5. Chiara #2
I watch Maria lift the jars carefully, placing them in the carrying case we prepared, while Tomas guides the last few curious visitors toward the alcove. The transition is smooth, exactly as we rehearsed, people drifting naturally toward the warm light where the first pour will happen.
The courtyard feels different now, the energy shifting from exploration to anticipation.
The crowd clusters near the alcove, their voices creating a pleasant hum of expectation.
The heaters have been adjusted to focus their warmth on this area, and guests loosen scarves as they find places with a view of the pouring station.
“Table’s clear.” Rosalia appears at my elbow, slightly breathless. “The servers are storing everything in the side room. Ready for the cellar team.”
“Perfect timing.” I check my watch. Six-eighteen. The cellar team should be preparing to bring the bottles through the doorway.
“Have you seen Livia?” Rosalia checks the workers waiting by the cellar door before lowering her voice. “I haven’t seen her all evening.”
I scan the crowd, looking for the dark hair and pleasant smile that have haunted me for weeks. Nothing. The cellar workers I can see are the ones I recognize from the rehearsal, moving with quiet efficiency near the doorway, but Livia is conspicuously absent.
“I haven’t seen her either.” I look toward Lorenzo, who is speaking with the sommelier. “I’ll ask.”
Rosalia follows my gaze, then takes the empty carrying case Maria offers her. “Don’t let it hold you up. We’re ready here.”
She takes the case inside, and I make my way toward Lorenzo and the sommelier. The ceremonial bottles aren’t visible yet; they’ll come through the doorway at six twenty-five, carried from the aging room to the pouring station.
“Everything on schedule?” I stop beside Lorenzo where I can see the doorway and the cleared route. The final part of the evening now belongs to the people who know the wine. “Where’s Livia?”
“Handling something in the cellars.” Lorenzo checks the doorway when I do, but no one emerges. “She said she’d join us for the pour.”
“The bottles are ready.” The sommelier, the silver-haired man who questioned my botanical concept so skeptically at the planning meeting, looks almost relaxed tonight. “We’ll begin the procession in a few minutes.”
“The table’s cleared.” I gesture toward the now-empty space near the entrance. “The path is open whenever your team is ready.”
He nods, and I see something that might be grudging respect in his expression. The evening is going well, better than he expected, and even he can’t deny it.
Lorenzo takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. I stay beside him as the guests gather around us. For once I don’t have to decide whether moving closer would interrupt something more important.
At six twenty-five, the cellar doors open.
Two workers emerge carrying the ceremonial bottles, the signature vintage that Cesare spent years perfecting.
The crowd parts to let them through, murmuring appreciation as the bottles pass.
In the lantern light, the glass gleams with the deep color of aged wine, and I feel a flutter of anticipation in my chest.
This is the moment. This is what everything has been building toward.
The workers set the bottles carefully on the pouring station in the alcove, arranging them with practiced precision. The sommelier takes his position, straightening his jacket, preparing to address the crowd.
I search the doorway for Livia, expecting her to emerge with the bottles, to take her place as cellar steward overseeing the most important pour of the year. The doorway remains empty.
“Where is she?” I keep the question low, for Lorenzo alone. Livia has attended every rehearsal she could question. Why miss the part that belongs to her?
“I don’t know.” His hand tightens on mine, and I see a flicker of concern cross his face. “She said she’d be here.”
At half past six, the sommelier raises his hand for attention. The crowd quiets before I can ask Lorenzo anything more.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The sommelier stands beside the bottles, waiting until the guests farther back turn toward him. “Welcome to Baglio Marchetti. Tonight we share with you the culmination of Don Cesare Marchetti’s final vision.”
He pauses, letting the words settle over the gathered guests.
“This wine represents three years of careful aging, guided first by Cesare himself and then by his son, who has honored his father’s vision with unwavering dedication.
” The sommelier gestures toward Lorenzo, who accepts the acknowledgment with a small nod.
“Tonight, we invite you to taste that dedication. The first pour of the signature vintage.”
He reaches for the ceremonial bottle, the one that will fill the first glasses. I hold my breath as he draws the cork with a soft pop, as he lifts the bottle to begin the pour.
The wine that flows into the glass is wrong.
I see it before I understand it. The color is murky where it should be clear, clouded with something that shouldn’t be there. A smell reaches me even from where I stand, sharp and chemical, nothing like wine.
The sommelier stops pouring. His hand trembles slightly as he lifts the glass, swirling the contents, bringing it toward his nose. His face goes gray.
“Stop.” The sommelier moves the glass away from the edge of the station, beyond the reach of a guest leaning closer. “Nobody touch this. Something’s wrong.”
The crowd shifts, confused murmurs rippling through the gathered guests. I watch the sommelier set down the ruined glass and reach for a second bottle, his movements jerky with barely controlled panic.
“A different bottle.” He reaches past the one he has opened and draws another toward him, checking its label before he picks up the corkscrew. “It must be just this one.”
He opens the second bottle with shaking hands, pours a small amount into a clean glass. The same murky color. The same acrid smell.
“Contaminated.” He puts the second glass beside the first without tasting either. There is no way to mistake the expression on his face now. “The wine is contaminated. Undrinkable.”
The murmurs become louder, confusion turning to alarm. I feel Lorenzo’s hand go rigid in mine.
“Nobody drink anything.” Lorenzo’s voice cuts through the noise, commanding despite the devastation I can see in his eyes. “Stop the service immediately. Do not touch any of the wine.”
The servers lower their trays of empty glasses. The guests nearest the pouring station step back as if the bottles might explode.
“What happened?” The bearded buyer steps toward the station, leaving his companion at the front of the crowd. “What’s wrong with it?”
“We’re determining that now.” Lorenzo releases my hand, moving toward the sommelier. “Please, everyone remain calm. The staff will guide you inside while we assess the situation.”
But the crowd isn’t moving. They’re staring at the ruined wine, at the sommelier’s ashen face, at the bottles that should have contained Cesare’s legacy and instead hold something foul and wrong.
“Three years.” The woman with the expensive watch has stopped trying to see past the people in front of her. She turns to her companion instead. “All that work, ruined.”
“How does this happen?” The bearded man returns to her side without the wine he has been waiting for. He sets his empty glass on a passing tray. “At a launch this size, with this much preparation?”
“I heard there were concerns about the new approach.” A middle-aged man behind them leans into their conversation, lowering his voice just enough to invite them closer. “The wife insisted on changes. Maybe something went wrong.”
My blood runs cold.
“The botanical presentation had nothing to do with the wine.” I turn to face the speaker, who looks startled to be addressed directly. “The herbs were completely separate. Cleared from the courtyard before the bottles even left the cellar.”
“I’m just saying what I heard.” He holds up his hands defensively. “The staff were worried about all the changes. Unconventional approach, outsider ideas…”
“The jars showed guests what grows here.” My voice is harder than I intend, but I can’t soften it. “Covered jars that guests could choose to explore. Nothing that touched the wine, nothing that entered the cellar, nothing that could possibly affect what’s in those bottles.”
“Then how do you explain this?” A woman beside him gestures toward the pouring station, where the sommelier is conferring urgently with Lorenzo. “If not the changes, then what?”
“I don’t know.” The admission costs me, but lying would cost more. “But I know it wasn’t the botanical presentation. That’s not how contamination works.”
More people stop on their way inside to listen. I hear outsider again, followed by something about disrespecting tradition. The doubts that followed the rehearsals now sound like things these people have witnessed for themselves.
“The herb jars were covered.” I raise my voice, trying to cut through the noise. “They were on a separate table, cleared before the wine was brought out. No herbs went into the glasses or the bottles.”
“But who had access to the cellar?” The man in the expensive suit folds his arms. “Who was directing the preparations?”
The question hangs in the air, and I feel its weight settle on my shoulders. I directed the event. I designed the presentation. In the eyes of everyone here, everything that happened tonight is my responsibility.
“The event preparation was separate from wine preparation.” I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. “The cellar operations were handled by the cellar steward. The bottles were stored and maintained by the cellar team.”
“So you’re blaming the cellar staff?” The woman beside the middle-aged man moves closer to him, as if I have insulted them both.