Chapter 15 La Vendemmia
La Vendemmia
Aria Amora
The Piemonte sun flowed like honey-infused light over Nel Cielo. I’d only been in Piemonte a short while, so I had no other seasons to compare autumn with, but I had a feeling I was going to look forward to fall with a hunger squirrels have for chestnuts when the weather begins to turn toward cold.
With Vendemmia, there was something magical in the air I wanted to soak in, just like I did the sun.
Which was why after Rocco and I had breakfast, and he went to join the workers with the grape harvest, I took my coffee to my office, walked outside, and watched as my husband worked just as hard as his workers, soaking up the sight of him and the warm sun.
The days were a bit warmer than the nights, which was why I usually kept a light cardigan on.
The light sweater helped me transition from day to night.
I’d never labeled myself as a morning or night person.
It always depended on what was going on that day.
And after I started writing for a living, it all depended on when my creativity was at its highest. Piemonte wasn’t changing all that, but I found myself looking forward to the quiet moments with my husband, when it felt the entire world was asleep except for us, then sharing dreams, then coffee and whatever we were having for breakfast. I found myself craving the fog that cloaked our home at night, and then watching it disappear when the sun rose from its slumber.
It was truly a place where a king of a ruthless family could hide away with his soft queen, unless he was in trouble, and then she’d become even more ruthless than he was.
At the thought of anyone coming close to my heart, I salivated at the scent of their blood, if I couldn’t charm them into peace first.
Rocco smiled at something one of his workers was telling him, making me smile as well. The grapes of this land were his passion, and it did my heart good to see that side of him. A side that, it seemed, his grandfather had inspired. I met Marzio Fausti through some of my husband’s ways.
One day when he’d brought me out and showed me a bunch of beautiful purple grapes, he’d said, “My grandfather once told me that getting a man’s hands dirty in the soil of his home meant he would always be connected to it, down to the roots he stemmed from.
” Then he repeated the words in Italian, or the translation of it.
I’d wondered that day, for the umpteenth time, if I had seen anything as beautiful as the man before me.
It wasn’t only his physical appearance, but that, despite all he’d been through, he had found a passion that refused to burn out inside of him.
I sighed and took a sip of my coffee before turning back toward my writing room.
Before I stepped inside, I ran my hands along the blueberry plants my husband had planted for me.
Not only would they be good for butterflies, but honeybees too.
Rocco had an excellent planting strategy for everything we gave roots to.
He also told me there were a variety of trees on the property, including an olive grove.
Because of the amount of time the harvest was taking, he promised me a walk through them soon.
So much to look forward to.
I heard a man call my husband’s name, and the voice was so similar, I almost had a hard time distinguishing between the two.
Rocco’s head had turned a few seconds before Brando had called his name.
Brando spoke to him in Italian, and Rocco nodded.
He was going to walk his wife to the villa, then meet him out in the fields.
I met my sister and brother-in-law at the door. He gave her a kiss before turning for the fields. Instantly, the smell of roses enveloped me before Scarlett’s arms did.
“You might as well stay close to the door.” She smiled. “More family is on the way. Your place is going to be the new center.”
I set a hand on her arm before we reached the kitchen. “From what I’ve heard, your place is usually the center.”
She gave me a sweet smile. “If I had a torch, I’d pass it you.
I’ve loved being the main hostess all these years, and with my own children, I still am, but it’s so nice to have this to share with you.
It’ll be amazing for Rocco too.” She squeezed my hand, like she was trying to convey something to me silently.
I was almost positive I understood. Even though Rocco was next in line to inherit the throne, Scarlett and Brando had been the couple the family had approved of.
She loved to be his wife, and he loved to be her husband.
They were traditional in those ways, even if they adapted to the times.
Scarlett wasn’t only Brando Fausti’s wife, but a major success in her own right. She was a ballet legend.
All the things the family seemed to value, Brando and Scarlett were rich with them.
Then there was Rocco.
He was raised to believe he was the rightful heir. He helped raise his brothers, and all that the family wanted, he delivered. His marriage had been arranged, and to a legend in the opera world.
Both marriages looked picture-perfect in theory, except only one was true and was considered what some in the family considered a weakness—a love that went beyond what some might consider normal.
Brando and Scarlett shared the type of love that some would die for. Add in the fact that Scarlett was touched…it was a recipe for a lot of different things.
Rocco craved that type of love.
Now that we shared it, and I was the type of woman who wanted the traditional while also aspiring to be a legend in my own right when it came to my craft…
Scarlett wanted to pass the torch to me, since she must have known how much it would mean to Rocco to be known for more than his role in the family.
I forced the lump down in my throat and squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” I whispered.
She nodded, then shook her head, like she was trying not to get all emotional. “Any progress on the kitchen? I’d love to see it!”
“Yes!” I almost dragged her there, and her eyes grew wide at what we’d accomplished.
I could tell she was as in love with it as I was.
After I made her a cup of coffee, we chatted excitedly about the kitchen. She loved the wide arch above the stove, the rustic counters for chopping, rolling dough for bread and fresh pasta, and the custom-made chairs before them for seating. I wanted family and guests to feel welcome in the space.
Rocco surprised me with more ovens than I could’ve ever dreamed of, some for different purposes, such as pizza ovens, and all the cooking items I’d ever need and more. It was all so beautiful…and I was so thankful it was all mine.
The man, the land, the clouds and the house… I almost wanted to pinch myself.
“This place is worthy of a spread in a home magazine. It’s so beautiful, Aria. The memories you’re going to make here are going to be priceless.”
Her words made me feel as if the sun was shining down on me on a cold day. I felt warmed all the way through. I smiled. “You want to see what else we’ve done?”
“Yes!”
We both laughed and then held hands. I walked her through Nel Cielo, pointing out changes we’d made, leaving my writing room for last.
“I still have a lot of cleaning to do in here,” I said as I motioned to the room. “This seemed like a room the previous owners used for storage, but I fell in love with it, especially the view from the doors.”
Scarlett slowly took in the space, and after she seemed to log in every inch of it, she nodded.
“This room has such a…creative feeling to it. It’s inviting, and I know this is going to sound odd, but hear me out.
It feels almost…neutral. Like it’s going to let you lead and just be present for the art that’ll be made.
I read once where the muse must show up.
If it doesn’t, you can’t take all the blame for the art not being made.
And if art is made—you can’t take all the credit for it. Takes a bit of ego away, ah?”
I slid my hand along the old desk. “I feel that here. The creativity. The neutral vibe that’ll allow me to paint the page with words.”
She opened the doors and stepped outside.
Her auburn hair had sparks of gold in it, along with some silver from age, though she hadn’t aged all that much.
She wrapped the pink cardigan she wore around herself tighter, then looked over all the plants with a smile on her face.
When she stood on the edge of the view, I watched the trajectory of her stare.
It went straight to her husband.
His back was turned, and he was listening to one of the workers as the man showed him a grape. He became still, and like her stare had caressed his neck, he turned around, and their eyes met.
It was breathtaking to watch, and somewhere deep inside my soul, I was so thankful I could understand it.
A blink later, my eyes followed their own path that led to my heart, but my husband was already looking at me.
I smiled at him, lifting my hand in greeting.
He returned it, lifting his hand, like they were touching.
I pulled my fingers down, as if I was interweaving our digits.
The feel of his palm against mine, even in remembrance, made me close my eyes and breathe easier.
When I opened them, Scarlett’s eyes were on my face.
My husband nodded to me, and I nodded to him, and then Scarlett and I went back inside.
I bent down to pick up a small box that had been knocked to the floor the day before when Rocco had flung everything off the desk.
Scarlett bent down and started helping me clean it all up.
I nodded to some laminated newspapers covering the floor. Some of them had taken flight and ended up on the other side of the room. “I think some of those newspapers are from World War II.”
Scarlett picked one up. Her eyes scanned the page. Then she looked at me. “Have you read any of these?”