounds of pleasure… Priceless.”
My cheeks warm a little.
He breaks a sandwich in half and hands me a piece. Warm bread gives under my fingers; inside, there’s thin-sliced roasted pepper, soft cheese, a swipe of something herby.
We eat without talking for a minute, wind moving the leaves above us, the tower keeping quiet watch to the side. My shoulders drop in small degrees that I don’t try to stop.
“Better?” he asks, eyes on my face.
“Better,” I say. I sip again and tilt the glass at him.
He tips his glass to mine and drinks, watching me over the rim. The wind lifts a strand of my hair; he catches it with two fingers and tucks it behind my ear without ceremony. The simple touch sends a warm, traitorous shiver down my spine.
“Eat another,” he says, nudging the basket. “You’ll need the energy for later.”
I feel the flush work its way from head to toe. I don’t know what to say, so I just take the other half. I don’t miss his smug grin.
We fall quiet because the beauty of the sky demands it. The sun slides toward the low hills, and everything goes soft—the vines, the stone, his profile beside me. Gold thins to apricot, then to a deeper orange that glows through the leaves like stained glass.
He shifts closer, not much, just enough that our shoulders touch. Warmth moves through fabric to skin. I breathe in through my nose and let it settle me.
“Good view,” he says, low.
“Decent company,” I answer, and feel him smile without looking.
A breeze comes up the slope and sends a shiver through me.
He reaches into the basket without fuss and pulls out a folded wool throw, shakes it once, and settles it over our laps and knees. The weight is immediate and good. He tucks one corner around my hip like he’s done it a hundred times and lets the other fall over his thigh.
I ease in until my shoulder fits under his arm and my cheek finds the warm line of his shirt. His heartbeat is a steady drum under my ear. Heat pools low in my belly at how solid he feels, how effortless the shelter of him is.
“Better?” he asks again, quieter now.
“Better,” I say, and this time the word comes out on a softer breath. I slide my hand beneath the blanket, palm to his ribs, and feel the slow rise and fall there. His fingers trace the outside of my knee once, idle, like he can’t help touching me when I’m close.
The sky deepens; the first star shows off to the west. He tips his mouth to my hair, a press that isn’t hungry so much as claiming, and the lust that’s been simmering all evening wakes up, stretching like a cat.
I angle closer, letting the blanket and his body trap the warmth between us, and he answers by drawing me in that final inch that says I’m not the only one whose thoughts have drifted away from the sunset.
The hand on my knee inches up until it rests on my thigh, thumb sweeping in a slow arc that stokes the heat higher, higher. His other arm tightens just a little around my shoulders, a silent question.
I turn my face toward him, my nose brushing against the rough cotton of his shirt. His breath comes out a little unsteady, and he lowers his head, his lips finding mine in the fading light.