Chapter 28
FRANKIE
Today’s the big day. Nothing can go wrong.
But considering the way that life here at Bellanti Vineyards has been going lately, that might be a bit of a longshot.
Charlie’s been working on putting together the First Press event behind the scenes, doing what she does best, and pulling out all the stops so it’ll be picture-perfect.
My idea was the impetus for this whole thing, but to Marco’s credit, he immediately latched onto the concept and ran with it.
I guess because to him, it sounded a lot like throwing a huge party.
As for Dante, he just signed on the dotted lines—with Armani’s enthusiastic support, of course.
First Press will officially commemorate the first batches of Bellanti and Abbott grapes going into the winepress.
After countless hours of research and debate and calculation, Dante, Marco, and I were finally able to come up with what we believe will be the perfect blend of Bellanti Sangiovese grapes and Abbott Canaiolo grapes.
We’re going to produce a spectacular Chianti, mark my words.
And what better way to celebrate the marriage of the Bellanti and Abbott wineries than by launching a new annual tradition?
The media will be in attendance, the entire staff will be on hand, and the limited number of tickets we offered to the public sold out almost immediately.
Close business associates and our local trade partners were invited, of course, and whomever the Bellantis had on their guest list. We’re expecting to host about two hundred guests total.
Basically the huge party Marco wanted, except this party is a combination press conference and exclusive wine tasting all in one.
Attendees will get a first taste of the previous year’s harvest, along with outrageously expensive hors d’oeuvres from a catering company that Charlie swears by and special treats created by our friends at the viennoiserie just for the event. Then we’ll have music and dancing to end the night.
Fates willing, First Press will be held every year.
But in order to cement its permanent placement on the Bellanti calendar of events, it’s imperative that we get off on the right foot today.
So, yeah. No pressure. Beyond the initial idea, I haven’t actually had a lot to do with the planning.
That’s my sister’s department, and I’m both excited and anxious to see what she’s arranged.
“Frankie.”
Dante appears in the doorway of my bedroom as I’m putting my earrings in. I don’t acknowledge him right away and he steps inside, taking up space in that way he has. I can’t help but look. I glance, then look again and soak him up.
His suit is perfectly cut and accentuates all his strong, long lines.
It’s a three-piece sharkskin in deep charcoal with a light gray shirt and tie interwoven with pale yellow threads.
Glancing down at myself, I’m astounded to realize that we…
match. We didn’t plan to. We certainly didn’t talk about it ahead of time. But here we are.
“We’re matching. A little bit, anyway,” I say as I attempt to clasp my necklace. I’m having a hard time taking my eyes off him.
He comes up behind me, hands on my hips. I go completely still. His breath is warm on the back of my neck, and I shiver as he runs his hands up my sides before bringing them to my hands. He takes the necklace ends from my fingers and gently works the clasp.
“Yellow suits you,” he says, smoothing the chain along the back of my neck, his touch trailing over my bare shoulders.
“Thank you.”
His warmth is suddenly gone, and I realize he’s stepped away. Looking at myself in the mirror, I fuss with my updo. Curls have already fallen into tendrils around my face. I leave them.
My pale-yellow pleated gown has a plunging yet tastefully narrow neckline, an empire waist, and a long skirt that brushes the tops of my heels.
It’s magical, reminiscent of a sunbeam…and it was egregiously expensive.
But the moment I saw it, I knew it was the one—and now that I’m wearing it, I feel like a goddess.
It’s almost enough to take the sting of my problems away. Temporarily, at least.
Dante leans toward me and brings his mouth close to my ear. “Time to go.”
I turn toward his voice, my lips nearly brushing his. We stare at each other a moment before he pulls away with a shadow of a grin and guides me out the door with his hand on the dip of my back.
The press conference is first. Media people are already assembled and waiting inside a white tent set up near the mouth of the vineyard.
I take a glass of chardonnay from a tray that one of the waiters is revolving through the room with and hold it with both hands as Dante, Marco, and Armani gather behind a duo of microphones and face the waiting press.
Marco takes center and addresses the crowd. “Welcome to Bellanti Vineyards.”
I wander just outside the tent while the Bellanti men talk, and take a moment to survey what my sister has created.
The grounds are incredible. Little lights hang everywhere, the rows of bentwood chairs and long picnic tables perfectly arranged.
Chandeliers hang from tree branches overhead, while topiaries grace the walkways between tables.
She chose shades of blush pink, white, and pale green, giving a fresh, elegant look.
I spy Charlie and Livvie near the mini bar and give a little wave.
Charlie winks and continues chatting with Livvie—probably lecturing her on not trying to sneak wine like she did at my wedding reception.
Guests have started to arrive, and the beautiful space is beginning to fill up nicely.
There are a lot of familiar faces, including Candi who I wave to, and Mrs. Alvarez who whipped up special fruit cups just for this event.
My phone rings from inside my clutch. I take it out and glance at the screen but don’t recognize the number, so I don’t answer. Both of my sisters are here. There’s no one else I care about right now.
Before long, Dante and his brothers step out of the tent and into the sunshine. The press disperses to make their rounds while my husband heads straight for me. My heart flutters as he approaches, my body aching for contact.
“I want to keep you close today,” he says, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Are you going soft on me, dear husband?”
“Not at all. But it’s my job to keep you out of trouble.”
Pressing a hand to my chest in mock offense, I tease, “Are you saying you don’t want me stripping down to my lingerie in front of your guests again?”
He quirks a brow. “Are you wearing any?”
I smile at a couple as they walk past us, then drop my voice. “Nope.”
He clears his throat, but not before I hear a little groan escape him.
Just then, I see Charlie crook a finger at us from across the lawn.
Dante steers me toward her. “It’s time to give everyone what they came for.”
We join Marco and Armani at the entrance to the vineyard.
Two workers roll out one of the old wooden grape presses first used by the Bellanti family when they started the winery.
They set up the grape press on a platform, where everyone can see it.
The platform holds two slat buckets: one containing grapes from Abbott vines, and one with Bellanti grapes.
The media people assemble around us, flashes going off, phone cameras clicking as Dante and I each pick up a cluster of our respective family’s grapes and hold them up for show before putting them into the old press.
Armani gestures to the press with a flourish. “Let today mark the marriage of two great wineries. This union brings promise to the future of Bellanti winemaking, and the creation of unique blends that will be celebrated on this day, at the annual First Press event.”
Now it’s Marco’s job to turn the crank on the press. When a stream of grape juice starts pouring out into a bucket, the crowd cheers and applauds, whooping and whistling. I feel light all of a sudden. Happy, even. As if we really have done something remarkable.
The wine flows, the buffet opens, and guests sip, nibble, and mill around, having a wonderful time.
Dante and I make our way from table to table, talking and laughing with our guests as they enjoy their meals and the delicious vintages on offer.
A band begins setting up at the gazebo under the trees, and I know the guests will be dancing well into the evening.
I’m on my third glass of wine but I don’t know what’s making me feel better: the wine, or the way Dante hasn’t stopped touching me since we pressed the grapes.
If I move too far out of his orbit, he pulls me back in.
He keeps a hand on my lower back if he has to turn away to speak with someone, and he links his arm through mine as we walk through the crowd.
Music begins playing quietly as we finally sit with Marco and Armani to eat. The late afternoon sun has dropped low by the time we finish with dessert. Then the tables are cleared, and more wine is brought around. Dante takes my hand and pulls me to my feet, then spins me out onto the dance floor.
And he’s smiling.
This feels like the wedding reception I wanted to have.
Both of us are lighter today, moving more easily in concert with each other, like a real couple. We seem almost happy to be together. Maybe we could be happy together.
“What’s that smile about?” I ask as we move in a gentle slow dance around the floor.
“Today went well.”
“Yes, it did.” I grin. “You’re welcome, for my brilliant idea.”
He spins me and pulls me into his chest. His arm goes behind my back, trapping me there. “It was a very good idea, Francesca.”
“Frankie,” I remind him.
“Frankie,” he repeats in my ear, his voice close enough to give me goosebumps.
Movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention. I glance over and spy Charlie making a covert stabbing motion with her finger. I can’t figure out what she’s trying to tell me, but I’m not about to yell over everyone’s heads.
Dante spins me again at arm’s length. He’s just about to bring me back in when he stiffens, his smile dropping. There’s a soft touch on my shoulder.
“Mind if I cut in?” a man asks. It’s a voice I’d know anywhere.
A voice I hoped I’d never hear again.
I turn toward the man and freeze, my limbs becoming stone. Charlie is pushing her way through the crowd, her face frantic, and I realize what she’d been trying to tell me. But she stops in her tracks when she sees that she’s too late.
“Who the hell are you?” Dante asks, wrapping a possessive arm around my waist.
Rico doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He smiles in his easy way and holds up a hand, pointing to the wedding band on his finger as he boldly claims my gaze.
“I’m her husband.”