7. Isabelle
My phone rang. I answered before I could second-guess myself.
"Bella." Matteo's voice was warm, surprised. "You want to come today?"
"If that's okay. I know it's last minute."
"It's more than okay. I'm pleased." I could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll send a car. One hour?"
"One hour."
I hung up and stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My dark hair was still damp from the shower. My face looked tired, drawn. Gray eyes shadowed with exhaustion but bright with something else—anticipation, maybe. Or the desperate need for distraction.
I just needed to get out of my head. Something to keep me from staring at my phone, willing it to ring.
Meg had everything under control at the boutique.
The vendors were sorted. The models wouldn't arrive until tomorrow.
I had nothing to do but wait and overthink, and the overthinking was killing me.
Every few minutes, my thumb would hover over Femi's name in my contacts. Every few minutes, I'd talk myself out of it. The exhaustion of that constant restraint was wearing me down.
Tuscany would help. Fresh air, beautiful scenery, and someone else's company. A reset.
I dressed quickly. Linen trousers, a cream blouse, comfortable shoes for walking. Nothing fancy, but put-together enough that I didn't look like a woman running away from her problems.
Even if that's exactly what I was doing.
The car arrived precisely on time. A sleek black sedan with a driver who spoke limited English but smiled warmly and opened the door for me like I was someone important.
We drove south, leaving Milan's gray sprawl behind.
The landscape shifted gradually—industrial outskirts giving way to small towns, then farmland, then the rolling hills I remembered from previous visits.
Tuscany had a way of overwhelming me every time.
The golden light. The cypress trees stand like dark exclamation points against the sky.
The sense that time moved differently here, slower and more deliberate.
I'd considered moving here once, years ago. A fleeting fantasy during a particularly stressful fashion week. I'd imagined buying a crumbling farmhouse, learning to make pasta from scratch, trading deadlines for olive harvests and quiet mornings.
The fantasy had lasted approximately forty-eight hours before reality reasserted itself. I wasn't built for stillness. My ambition wouldn't let me rest.
But visiting was different. Visiting, I could handle.
The vineyard appeared around a bend in the road, and it caught my breath.
Old stone buildings covered in ivy, their walls the color of honey in the afternoon light.
Rows of vines climbed the surrounding hills in perfect parallel lines, leaves bright green against the rich brown earth.
A wide terrace overlooked the valley below, set with wooden tables and chairs that looked like they'd been there for generations.
And Matteo, standing at the entrance, waiting.
He fit here. That was my first thought. He belonged to this landscape in a way that seemed almost genetic, as if the same soil that grew his grapes had grown him, too. He stood with his hands in his pockets, relaxed, unhurried, watching the car approach with a small smile on his face.
He was wearing a white linen shirt, untucked and casual, the sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing strong forearms. Dark trousers that fit him well.
Simple leather shoes, worn soft with use.
His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd been running his hands through it, and his skin was golden from the sun.
The car stopped. I stepped out, suddenly nervous for reasons I couldn't name.
"Bella." He crossed the distance between us and pulled me into a hug. Warm, brief, and comfortable. The scratch of stubble against my cheek when he kissed it, the solid warmth of his chest against mine felt overwhelming. "You look beautiful. Tuscany agrees with you already."
"I just got here."
"Tuscany works fast." He stepped back, still smiling. "Come. Let me show you everything."
We walked through the main building first—a converted farmhouse that served as both his home and the vineyard's tasting room.
Stone floors worn smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Wooden beams overhead, dark with age. Windows that looked out over the valley like paintings, each view perfectly composed.
"My great-grandfather built this place," Matteo said, running his hand along the wall.
"Well, not built. It was already here when he bought it.
But he made it what it is. Planted the first vines.
Dug the cellar with his own hands." He glanced at me, something vulnerable in his expression.
"It's been in my family for four generations now. "
"That's incredible. To have that kind of legacy."
"It's a lot of pressure, actually." He laughed softly. "Every bottle I make, I think about him. Whether he'd approve. Whether I'm honoring what he started."
"I'm sure he would be proud."
"I hope so." He pushed open a heavy wooden door and gestured for me to follow. "Come. I'll show you where the real work happens."
The cellar was cool and dim, a welcome relief from the afternoon heat.
It was lined with oak barrels that stretched back into shadow, row after row of them.
The smell hit me immediately—earth and fruit and something older, deeper.
The smell of time being patient, of transformation happening in darkness.
"This is where the magic happens," Matteo said, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. "Or science, depending on who you ask. I prefer magic."
"How long does the wine stay down here?"
"Depends on the type. Some, just a few months. Others, years." He ran his hand along one of the barrels. "This one has been aging for three years. It won't be ready for another two."
"Five years for a single bottle of wine."
"Good things take time." He looked at me, and something flickered in his eyes. "Most things worth having do."
The air between us felt thick suddenly, charged. I looked away first, pretending to examine the barrels.
We emerged back into the sunlight and walked through the vineyard itself.
Matteo explained the different grape varieties, the soil composition, the way the hills created microclimates that affected each section differently.
He spoke with his hands, animated, passionate, occasionally lapsing into Italian when English failed to capture exactly what he meant.
"You really love this," I said.
"I do." He stopped walking and looked out over the vines, his expression softening. "When I was young, I wanted to leave. See the world. Do something important." He smiled ruefully. "I thought winemaking was small. Provincial. Not enough for someone with ambition."
"What changed?"
"My father died.” His voice was quiet. "Heart attack.
Very sudden. And suddenly this place was mine, and I realized—" He paused, searching for words.
His jaw tightened. "I realized that building something that lasts, something you can pass down, something that connects you to the people who came before and the people who will come after... that's not small. That's everything."
I thought about my own work. The clothes I designed, worn for a season and then discarded. The trends that came and went like waves, leaving nothing permanent behind.
"I envy that," I said quietly. "The permanence of it."
"Fashion isn't permanent?"
"Fashion is the opposite of permanent. That's the whole point—constant change, constant newness. Last season's collection is already irrelevant."
"But the skill is permanent, no? The craft. The eye you have for beauty." He turned to face me fully. "The clothes may change, but what you bring to them—your vision, your talent—that lasts."
I didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever framed my work that way before. No one had ever made it sound like it meant something beyond commerce and ego.
"Come," he said, breaking the moment. "I want to show you something special."
He led me to a smaller building near the edge of the property. Inside, stainless steel equipment gleamed alongside older wooden presses. The air smelled sharply of grape must.
"This is where we process the harvest," Matteo explained. "Normally, it's very busy, very chaotic. But we're between seasons now, so it's quiet." He grinned, something mischievous lighting his face. "Which means I can teach you."
"Teach me what?"
"To make wine." He was already moving toward a corner where several crates of grapes sat waiting. "These are from a small experimental plot. Not enough for a full batch, but perfect for learning."
"Matteo, I don't know anything about making wine."
"That's why it's called learning, Bella." He handed me an apron, his fingers brushing against mine as I took it. "Put this on. You're about to get very messy."
The next hour was a blur of grapes and juice and Matteo's patient instruction.
First, the sorting. He showed me how to examine each cluster, removing any grapes that were damaged or unripe. His fingers moved quickly, efficiently, while mine fumbled and hesitated.
"Don't think so much," he said, watching me. "Trust your instincts. You know what looks right. You do this with fabric, no? You see quality immediately."
"That's different."
"It's exactly the same. Trust yourself."
Then the crushing. In the old days, he explained, they used their feet. Now they had machines for efficiency, but for small batches like this, hands worked just as well.
He rolled up his sleeves further, and I caught a glimpse of something on his inner forearm. Dark lines, the edge of a tattoo disappearing under the fabric. I'd noticed it before, back in New York, but never clearly.
"Ready?" he asked.
We plunged our hands into the grapes together. The sensation was strange—cool and wet, the skins bursting under pressure, juice running between my fingers. Matteo laughed at my expression.
"Not what you expected?"