Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
A couple of days later, after passing through Pisa and helping all my tourists take the obligatory photograph of them pretending to hold up the leaning tower, we cruised into Florence just after lunchtime.
We had a two-night stay in Florence. Day one we offered the optional winery tour of the Tuscan region. Day two’s optional tour was exploring the medieval city’s cathedrals, bridges, and museums, and of course the famous statue of David. I always did the day two tour. The winery tour, not so much.
After dealing with the drunk tourists in my early days with the European Dreamz tour, I’d left these tours with the driver and the lovely winery staff.
Today though, with that ticking clock booming loud and clear in my head, I am going to revisit the winery tour. I might even try a few of the wines.
As Roman guided the bus up the sweeping road toward the walled hamlet of Volpaia, high on a Chianti hill, I plucked a large A4 photo from my folder and grabbed the microphone. “Okay, who knows about the legend of the black rooster?” I pointed at the photo of a wine bottle with the Chianti Classico seal emblem on it.
As expected, nobody raised their hands. It always saddened me that the young Italian tourists never seemed to know this interesting slice of our past. Then again, learning history was why many of them came on this tour. When they weren’t here for the sex, that is.
“Wine has been produced in the Chianti region dating as far back as 1398. The legend of the rooster stems from medieval times when Florence and Siena, two towns that are situated about one hundred miles apart, were at war with each other over this wine-growing region. But they came up with an ingenious idea for defining the boundary. It was decided that two knights would depart from their hometowns at sunrise and ride their horses as fast as they could toward the opposing town. Where the two riders met would be the boundary point for each district. So, you can imagine there was a lot riding on these horses, right? Literally.”
I chuckled at my own pun. But nobody else did, so I trudged on.
“But they didn’t have clocks back then, so how do you think they worked out when it was sunrise?”
“The sun,” Thomas, the rugged Australian up the back, responded with a waggle of his head and a smug grin.
“No. Being a hilly area, sunrise differed for each town. So, they used a rooster to crow at dawn. Like a starter gun, so to speak. In Siena, they chose a white rooster. The Florentines chose a black one.” I waved the photo. “Which one do you think won?”
“The black one,” Lydia said. Being an Italian, I was surprised that she wasn’t aware of this story. Then again, it was a bit of a legend in these parts, but perhaps not in southern Italy.
“Correct, Lydia. But do you know why? ”
Her high ponytail flopped onto her shoulder as she shook her head.
“The folks in Siena chose a big healthy white rooster and fed it a hearty meal the night before the race, priming it for an early morning rise. The clever people in Florence did the opposite. They chose a scrawny rooster and didn’t feed it for a couple of days. The well-fed rooster was so content, it slept in.”
“I know how it feels.” Natasha, the athletic Aussie woman a few rows away, patted her non-existent belly and pulled a face implying she was full.
I chuckled. “Yeah, I agree.” I’d eaten way too much at breakfast. Maybe I was subconsciously trying to impress Roman with my extraordinary eating prowess.
“Anyway,” I continued, “the black rooster started crowing as soon as twilight appeared and as a consequence, the Florentine knight got a huge jump-start on his competition. He was just twelve kilometers from the Siena border when the two riders met. So, Florence claimed control of nearly the entire Chianti territory and the black rooster has been hailed a hero ever since.” I pointed at the photo. “When you see a black rooster emblem on a bottle, you know it’s from the Chianti region.”
“Today we are going to a beautiful village called Volpaia. Roughly two-thirds of the village properties are owned by one family, the Stianti Mascheroni family. Their winery and olive groves have kept nearly the entire town employed in production for over nine hundred years. The first vines were planted here in 1172. Can you imagine how different this continent was back then?”
I continued talking until Roman parked the bus in the only parking space big enough for us. This winery was tiny compared to the many enormous producers dotted all over the region .
However, this was one of the few that was inside a walled village with a medieval layout and with buildings that were very well preserved.
Once the group had all stepped out of the bus, I led them up the main street of the tiny town. “You are in for a real treat today.” I raised my voice so they could all hear. “The building where we’ll be doing our wine tasting was originally a church, built in 1443, and its preservation is extraordinary.”
We strolled up the deserted paved street that virtually divided the town in two. Both sides were completely lined with back-to-back buildings and the only greenery were the ancient vines that crawled all over the brickwork. It was typical of the fortified towns in this region.
Every one of the buildings looked to be deserted. And they probably were. At this time of day, every available pair of hands would be working at the winery or in olive groves and production sheds.
I led the tourists to the top of the street where a disused well marked the center of town. As a reminder of how unfit I was, I was huffing by the time we neared the cellar door. Roman, however, looked like he could run up and down that hill till sunset.
Maybe when I got a normal job, I could take better care of myself. A normal job . . . I had no idea what that was. But the idea of me working in an office with four walls and no windows would have me dying on the inside all over again.
My shoulders sagged. What the hell was I going to do when I left Europe?
The only skill I had was the ability to remember a shitload of useless facts about Europe. Lot of good that’s going to do for me in New Zealand, or Canada, or wherever the hell I end up.
Oh, God. This shit was starting to get real. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Daisy, focus.
After giving my group a brief history of the town, I led them to the ancient church that for nearly one hundred years had been serving alcohol rather than sermons.
Stepping over the stone-lined entranceway, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Everything about this building was a homage to its Tuscan heritage—the steepled ceiling, the giant wooden crossbeams, the cobblestone floor.
Even Mario, the staff member behind the bar looked like he was ancient. His head of gray hair was thick and shaggy, his bushy eyebrows were equally gray, but the lines around his eyes and mouth confirmed his life had been blessed with laughter.
“ Ciao, Daisy, è bello vederti. ” Mario greeted me with open arms and a kiss on each cheek.
“ Ciao, Mario. It’s lovely to see you too.”
Mario had to be at least in his sixties. He was a seventh-generation Volpaia resident who, like many of the town occupants, rarely left the village walls. This was their home, and they were happy and content enough to live, work, and occasionally play.
The contrast to me couldn’t be any more different. I didn’t even have a place I called home. My flat in London had been a place to put my things, but I never really thought of it as home.
Roman rubbed his hands together as he sidled in next to me. His boyish exuberance was what I needed to cast my negative bullshit aside and concentrate on here and now.
“Okay, guys, grab a seat anywhere along here.” I waved my hand across the enormous slab of wood that served as a counter and stretched the length of the room.
The fourteen of us spread out. And as I nestled in beside Roman and tried to focus on Mario, rather than how good Roman smelled, Mario explained all about the vision, history, and inspiration behind Castello Di Volpaia and their wonderful wines .
Like most Italians, Mario spoke with his hands, and he was very entertaining. He was a bit of a flirt, too, and had all the women giggling. The more he spoke, the more I enjoyed it, and the more I grew furious that I’d stopped visiting Volpaia. I’d wasted so much time.
And now it was running out.
Our wine journey started with Bollicine Di Nika—a delicate pinot noir bubbles that was apparently made with grapes slowly dried under the Tuscan sun. Mario made it sound so romantic as he poured a generous quantity into our sampling glasses.
Roman clinked his glass to mine, and when he smiled, it made everything about my return to Volpaia truly special.
The first sip had my taste buds tingling. It was cold and crisp and delicious. When Roman tasted the wine, his eyes lit up. When his tongue slipped out and cruised along his bottom lip, my girly bits fluttered at the glorious spectacle.
Fucking hell, Daisy.
We are just fucking friends. No, not fucking friends. Just friends.
I would’ve banged my fist to my forehead if I’d thought it would help. Roman, however, was not helping. He smelled good. He looked good. Every fucking thing about him was good.
Thank God Mario distracted me from Mr. Perfect with my second tasting. Another bubbles—the Volpaia Spumante Brut Champagne this time. Mario explained that this sample was from the 2009 harvest. He pointed out the enormous window that framed the incredible vista beyond the glass.
Rows and rows of grapevines stretched all the way to the stone wall that surrounded the village. Beyond that, the rolling hills were kissed by fluffy white clouds. It was a setting that could have graced any postcard.
I turned back to the tasting and Lydia and Roman looking at each other. She had that doe-eyed expression that confirmed she liked what she was looking at. Roman did too.
They were totally checking each other out.
My heart deflated like an undercooked soufflé.
I wanted to slap myself. I was supposed to be happy for him—encouraging him, encouraging her. Hell, I should have been inventing every possible scenario to make sure the two of them hooked up.
I am seriously the worst wing-woman ever.
Mario presented another bottle—a white this time—and as he poured a sample of Prelius Vermentino into our glasses, he spoke about the wine’s tasting notes: hints of floral, peaches, pineapple, blah . . . blah . . . blah.
His words faded into oblivion as I watched the interaction between Lydia and Roman. They spoke in Italian so I couldn’t keep up with their conversation, but their body language said enough. These two were into each other.
It was the first time I’d seen Roman so engrossed. Other than with me, of course. His smile was radiating, and she was constantly touching his arm like she needed his attention. She already had that. She was hard to ignore.
Lydia was twenty-four, had beautiful dark flowing hair, glowing olive skin, and perfect teeth that would have Colgate executives coming in their pants. Her laugh was sweet, her accent sexy, and she had plump D-sized boobs and an hourglass figure. She may well have been a figurehead for Gorgeous Women Unite.
I skulled my wine and pushed my glass forward, eager for more.
Mario poured the first of the red wine varieties. Citto, the 2018 vintage, was all cherries and berries and tasted great. I gulped it back and laughed along with Lydia and Roman, pretending I understood what the two of them were chuckling about .
Another wine and another chuckle and it suddenly hit me. Roman should not be drinking. What was he thinking?
I gulped back the next drop, a tasty Chianti Classico, and it was gooood. I’ll have to tell Roman to stop. I’ll do it in a minute, after Mario finishes explaining this wine, and everyone starts talking again.
I studied Roman. He swirled the wine around the glass, held it to his nose, and inhaled deeply, then admired the sample in the light. According to Mario, the more the wine clung to the glass, the more sugar it contained. Good to know.
Roman looked like an experienced wine connoisseur. Knowing Roman, he probably was. When he tasted the sample, he only had the smallest of sips before he tipped the wine into the provided spittoon.
Bugger. I should be doing that.
The thought didn’t register with my hands though. Or my tongue. When Mario poured another generous sample into my glass, I sipped at it like it was an antidote for my fixation with Roman.
With each new tasting, the noisy September group escalated to another level. When Serena, Mario’s cousin, and her daughter, Athena, came into the room carrying large timber boards, the din grew louder again.
The grazing platters were topped with local cheeses, cured meats, fruit, honey, nuts, crackers, grapes, olives, and olive oil all grown right here in Volpaia. Delicious aromas from the crusty loaves of bread that followed confirmed they’d come straight from the oven.
As we worked our way through the feast, Mario continued to work his way through the full range of red wines, ensuring we all had a generous taste of every single one. I dipped a thick cube of bread into the olive oil and popped the still-steaming slice into my mouth.
Oh, my god . . . It was delicious. When Roman raised his brows at me, I realized I must’ve moaned. Unfazed, I reached for another piece and waved it at him. “This is so good. You should try some.”
“I did, and yes, it is.”
“I bet you can bake bread.”
“ Sì . Of course.” He looked at me like I was being silly.
Ohhh, sì, of course. Yes, of course he could. Roman could do everything. Cook. Do sign language. Dance. Lift heavy things. Make my girly bits do stupid stuff.
Mario’s wine journey traveled onto the sticky wines and oh boy, what a slice of heaven they were. Sweet and divine. I eased into Roman’s shoulder, and when he glanced down at me, offering me some of that sisterly love, I grinned up at him and said, “Yummy.”
His grin grew even bigger. “Yes, it is.”
He smiled at Lydia but then returned his gaze to me and lingered for just a bit too long. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I’d give him nothing. I swigged back the rest of the Vinsanto Del Chianti Classico and poked my tongue into the glass to get out the last drop. All gone, I plonked my glass onto the counter, leaned toward Roman, and nudging my elbow into his ribs, I whispered, “Lydia, huh?”
His eyes whipped from Lydia and back to me. The quizzical expression on his face told me everything. He was sooo into her.
“Yes, what about Lydia?”
Sharing his personal space, I whispered, “You like her. I can tell.”
His head wobbled and I was pretty sure he was nodding, but my eyes were having trouble keeping up with my brain.
Mario placed another glass in front of me. This one contained yellow liquid. I reached for the glass, took a sip, then held it up to Roman. “Hmmm, yummy. Limoncello. ”
He gave me a sideways grin.
“What?” I sipped the liqueur. It was tart and sweet and marvelous.
He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Okay? Of course. You should try this. It’s sooo good. Hey, you and your dad make Limoncello, right? You should see if it’s as good as yours. I bet it’s not ’cause you do everything perfect.”
He blinked at me.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” I drained my drink and wondered if Mario would let me have more. After all, I’d been bringing him paying customers for a looong time. When he glanced my way, I winked at him. “Hey, Mario.” I wriggled my fingers and gave him my most becoming smile.
He pranced over like a horse. “ Cosa ti piacerebbe, Daisy? ”
I leaned onto the counter, pushing my glass forward. “Can I pleeeease have an incy little bit more?” I bulged my eyes. “It’s soooo good.”
Mario chuckled and touched his nose. “ Si, ma non dirlo a nessuno. ”
I shook my head and touched my nose like the two of us had a predetermined secret signal. “It’s our little secret.”
Roman chuckled and Lydia giggled, sounding like the perfect couple.
I spun to them but the room kept spinning. My legs missed the turn and I fell into Roman. “Whoa, that was close.” I slapped my palm onto his rock-hard abs. “Lucky you caught me.” I winked at Lydia. “He’s a keeper.”
Lydia’s pearly whites just about blinded me. But her attention quickly zoomed in on Roman again. “Yes, he is.”
When Lydia leaned in, whispering something in his ear and wrapped her delicate hand over Roman’s forearm, I knew she was the one .
Lydia was his sex-fixes-everything pill.
I had to tell him before he fucked it up.
A surge of excitement whizzed through me so fast the room spun. Light-headed, I clutched the bar. Spying my drink, I clasped the Limoncello and taking tiny sips, I pretended to be focusing on the potent liquid, which I totally was, but I was also secretly watching Roman with the first woman I’d met who could be in his league.
They made a handsome couple. An Italian version of Ken and Barbie. She was the right height for him. The right age for him. She was even from the right country for him.
God damn, hit the buzzer, we’ve found his perfect match.
Mario clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention and the sharp sound bounced off the stone walls and shot straight into my head. My hearing was in fucking overdrive.
“ Signore e signori . It is time for you all to come down to see our beautiful wine cellar. But first, we fill your glasses.” Mario started with me, offering a fresh wine glass. “For you, mia bella, Daisy, which wine would you like?”
“Oh, goodie.” My lips felt really weird and unsure if any words had actually escaped them, I pointed at the sticky wine. Mario winked at me and topped up my glass, doubling the size of the sample shots he’d been pouring me.
Clutching the stem, I sipped the sweet perfection with one eye on Mario as he worked his way along the counter, pouring a fresh glass of wine for everyone, and my other eye on Roman and the first woman to match his perfection.
Let me introduce Mr. and Mrs. Italy.
They burst out laughing, and for one horrific second, I thought I’d said it out loud.
But nope. They only had eyes for each other. And smiles. And they touched each other non-stop . . . her hand on his forearm, bicep, shoulder. She must be an arm woman. His hand was on the small of her back. But that was where it remained. His hands didn’t wander like hers did. She giggled at everything he said, all cute and perfect.
I know he’s funny, but really, she’s overdoing it a tad.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen.” Mario clapped his hands again and it was so loud I thought he was right beside me. He wasn’t. “We take you now. Follow me.”
Clutching the stem of my glass, I eased off the counter and forced my legs to move. Roman indicated for me to go in front of him, behind Lydia.
So, wedged between the hottie behind me, and the hottie in front, we followed the rest of the group down the narrow stairs to the wine cellar. We were a boisterous bunch and the tiny passage and stone-lined walls served to amplify our voices to the point where it hurt.
At the bottom, we spread out, forming a semicircle around Mario. Lydia did a swifty and managed to slot in next to Roman when I wasn’t looking. Other than Roman, everyone was holding a wine glass. Collectively, we sipped our drinks as Mario explained their processes to produce their award-winning wine.
Behind Mario were giant wooden barrels that had been built down here centuries ago. The room had that perfect smell of musky wood and ancient stone and I felt more at home here than I did in my dinky London flat.
The wine barrels alone were older than my home country.
Now that was a sobering thought. It was a brutal reminder that one of my greatest passions—my love of history—was going to be dramatically stifled once I left Europe. Stifled . . . it was going to be stomped to death.
As Mario told animated tales of his wine-making family, I studied my group. They were all younger than me—full of life, exploring the world.
Maybe that was what I could do. Take off and just drift to wherever the breeze took me. I had enough money saved and I was naturally frugal. Nothing was tying me down. Not one thing. No assets. No family. No lover. I could probably travel for a whole decade and not need to earn an income. Toying with that idea, my gaze fell on Roman and Lydia.
The two of them were giving out I-want-to-fuck-you vibes like they were popping candy.
It suddenly hit me—Roman didn’t need me at all.
My legs buckled beneath me and I tipped sideways. “Oh shit!”
Roman swooped in and just before my wine and I went sprawling, he somehow managed to catch me.
“Whoopsie.” Embarrassment blazed up my neck like an inferno. I had to get out of there. “I’m just gonna . . .” I huffed out a breath. “Fresh air.” My damn sentences were playing hide and seek.
Roman wrapped his arm around my back, tugging me to his side. “Carry on, Mario. I’ll take Daisy outside for some fresh air.”
A hiccup burst from my throat, and it was so loud it was like I’d swallowed a megaphone. Some of my group giggled, and I was torn between moaning at my clumsiness and bursting out laughing. I think I did a combination of both.
With Roman squishing me against him, guiding me, we made it up the stairs and out the front door. He led me toward a patch of lush grass and eased me down. My mind flashed to that moment in Amsterdam where he’d flopped on top of me as we’d fallen off the bench seat. That already seemed like years ago.
I sat with my legs sprawled out in front of me like a rag doll, and my hands out to my sides holding me up. My vantage point allowed me to peer right through the middle of two rows of overflowing grapevines .
Roman knelt at my side, resting his hand on my knee. “I’ll be back in a sec, okay?”
I responded with a hiccup and a giggle, then watched his sexy toned butt all the way until he disappeared inside the cellar door.
It crossed my mind that he was abandoning me for Miss Italy.
I wouldn’t blame him. She sure did seem to make him happy.
On the other hand, I was bloody hard work.
We’d only known each other for a couple of months, and already he’d had to save me more times than he’d had to back up the bus.
It was just another reason, in a long list of reasons, why Roman and I could never be together. He was confident, in control. I was a bumbling idiot—even more so with a few drinks in me.
Why am I even thinking about this shit?
Stop it, Daisy.
He’d never looked at me the way he looked at Lydia. I got the little sister looks.
Miss Italy got the I want to undress you very slowly look.
It wasn’t just that. She was everything he should have in a woman. Young. Beautiful. Athletic. Smart. She was studying to be a lawyer for God’s sake.
The two of them were Mr. and Mrs. Perfect.
Suddenly Roman was back, saving me from my emotional landslide. He eased in beside me and handed over a glass of water. “Drink.”
I dropped my lower lip, offering my saddest of sad faces. “Sorry.”
“What for?” He nudged his shoulder to mine.
“Getting drunk.”
“It’s okay.” A smile flashed across his lips then quickly morphed into his sisterly love look that had my insides swooning. “I like it when you’re drunk.”
I gulped a huge mouthful of water. “Ha-ha. You’re funny.”
“I always tell the truth, Daisy Chayne. Remember?”
“Oh, God.” I smacked my lips together. “What have I told you about saying that?”
He cocked his head and the sun caught in his eyes. His gorgeous honey irises sparkled like twinkling stars. “Actually, you never did tell me. We got distracted.”
I frowned.
“In Amsterdam, remember?”
Is he talking about the kiss of all kisses?
That wasn’t a distraction. That was a seismic shift.
“Doesn’t matter. But tell me. What’s wrong with Daisy Chayne?”
“Oh, God.” I waved my hand toward the beautiful scenery around us. “Look at that view. Can’t you let me enjoy it for a moment?” I dragged my eyes away from an enormous bunch of plump grapes dangling from a vine just two feet away to look up at him.
I couldn’t decipher the expression on his face. His squinty eyes suggested he was trying to figure me out, but the curl on his lips was almost daring me to tell him my issue with Daisy Chayne.
He patted my hand. “Before the end of this tour, you’re going to tell me, Daisy Chayne.”
Two can play at this game. I grinned at him. “Okay, only if before the end of this tour, you hook up with Lydia.”
He did a weird laugh that could only be described as a guffaw. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice her checking you out.”
“She’s not checking me out.”
“Oh, my fucking god. You really are blind. ”
“I’m not blind. I see you, Daisy.”
“Oh yeah?” I tilted my face to the sun. In my mind, I imagined I looked like a beautiful model posing in the spectacular afternoon sun with the breeze on my skin and Roman, my world-class model, at my side. I was glowing.
But when Roman’s expression grew all serious, I knew I wasn’t portraying that image at all. I was everything but. Although I didn’t want to ask, I couldn’t help myself. “What do you see?”
He squeezed my hand and letting go, he turned his gaze to the vines stretching out before us.
We fell into silence, but I was pretty sure the two of us were thinking completely different things.
He held the water glass up. “I’m going to check on the group. You stay here and finish the water. I’ll come and get you when we’re ready to leave.”
“Don’t abandon me.”
A frown drilled across his brow. “Daisy.” When he leaned over and kissed my forehead, I wanted to cry. “I would never abandon you.”
He pushed up to his feet and as he walked away, a lump formed in my throat. Soon I couldn’t breathe. I flopped back onto the grass, and the fluffy white clouds drifted across the perfect blue sky, tears spilled from my eyes.
I cried for all the time I’d wasted.
I cried for my uncertain future.
I cried for my heart that was cracking into pieces.