3. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
Before midday, I take the requirements list down to Livia in the cellar. She flips through it, asks a couple of reasonable questions, and makes a note in her ledger.
No objections. I can’t tell if that is progress or if she is saving them for an audience.
Back in my room, I turn to tomorrow’s proposal. The sommelier and a few neighboring families will be there. Lorenzo said he would come, too, but I still need to ask him about his father and the wine.
Instead, I keep thinking about his hand on the jasmine. How easily he gave a flower the attention I had spent yesterday trying to get from him.
By late afternoon, the draft is rough but ready to show him. I tuck the notebook into my pocket and go looking for my husband.
I find him in the main hall, pulling on his coat.
“Going somewhere?” I keep my voice light, curious rather than accusing. He has not mentioned plans for the evening.
“The lemon grove.” He buttons the coat without looking at me. “I need to check on something.”
The lemon grove sits at the far edge of the estate, past the vineyard rows and the low walls that divide the older plots.
I have walked past its small cottage, half-hidden by the trees, but never gone inside. When I asked about it once, Lorenzo said his father kept things there. I assumed he meant equipment.
“At this hour?” The sun is already low, the winter light turning golden through the windows. “It’ll be dark before you get back.”
“I won’t be long.” He finds his gloves in his pocket and pulls them on. Still not looking at me.
Something about his movements feels wrong. Too careful, too deliberate. The way a person moves when they are trying not to draw attention to where they are going.
“Is everything all right?” I step closer, watching his face. “You seem distracted.”
“Fine. Just something I need to take care of.” He finally meets my eyes, and I see the wall there, the careful blankness he wears when he doesn’t want me to ask questions. “Don’t wait up.”
He said he would not be long. Now I am not to wait up. I tighten my fingers around the notebook in my pocket, wondering why it is so difficult to tell me what he actually means.
He leaves through the side door, the one that leads toward the vineyard path, and I stand in the empty hall with my notebook in my pocket and my heart beating too fast. The lemon grove.
At dusk. Alone.
Or not alone.
Livia’s smile comes back to me, along with the warmth in Lorenzo’s voice when he announced her promotion. They share so much history that I cannot ask about without sounding jealous. I hate wondering whether they share more than that.
I should go back to my room. I should finish my proposal and trust that my husband is doing exactly what he said, checking on something in the storage cottage, nothing more. I should stop looking for evidence of betrayal in every unexplained absence.
I have no reason to think Livia will be there beyond the closeness I see between them and the things he does not tell me. I know how little that proves. I also know I will spend the evening imagining it unless I find out where he is going.
So I grab my coat and follow him.
The path to the lemon grove is narrow and overgrown, barely visible in the fading light.
I follow far enough behind that Lorenzo cannot hear my footsteps, keeping his dark coat in sight through the trees. My breath comes fast.
What am I doing?
The answer is ugly enough without pretending. I am afraid Livia is waiting for him. Afraid that all the time he cannot find for me is being spent with her.
Light flickers through the cottage window. From beside a tree, I can see movement behind the half-drawn curtain, but only one figure.
A few steps closer, and the room comes into view. Bookshelves along one wall, papers covering a desk beneath the window, a lamp beside the cold fireplace.
Lorenzo is alone.
He sits with his coat still on, his head bowed. His shoulders shake.
My hand goes to my mouth. In two years of marriage, I have never seen my husband cry.
On the mantel is a photograph of an older man with his eyes and jaw. Beside it sits the carved wooden box from Cesare’s portrait in the hall. His name is on the desk plate, too.
His father’s study.
Lorenzo presses his hands to his face, and I think of the launch. The vintage he has spent years preparing to release. He talks so often about his father’s work, but I cannot remember him saying he misses the man.
For a moment, I want to knock.
I have seen him laugh in the grape vat, felt him relax with me. But this is something he has chosen to face alone, and finding out I followed him here would turn it into a conversation about my suspicion.
Still, it hurts that I had to look through a window to see how much he is carrying.
His grief doesn’t make yesterday’s dismissal hurt less. I still need him to listen when I tell him what Livia is doing. But watching him now, I wonder how often I have mistaken his silence for feeling nothing.
I step away from the window and cross the grass to the path. Through the trees, he is still sitting with his head bowed. He gives no sign of having heard me.
On the walk back, relief comes first. There was no meeting with Livia. No embrace I would have to confront him about.
Then I think of his hands over his face and wish I could have gone inside without having to explain why I was there.
That night, alone in our bed, I keep seeing him in the lamplight.
I’m his wife. I want to be someone he can turn to, but I can’t keep guessing at what he won’t let me see.
***
The following afternoon, Rosalia sets out glasses while I keep repositioning the covered jar on the tasting table.
“Will it be traveling during the demonstration, signora?”
I leave it in the middle and take my hands away.
The guests greet Rosalia by name and ask after one another’s families.
Generations of familiarity, and here I am with my notebook. The silver-haired sommelier sits at the head of the table, arms crossed, while representatives from three neighboring estates murmur in Sicilian and glance my way.
By the door, Livia exchanges small nods with them, looking perfectly at ease.
My proposal lies open in front of me. I know what I want to say.
This is my chance to show them what I can do.
If only my mouth would stop going dry.
“Thank you for coming.” I stand beside the covered jar, leaving my notebook open where I can see it. “I want to show you how we can introduce visitors to the estate before the first pour.”
The sommelier stops turning the empty tasting glass in front of him. The others quiet down. I remove the lid from the small jar only long enough to show them the rosemary inside, then close it again.
“Don Cesare spent years perfecting this vintage.” I keep my eyes on the sommelier, the most skeptical face in the room. “You knew what he put into it. Most of our visitors won’t. I want them to leave understanding why this bottle matters to the family.”
“We know the story.” The sommelier sets his glass between himself and my sample jar, making a small barrier on the table. “We knew Cesare. We’ve been drinking Marchetti wine since before you were born.”
I nod, accepting the point. “You know it better than I ever will. But the journalists coming to this launch don’t. The buyers from Rome and Milan and further, they’ve never met Cesare. They’ve never walked these hills or met the people who work here. We need to give them a way in.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” One of the estate representatives leans forward, a woman who has kept her coat folded across her lap, as though she is not planning to stay. “Pretty words about legacy?”
“Something more concrete.” I turn to the sketch in my notebook. “A botanical tasting experience, with herbs grown on this land presented alongside the wine. When visitors smell rosemary, I want them to remember these hills.”
The room is quiet. I cannot tell if it’s the silence of consideration or the silence of people deciding how to politely reject an outsider’s ideas.
“That sounds…” The woman beside the sommelier turns my sample jar until its handwritten label faces her. “A bit French?”
Someone near the back laughs. I feel my cheeks flush, but I keep my voice steady.
“I grew up in Lyon.” I turn the jar back toward the middle of the table.
I will not let my birthplace become an objection I am supposed to fix.
“But that rosemary grew here. I want visitors to remember this place when they open a bottle at home. I don’t think we have to choose between that and being Sicilian. ”
“The tradition of the first pour is Sicilian.” The sommelier uncrosses his arms, leaning forward. “Cesare would never have approved of cluttering his wine with distractions.”
“The first pour stays exactly as planned.” I open the layout. “The aroma jars would be on a separate table, cleared before the wine comes out. Nothing added to the wine or interfering with your tasting.”
“It’s an interesting idea.” Livia’s voice cuts through the murmuring, and everyone turns to look at her.
She hasn’t moved from her spot by the door, but somehow she’s become the center of attention.
“Though I wonder if our guests will understand the intention. These are traditional buyers, traditional journalists. They might find it… confusing.”
The concern in her voice is perfect. Not hostile, not dismissive. Just worried. Just protective of the launch, of the family, of the traditions I keep threatening to disrupt.
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can speak, the door opens. Lorenzo walks in.
He’s late. The meeting started twenty minutes ago, and I had almost convinced myself he wasn’t coming. But here he is, still in his work clothes, his hair slightly disheveled, looking around the room like he’s trying to catch up on what he’s missed.
“Don Lorenzo.” The sommelier rises, respect evident in every line of his body. “We were just discussing your wife’s proposal.”