2. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
I do not sleep well.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Livia’s smile.
That slow, knowing curve that said nothing and meant everything. She watched me come in from the garden with dirt on my hands and the tools I had brought from Lyon, and she did not ask a single question. Somehow that is worse than an interrogation.
How long was she standing there? She saw the tools, certainly, but did she see where I had been working? I dislike how much I want an answer. I have finally been given something useful to do in this house, and I would rather think about that than about Livia.
I turn these questions over until the winter dawn creeps gray through the shutters, and then I give up on rest entirely.
The staff breakfast is a Marchetti tradition I learned about my second week here.
Once a month, Lorenzo eats with the household in the old kitchen hall, a working room off the main courtyard where the long table can seat everyone from the head cook to the youngest maid.
His father started it, apparently. A way of reminding the staff that the family remembered their names, knew their children, cared about more than the wine they produced. Lorenzo has continued it out of duty or habit or some combination I have never quite understood.
I used to look forward to these mornings.
A chance to see my husband at a meal, even if we sat at opposite ends of a crowded table.
Now I descend the stairs with my stomach tight and my mind still circling Livia’s silent smile, the ledger and notebook tucked under my arm because I have questions about the venue arrangements that someone at this table should be able to answer.
The hall is already full when I arrive.
The long table holds perhaps twenty people, staff I recognize and a few I don’t, all of them talking over bread and cheese and the strong coffee that seems to fuel every activity on this estate.
Lorenzo sits at the head, his dark hair still damp from washing, his attention on something the head gardener is telling him about the vineyard drainage. He glances up when I enter, offers a brief nod of acknowledgment, and returns to his conversation.
Livia sits three places down from him, her hands wrapped around a cup, her expression pleasant and composed. She meets my eyes across the room and inclines her head, a greeting so polite it could mean anything at all.
I take the empty chair beside Rosalia, who shifts to make room and presses a warm roll into my hand before I can reach for the bread basket.
“You brought work to breakfast.” Rosalia eyes the ledger with something between curiosity and concern. “The cook will think you don’t trust her bread to hold your attention.”
“The cook’s bread is the only thing keeping me upright this morning.” I set the ledger beside my plate, open to the page with the table arrangements. “But I need to confirm the linen delivery before the end of the week, and I haven’t been able to find anyone who knows which supplier we’re using.”
Rosalia leans closer to look at the page. “That’s Livia’s handwriting. The note at the bottom, about the napkin color.”
Of course it is. I trace the neat script with my finger, a marginal note about ivory versus cream that I had assumed was simply an aesthetic preference.
Now I wonder if there’s some tradition attached to it, some Marchetti custom I don’t know about that will make me look foolish if I change it.
“Do you know if ivory means something specific here?” I keep my voice low, but the woman across from us, one of the kitchen staff whose name I should remember, looks up with interest.
“The old Don preferred ivory for formal occasions.” She reaches for the olive dish, her tone matter-of-fact. “Said cream looked like someone had spilled coffee on the good linens.”
I file this away, grateful for information that didn’t require asking Livia directly. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I needed to know.”
The woman shrugs, already returning to her conversation with her neighbor, but I catch the slight warming in her expression. Not unfriendly. Just surprised, maybe, that I bothered to ask.
“Before everyone disappears for the morning.” Lorenzo pushes back his chair slightly, and the table’s attention shifts toward him with the ease of long habit. “I want to thank someone.”
I stop buttering my roll.
“As we approach the launch of my father’s vintage, I want to ensure that our production standards remain the highest in the region.
” Lorenzo’s voice carries easily through the hall, the kind of natural authority that makes people stop chewing and pay attention.
“Livia has worked in these cellars since she was a girl. She knows every barrel, every blend, every corner of that space.”
I watch his face as he speaks.
There is no hesitation in the way he looks at Livia. He expects everyone to agree with what he is about to say. Yesterday, I stood in front of him explaining why I deserved a chance; she gets to sit there and hear why she has earned one.
“She’s given years of her life to understanding what makes Marchetti wine exceptional.”
Lorenzo’s voice softens, and I feel the shift in the room, everyone leaning slightly toward the warmth he’s radiating.
“My father trusted her judgment. I trust it too. That’s why I’m formalizing her role as cellar steward, with full authority over production operations and complete access to all cellar records.”
I know she has worked in those cellars for years. What is new is the reach: reserve stock and the restricted aging logs no longer need Lorenzo’s countersignature.
That authority sits with her now.
The room murmurs approval and several people clap. Livia rises slightly from her seat, accepting the recognition with a modest dip of her head, and I see the gleam of genuine emotion in her eyes. She has worked for this.
She has earned it. I cannot even resent the promotion itself.
What I resent is the comparison I cannot stop making.
Yesterday, Lorenzo gave me the launch in a private conversation in the cellar, his tone reluctant, his praise nonexistent.
Today, he gives Livia her role in front of twenty people, with a speech about trust and legacy and years of devotion.
He could have said something about my work yesterday without being asked. I dislike the envy that comes with that thought. I know Livia has experience; I wanted to hear that same certainty when he spoke to me.
The applause dies away, and the gardener returns to his question about a drainage pipe. I finish buttering my roll while Lorenzo answers him, then wait for a pause before raising my voice.
“Lorenzo, do you have a moment?” I indicate the ledger beside my plate. “I have a question about the venue layout.”
He looks up, and I see the slight shift in his expression as he registers what I’m holding. “The layout?”
“The staging area for the first pour.” I turn the ledger so he can see the diagram, even though he’s too far away to read the details.
“The notes say it should be near the cellar entrance, but that seems like it would create a bottleneck when people arrive. I was thinking the courtyard alcove might work better.”
“The first pour happens at the cellar entrance.” His tone is patient, but I hear the dismissal underneath. “It’s tradition. The wine comes directly from the aging room to the guests.”
“I understand the tradition. I’m asking whether the physical arrangement can be adjusted while keeping the ceremonial meaning.
” I hold his gaze, refusing to let this become another conversation where I’m told how things are done and expected to accept it without question.
“If we set up the pouring station three feet to the left, we get the same symbolic proximity without blocking the main flow of traffic.”
Lorenzo considers this for a moment. I watch him thinking, actually thinking, and something in my chest eases slightly.
“That might work.” He turns to Livia, who has been watching our exchange with careful attention. “What do you think? Can we move the station without disrupting the cellar access you’ll need?”
Livia sets down her cup, her fingers lingering on the rim. “I’ll need that doorway clear for the cellar staff. Though if the signora wants my opinion on moving guests through the courtyard, I’ve watched more of these events than she has.”
The words are perfectly polite. The implication is not.
I smile, matching her pleasant tone. “Then you can tell me which doorway people usually block.” I pull my notebook toward me and mark the alcove. “I’d rather move a table now than move a guest carrying red wine on the night.”
Livia looks down at the diagram. For a moment I think she might actually answer the question. I keep my pen ready, giving her no reason to claim I refused her help.
Lorenzo clears his throat. “Chiara has the launch. Livia, you’ll give her the cellar requirements so she can plan the service. The wine preparation stays under your supervision. Chiara decides how the event runs.”
The division is clear enough. I should feel satisfied. Instead I notice the way he looked at Livia when he said her name, the unconscious warmth that crept into his voice. When he mentioned my responsibility, his tone was purely practical.
I am relieved he has made my authority clear. Why did I have to ask for that clarity across a breakfast table? He managed to tell the room exactly why he trusted Livia without needing a question from her.
I write another note in my notebook, something meaningless about napkin quantities, because I need a moment to arrange my face into something that doesn’t show how much that distinction stings.
“Congratulations.” I put down my pen and address Livia across the table. Whatever I think of her manners, I will not make this a competition over who can be less gracious. “You must be pleased.”
“Thank you, signora.” Livia moves her cup aside, leaving an empty space in front of her as though she is waiting for me to fill it with instructions. “I hope we can work well together over the next two weeks.”