3. Chiara #2
“So I heard.” Lorenzo moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through our sleeves. “I caught the end of it through the door. Please, continue.”
The sommelier settles back into his chair, looking between Lorenzo and me with obvious curiosity. “We have some concerns about the approach. It’s unconventional.”
“Show me where you would put it.” Lorenzo draws an empty chair closer but remains standing beside me, leaning toward the layout. “I heard the part about keeping it separate from the wine.”
I turn to look at him, startled. He is watching the room, his expression neutral, giving nothing away.
“The botanical elements could overwhelm the wine.” The woman keeps her hand on the sample jar, though she has stopped turning it. “Distract from Cesare’s vision.”
“Chiara has just explained how the wine stands alone.” Lorenzo glances at me, and something passes between us, some silent acknowledgment that makes my chest tighten. “The accompaniments are separate. A way to welcome guests, nothing more.”
“With respect, Don Lorenzo.” Livia steps forward, her voice gentle. “Chiara has only been here two years. She doesn’t know our traditions the way we do. Perhaps someone with more experience should oversee the presentation?”
The question hangs in the air. I watch Lorenzo’s face, waiting for the hesitation, the careful deflection, the choice of his childhood friend over his wife.
“Chiara knows what she’s doing.” Lorenzo leaves the plan open between us instead of taking it away from me. “She built a business from nothing, convinced skeptical customers to trust her vision, made something successful through her own expertise. That’s exactly what this launch needs.”
I stop breathing.
“But the tradition.” The sommelier pushes his untouched glass forward. “Cesare believed the wine should speak for itself.”
“And it will.” Lorenzo taps the plan. “She has kept your first pour intact. We’re going with Chiara’s vision.”
The room goes quiet. I can feel the weight of everyone’s attention, the surprise and uncertainty rippling through the gathered families. This is not what they expected. This is not what I expected.
Livia’s composure cracks, just for a moment. I see the flash of something in her eyes, quickly suppressed, and then her pleasant mask slides back into place.
“Of course.” Livia lets go of the doorframe, her fingertips pale from the pressure. “The wife knows best.”
The words land like a slap, but I refuse to flinch. I watch her fingertips leave the doorframe pale. Whatever she expected from this room, it was not Lorenzo choosing me in front of everyone. The neat insult is all she offers before the pleasant mask slides back.
Lorenzo’s hand finds the small of my back, a brief touch of support. “Let’s discuss the specifics,” he says, moving the empty chair out of the way so I can spread out the plan. “Chiara, walk us through the details.”
I spend the next hour explaining my vision. The questions are still skeptical, but they’re practical concerns I can address now, rather than blanket dismissals.
By the time the meeting ends, I have tentative approval from the sommelier and genuine interest from two of the estate representatives. Livia slips out before the final handshakes, her absence noted but not commented upon.
Lorenzo waits while I gather the notebook and sample jar, then walks out beside me, his hand briefly returning to my back as we pass through the doorway.
“Thank you.” I stop in the corridor, turning to face him. “I needed you beside me in there.”
“You had a good idea.” He takes the sample jar from my overcrowded hands so I can close my notebook. “They needed to hear the whole thing before deciding they didn’t like it.”
I want to ask him why. Why today, why now, why this sudden show of support when he has spent months keeping me at arm’s length. But the words stick in my throat, and before I can find them, he’s speaking again.
“Are you free this evening?” He still has my jar in his hand. Instead of giving it back and walking away, he waits for my answer.
“This evening?” I nearly ask what else needs discussing for the launch, but the way he is waiting stops me.
“This evening. Sunset. I thought we might take the boat out.” He looks almost nervous, an expression I haven’t seen on his face since the early days of our marriage. “If you’re interested.”
The boat. The small boat at the private lake beyond the lower vineyard, where I have walked along the bank but never gone out on the water. Lorenzo has mentioned going there as a boy, but he has never offered to take me.
“I’m interested.” I stop gripping the notebook against my chest. He is asking me to spend time with him, and I want to say yes without protecting myself from how much. “What should I bring?”
“Just yourself.” Something softens in his face, a hint of the warmth I saw in the grape vat three months ago. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
***
By sunset, we are out on the lake, the water smooth beneath a sky turning copper and rose.
Bare trees line the shore. I am grateful for the heavy coat Lorenzo insisted I wear and the blanket beside me as he rows toward a cove sheltered from the wind.
His hands move easily on the oars, his shoulders working beneath his coat. He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow.
“Enjoying the view?”
“The lake is very scenic.” I keep my face innocent. “Excellent trees. First-rate water.”
“I meant me.”
“Were you part of the scenery? I hadn’t noticed.”
He laughs, and I turn toward the shore before he can see my smile.
In the cove, he drops the anchor and settles beside me, pulling the blanket across our laps.
“Better?”
“Much.” His arm is warm against mine. “I didn’t know you could row.”
“My father taught me when I was eight. He said a Marchetti should know how to get himself across water without depending on engines or other people.”
“Practical advice. Particularly when there’s nobody else here to get you home.”
“He was a practical man.” Lorenzo reaches for the basket at our feet. “Hungry?”
“Starving. I was too nervous to eat much at the meeting.”
“You didn’t look nervous.” He unwraps bread and cheese, setting them beside a jar of olives. “You looked ready to fight the entire valley.”
“That was the backup plan. Plan A was reasoned persuasion. Plan B was stubbornness until they gave up and went home.”
“I arrived during Plan A, then.”
“Barely. He was working hard to get Plan B.”
For a few minutes, we eat and watch the colors deepen on the water. I can’t remember our last meal that wasn’t formal, hurried, or interrupted by work.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.” He opens the olives. “Whether I answer is a separate question.”
“Fair enough. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. What held you up?”
“A conversation in the cellar that should have ended sooner. I could hear you through the tasting-room door. You sounded as though you’d explained the same point more than once.”
“I was starting to wonder whether I’d need to write it on the wall.”
“You explained it clearly. I liked the idea. I wanted to hear the rest.”
I lean into his shoulder. It feels good to hear him say that again, with no one else here. He makes room for me, then reaches into the basket.
“One more thing. Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked nicely.”
He covers the basket with a napkin, and I give in. Paper rustles. A container clicks open.
“All right. Look.”
Chocolate-dipped strawberries. Dark and glossy, arranged in neat rows.
“How did you…”
“You mentioned them once.” He watches my face. “After your first successful market day in Lyon. You bought a whole box, ate them in one sitting, and didn’t regret it.”