5. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
The estate is unrecognizable.
I stand at the top of the main staircase at six o’clock, looking down at what we’ve created, and for a moment I forget every argument, every sleepless night, every whispered doubt.
The courtyard glows with warm light from dozens of lanterns strung between the stone pillars. Heaters positioned along the walls keep the winter air comfortable, and guests in elegant coats and shawls drift between conversations like this is exactly where they belong.
Three hundred people. Press from Rome and Milan. Buyers who flew in from cities I’ve only read about. All of them here for Cesare’s vintage, for the launch I designed, for the chance to make something of the work I brought here with me.
The herb table stands near the entrance, exactly where I placed it.
Even from here I can see guests lifting the jar lids, leaning in to smell the rosemary and sage, pointing at the labels that explain where each plant grows on the estate.
A woman in a red coat laughs at something her companion says, then reaches for the lavender. The botanical presentation is working. My idea is working.
The first pour begins in half an hour. I want to go down and hear what people think, but for a moment I stay where I can see the whole arrangement working.
“You’re stunning.” Lorenzo’s voice comes from behind me, and when I turn he’s standing at the end of the corridor with an expression I haven’t seen since the boat, that same openness, that same wondering quality, like he’s actually seeing me instead of looking through me.
I’m wearing a deep green dress that my mother sent from Lyon, simple and elegant, with a warm shawl around my shoulders and a small clutch tucked under my arm. I spent an hour on my hair and another convincing myself that the effort mattered.
Looking at his face now, I think maybe it did.
“Thank you.” I smooth the fabric over my hip, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his attention. “You clean up well yourself.”
He does. The formal black suit fits him perfectly, and there’s something different about the way he’s holding himself tonight, less burdened, more present. When he crosses the distance between us, I tuck my clutch securely against my side.
“Ready?” He offers his arm without looking toward the guests to check who might notice. I like that more than I should.
“I think so.” I take his arm, then make myself focus on the work ahead. “I should check on the transition timing. Make sure Maria and Tomas know when to start moving people toward the alcove.”
“I’ll come with you.” He says it like it’s obvious, like of course we would do this together. “We should greet the press together anyway. Show them a unified front.”
Something warm spreads through my chest.
We haven’t resolved anything since the argument in his study. He hasn’t told me whether he spoke to Livia. When I have asked about the preparations this week, his answers have stayed firmly on the preparations. But tonight, right now, he’s here. He’s choosing to stand beside me.
“That sounds right.” I slip my clutch’s loop around my wrist so I can keep my hand on his arm as we descend the stairs together.
***
The courtyard is even more impressive at ground level.
The lanterns cast warm pools of light across the stone, and the heaters create comfortable pockets of warmth where guests cluster in conversation.
Near the herb table, a guest replaces the rosemary lid and points out the label to her companion.
No one needs a server to explain how it works. That small success settles my nerves.
“Don Lorenzo.” A silver-haired man in an expensive coat intercepts us before we’ve gone ten steps. “A magnificent evening. Your father would be proud.”
“Thank you, Signor Ferrante.” Lorenzo shakes his hand with practiced ease. “May I introduce my wife, Chiara? She designed the evening’s presentation.”
Signor Ferrante turns to me with polite interest that sharpens into something more genuine when he registers what Lorenzo said. “The botanical concept? I’ve been admiring the herb display. Quite innovative.”
“Thank you.” I release Lorenzo’s arm long enough to shake the man’s hand properly. “The rosemary is from the slope behind the main cellar. Same soil the vines grow in.”
“Clever.” He looks toward the herb table with new appreciation. “Giving us the terroir before we taste it. I’ll remember that when I’m drinking this vintage at home.”
Exactly what I hoped for. I smile at him, genuinely pleased, and he moves on to greet another acquaintance. Lorenzo’s hand finds the small of my back as we continue through the crowd.
“That’s Ferrante from the Rome consortium,” he murmurs close to my ear. “If he’s impressed, half the buyers here will follow his lead.”
“Good to know.” I resist the urge to look after Ferrante and check whether he is already sharing his opinion. “Who else should I charm?”
“Everyone.” His fingers press lightly against my spine. “But start with the woman in blue by the sage jar. She writes for the Milan food quarterly.”
We work our way through the crowd together, greeting and explaining and accepting compliments.
The journalist from Milan wants to know the story behind the botanical concept, and I find myself describing the farmers’ markets in Lyon, the way scent and memory connect, the moment I realized I could bring that principle to wine.
“You built a tea business?” She pulls out a small notebook, suddenly more interested. “Before coming to Sicily?”
“Botanical blends. I was developing a range, which mostly involved convincing skeptical French customers that chamomile varieties actually taste different.” I catch Lorenzo watching me with something like pride, and the warmth in my chest spreads further.
“The principle is the same here. Help people notice what they’re experiencing, and they’ll remember it longer. ”
“I’d love to do a longer interview.” The journalist tucks her notebook away. “After the tasting, perhaps? The angle of a botanist bringing fresh perspective to traditional wine culture…”
“I’d like that.” I give her my most professional smile, the one I perfected at market stalls when I was too tired to feel genuinely enthusiastic. Tonight, I don’t have to fake it.
Lorenzo steers me toward a cluster of buyers near the thyme jar, his hand warm and steady on my back. A man with a neat beard is explaining to his companion how the herb labels work, pointing at the text that describes where on the estate each plant grows.
“Signora Marchetti.” He turns as we approach, recognizing Lorenzo first and then looking at me with curiosity. “I was just telling my colleague about your presentation. Very modern approach.”
“Modern but grounded in the land.” I gesture toward the jar he was examining. “That thyme has been growing wild on the lower terraces for decades. We’re not inventing traditions, just finding new ways to share the ones that already exist.”
“Well said.” His companion, a woman with sharp eyes and an expensive watch, nods approvingly. “I’ve been to dozens of these launches. They blur together after a while. This one I’ll remember.”
This one I’ll remember. I want to bottle those words and keep them somewhere safe, proof that I did something right, that my ideas have value even here, even among people who have been drinking wine longer than I’ve been alive.
“The first pour begins in about twenty minutes.” Lorenzo turns enough to show them the alcove without moving his hand from my back. “Beside the cellar entrance. The wine comes directly from the aging room.”
“We’ll be there.” The bearded man raises his empty glass in a small salute. “Looking forward to tasting the story.”
We move on, and I let myself lean slightly into Lorenzo’s side. He doesn’t pull away.
“You’re good at this.” He waits until the buyers move away before turning fully toward me, his hand still at my back. “Better than I expected.”
“Better than you expected?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Should I be flattered or offended?”
“Flattered.” He catches my hand before I can pretend to step away in offense. “I knew you were capable. I didn’t know you’d make it look effortless.”
“It’s not effortless.” I think of the weeks of planning, the arguments, the constant need to prove myself. “But I’ll take the compliment.”
“Take it.” He keeps hold of my hand, leaving me nowhere to hide my pleasure except behind another argument I don’t want to have. “You’ve earned it.”
We continue through the crowd, and I let myself enjoy the evening. I know what he looks like when he is merely being courteous. This isn’t it. The warm light, the appreciative guests, the husband at my side who is finally acting like a partner instead of a problem I have to manage.
At six-ten, I catch Rosalia’s eye across the courtyard. She gives me a quick nod and signals to Maria and Tomas. Time to start moving people toward the alcove.
“The transition’s beginning.” I watch the servers start their gentle herding, guiding guests away from the herb table and toward the warm glow near the cellar entrance. “We should head that way.”
“In a moment.” Lorenzo stops near the edge of the crowd, turning me to face him. “I wanted to say something first.”
I forget the servers moving behind him. Is this something he has been waiting to say all week? “What?”
“I’m glad we did this together.” He has stopped where there is room for us to talk without anyone waiting to shake his hand. “I’m glad you pushed for your vision.”
It’s not an apology for the argument. It’s not a promise to speak to Livia. But it’s something, and right now, with the evening going so well, I’ll take it.
“Thank you.” I let myself stand with him a little longer, pleased enough to forget that I had intended to stay brisk and professional. “Now let’s go watch them taste your father’s wine.”
By six-fifteen, the herb table is nearly empty of guests, and the servers move in to clear it.