Chapter 20
FRANKIE
For the first time in weeks, I’m completely alone, with no agenda and no eyes on me.
It might only be for a little while, but as I run through the vineyard in the blue-gray of predawn, the cool morning air filling my lungs, I’m grateful for the time to do something for myself. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.
Running makes me feel free in a way that nothing else does.
I love the powerful ability of my legs to move me across the ground, my feet hitting the packed earth between the vines while kicking up the scents of a fresh new day.
It reminds me of Italy. I’d wake with the sun and stretch on the cobblestone path outside my building, then run the well-worn trail through an olive grove that led to a hay field, a dirt road, and finally ended at the pasticceria just outside of the village.
Who doesn’t love ending their run at the doorstep of a pastry shop?
Sadly, my run today won’t end with a cornetto and a latte in my hand.
I don’t have the pleasure of those sweet things in my life at the moment.
I have a philandering husband, instead. A controlling, philandering husband who is only begrudgingly starting to see me as a person (wow, what a hero), and a missing, possibly endangered father who traded his daughter for a few creature comforts—and is likely making a similar arrangement for his youngest daughter, too.
Thank God I have my sisters.
At the top of a rise, I stop to take pleasure in watching the sun peek over the horizon, spilling soft light onto the vines. My breaths come hard, punctuating the dark thoughts in my mind. So much for endorphins making me feel good. Reality is stronger than hormones, I guess.
Focusing on my breathing, I take off again through the rows.
I reflect more on my two beautiful sisters who are trying so hard to make the best out of the shitty family life we grew up with.
Not only was our mother gone and our father emotionally checked out or drunk all the time, but school was always rough for Charlie and me, too.
Not because we struggled academically but because making friends was impossible.
For some reason, us older Abbott girls had a reputation for being stuck up bitches, even though any “attitude” we had was just shyness and a lingering embarrassment about our home life.
It didn’t help that Charlie was such a knockout with her long legs and golden hair, or that I was in a C-cup bra by the time I was twelve; we both had to deal with boys making relentless passes at us (whether we reciprocated or not, the term slut seemed to follow us like a shadow).
With Livvie, though, it’s different. She’s so warm and friendly and bubbly that she has more friends than she can keep track of.
She’s easy to love. Nobody shuns her or graffitis her locker or writes her number in the boys’ bathroom stalls.
And I couldn’t be more happy for her. I’m glad she’ll never feel isolated the way I did, the way Charlie did. Things aren’t all bad.
I have my job, too, I suppose. It’s a job I would normally love, but it being tied up with so many strings and limitations…it just feels like one more link in the chains holding me down.
My legs muscles relax as I finally find a rhythm. My pulse beats steadily against my neck. My breathing is paced. There’s a stand of cypress trees to the right, far beyond the vines, but similar enough to the landscape of Tuscany that nostalgia washes over me.
The heady, almost sweet scent of the trees. The crunch of detritus on the path under my feet. My chest swells again, with longing this time. I’ve only been away from Italy a short while, but it feels so much longer. My life there was busy, but…uncomplicated.
A pair of brown eyes flash in my mind’s eye. Rico was definitely not uncomplicated.
Steeling my jaw, I will the image away. Rico is out of my life now, for a reason, and it’s going to stay that way.
Suddenly, my motivation to run is stripped away. Dammit. Rico was a mistake. I made a few mistakes in Italy—and I can admit I’ve made a few since coming back, too—but I don’t have to keep making them.
I’m tired of men running my life. My father, Rico, Dante. I’ve been at a man’s whim in one shape or form my entire life. I’m fucking done.
Slowing to a jog, I try to recenter my thoughts and concentrate on the exercise, but the moment is lost. And I can’t stop stressing about the fact that Dad is still missing in action. I head into the house and shower, letting the hot water sluice over me and loosen my muscles.
I get out, dry off, and get ready for work, but the winery won’t be open to guests for a few hours and I’m all wound up now. I figure I might as well take advantage of the early morning quiet and see about maximizing the visual aesthetic of the tasting room.
When I get there, I revel in the quietness of the empty room for a moment before flicking on the lights, setting my purse behind the bar, and making a fresh pot of coffee.
Sipping with my elbows on the counter, I survey the space.
Something about this room bothered me the very first time I’d walked in here, but I hadn’t taken the time to figure out what it was.
Now, it hits me almost immediately as I drink my coffee.
The flow is all wrong. Customers come in through the French doors to find huge display stands on either side of them, blocking their view of the rest of the room.
Once past the displays, they have to maneuver around a small table with a massive floral arrangement, which is elegant, but also blocks the view.
It’s not until they get around all of these obstacles that the presentation of wines along the bespoke shelving on the brick walls come into view.
Unfortunately, the harsh overhead track lighting is angled directly on the bottles.
Which, I get it. The better to illuminate what we’re trying to sell.
But it’s not at all subtle. In fact, it gives the room a cold, commercial vibe.
Like this is a liquor store, and the only thing we’re interested in is maximizing wine sales.
This is a tasting room. People should walk in and immediately feel relaxed, embraced by sophisticated but comfortable design, as if we’re welcoming them into our home for a repast. Because we are. We’re not just selling them wine, we’re selling them an experience. A story.
In fact, looking closer at the walls, I can see the brick itself telling a story.
I reach out and run my palm over a large stained section.
It’s mostly hidden behind a bistro table topped by an urn of pampas grass and spiky dried thistles.
I grimace. That ugly arrangement has Jessica written all over it.
Whoever put this here has done the winery a huge disservice—that stained brick is an important part of the Bellanti story.
I’d done my research when I found out I was marrying into the family, of course.
A fire nearly a century ago had nearly ruined the winery before it could really get started.
The fire had started in a storage room, damaging several barrels of aging wine.
Luckily, after consuming most of the available oxygen in the space, it had died down, enabling workers to extinguish it.
An entire wall of brick had been scarred, but some of it had been salvaged and repurposed when this area of the house was constructed.
Setting down my coffee, I wrangle the urn away from the wall and lug it behind the counter, then clear the bistro table and move it out of the way, too.
There are several bottles of Pinot Noir in the basement vault which had been aging at the time of the fire.
A handful of the original barrels are still in use today, producing delicious Pinot which we could offer on display along with a catchy story about the fire.
I put the table back for the time being, but the wheels are turning on how to revamp this entire section.
Continuing my perusal, I walk the room, noting several seating options are in the way of the flow of the room.
Three chaise lounges near the picture window impede flow to the wine cases on either side.
Free standing racks of upsell merchandise aren’t very visible to guests unless they are specifically looking. Nope, nope, and nope.
Before I realize it, the morning has passed. I have a list of notes by the time employees start to filter into the room. Greg is looking at his phone as he automatically heads to the bar.
“Morning, Greg.”
His head snaps up, cheeks going pink as he hurriedly puts his phone in his pocket.
“Mrs. Bellanti. I didn’t see you there.” His forehead wrinkles as he looks at the slight mess I’ve made in the room rearranging the displays. “What’s…going on?”
I point to the clipboard and the list I started. “Improvements. I’d like to change a few more things around before we open today. To promote better circulation of the visitors and draw the eye to the wines without relying on these harsh track lights.”
“I see.” He picks up the clipboard, lips pursed. “Well. We’d best get started, then.”
Greg trusts me. I’m grinning from ear to ear. “Let’s.”
Just then, two young women walk in wearing white button-downs with the Bellanti logo, black pants, and black aprons. They notice my mess immediately and turn to Greg.
“Good morning, ladies. We’re going to help Mrs. Bellanti move a few things around before we open the doors this morning.”
An older man walks in wearing the same uniform.
He frowns as he ties on his apron, as if it’s a necessary evil that he really doesn’t enjoy.
I’m not sure why our showroom staff need to look like everyday waiters.
Sure, they serve cheese and fruit plates with the wine, but they aren’t standard food service workers; they’re experts on Bellanti wine.
Specially trained connoisseurs. I make yet another mental note to see how Dante feels about changing the uniform.
“Good morning, everyone.” I make quick introductions. “We have roughly one hour before opening. Here’s what I’d like to do, quickly, so there’s still time for pre-opening tasks.”
Soon, the entire tasting room staff is involved.
Once the larger pieces are in place, I can refine the smaller things later, like the upsell merchandise.
Everyone gets to work rearranging. Greg stops me and hesitantly suggests swapping out the large chairs in front of the fireplace for smaller ones so more guests can see and enjoy the stone hearth and aged mahogany mantle.
“Love it. Let’s do it.”
He eyes me. “Really?”
“It’s exactly what I’m aiming for. An upscale experience on every level.”
Greg nods. “I can’t tell you how often I see visitors just standing around the fireplace, trying to enjoy the ambience but with nowhere to sit. Those two armchairs are never open.”
We make the swap, managing to fit a wood bench, two sleek side chairs, and an upholstered ottoman that doubles as extra seating. And he was right. What a difference.
One of the women, Nia, suggests getting rid of a rack holding wine openers with the Bellanti Vineyards logo and instead placing them in baskets stacked in a tier by the register. The baskets are woven with black metal handles, and the wine openers look eye-catching in them.
“This looks fabulous,” I tell her. “I’m so glad you suggested it. Genius.”
“Thank you. And thanks for listening,” she says shyly. “Not exactly something we’re used to from the upper management.”
Something tells me she’s referring to Jessica, but I don’t pry. We fill the remaining baskets with upsell merchandise, realign the chaise loungers, and rearrange the floral bouquets.
With minutes to spare, we stand in a line and admire our work. The change is inspiring. The whole room is visible, the lighting more gentle, the setup inviting guests to wander around, browse the wines, sit and enjoy the fireplace or the view from the window.
“This is so great!” I tell everyone. “Thank you all for your Herculean efforts.”
I give them each a high five. Every single employee is genuinely smiling. I know they have more setup to do before the doors open, so I gather up my clipboard and coffee cup.
“Before you go, I have a list of things I’ll be speaking to Mr. Bellanti about. Is there anything you all need that would make your jobs easier?”
A stunned sort of silence falls as the employees look at each other. Sensing their uncertainty, I gesture to the aprons.
“I’m going to start with your uniforms. You need something a little less ‘service staff.’ You’re all experts in Bellanti wine, so your presentation should reflect the hard work you’ve put in to earn that status. I know the training isn’t easy.”
“That’s an understatement,” Nia says.
They look at each other, and one of the men speaks up. “Maybe we could get some of those mats that you stand on to keep your legs and feet from dying by the end of the day?”
“Anti-fatigue mats. Definitely a yes. Got it,” I say, nodding as I add it to the list.
“What about a few stools for the staff?” someone else suggests. “We wouldn’t sit when it’s busy, obviously. But when there aren’t visitors, we have to lean on the bar because there’s nowhere for us to sit down and rest. I’ve got arthritis in my back, so it would really help.”
“Gosh, of course,” I say. “I’m sorry nobody addressed that yet—I promise there will be stools in here within the next day or so. This isn’t a torture chamber. What else?”
Greg looks at his workers, but it seems they’re out of ideas for now. “We’ll let you know if anything else comes to mind. Thank you, Mrs. Bellanti.”
We part ways and I turn to the wine list for today’s tastings. I feel proud as I pull bottles and work on the arrangement. I’m excited to see how the flow goes when guests begin arriving.
Plus, I think I’m well on my way to earning the staff’s undying loyalty.