6. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
I don’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, the murky wine pours into that glass again, followed by Livia’s quick smile vanishing behind her tears. When I turn onto my side, I find my phone on the bedside table and remember why I don’t want to check it.
You should leave while you still can.
I showed it to Rosalia when she found me in the courtyard, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone steady. She read it, then walked me back inside and waited at my bedroom door.
“Forward it to Don Lorenzo.” She had kept her hand on the door until I agreed, unwilling to leave the decision for morning. “He should know.”
After I locked the door, I sent him the screenshot with a brief explanation and the number it came from. He hasn’t responded. I don’t know if he’s seen it, or if he’s still with the sommelier examining bottles, or if he simply has nothing to say.
By the time the gray winter dawn creeps through my window, I’ve given up pretending I might rest. I dress in practical clothes, dark trousers and a warm sweater, and braid my hair away from my face. The braid is crooked. I leave it.
There are limits to what I am prepared to fix before breakfast.
The house feels different in the morning light.
Staff move through the corridors without meeting my eyes.
A maid I’ve greeted every day for two years walks past me as if I’m invisible, her gaze fixed on some point beyond my shoulder.
In the kitchen, I ask whether there is fresh bread.
The cook points toward a basket at the far end of the counter and goes back to arranging a tray for someone else.
Yesterday she would have offered me a plate.
I take one from the stack myself. Whatever she thinks happened last night, I still need breakfast.
Rosalia finds me in the small dining room, eating alone at a table meant for twelve.
“The household delivery didn’t arrive this morning.” She closes the door behind her, keeping her voice low. “The driver said he had engine trouble. When I called the supplier, they said they’d try again tomorrow.”
“What do we actually need?” I put down my bread, trying not to hear an insult in engine trouble. Vehicles do break down. The driver isn’t necessarily joining the rest of the valley.
Rosalia pulls a folded list from her apron pocket. “Staples, mostly. Flour, salt, fresh vegetables. Things we’d normally have delivered twice a week.”
“I’ll come with you to collect them.” I push my chair back, then glance at the phone beside my plate. The message is still there. “If we can take a car. I don’t want to spend the day up here watching people hurry past my door.”
“Signora, after that message…” Rosalia stops with the list half-folded. She has seen me look at the phone. “Let me have someone bring what we need.”
“I don’t want to go alone.” I turn the phone facedown so I can look at her instead. “But I don’t want whoever sent that deciding whether I leave the house. A car, you with me, and we come straight back. Can we do that?”
“I’ll ask one of the drivers to wait beside the square.” Rosalia unfolds the list again and smooths it flat on the table. “We collect what’s ready and leave. If anyone bothers you, we come straight back to the car.”
“Thank you.” I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “For staying. For not looking through me like everyone else.”
“You didn’t do this, signora.” Her voice is fierce, certain in a way that makes my throat tight. “Anyone who knows you would know that.”
“Unfortunately, most of the valley doesn’t know me.” I release her hand and finish the last of my bread before standing. “Let’s get the supplies.”
***
The market square is busy when we arrive, stalls set up in the usual places, vendors calling out prices, shoppers moving between displays of winter vegetables and fresh bread. For a moment, standing at the edge of the square with Rosalia beside me, I can almost pretend this is a normal morning.
Then someone notices me.
A woman at the cheese stall looks up, her eyes widening.
She turns to her companion and whispers something, and the companion turns to look as well.
The women look away when they catch me noticing.
Around them, shoppers keep choosing vegetables and handing over coins.
I wish I could concentrate on something as ordinary as the price of potatoes.
I lift my chin and walk forward.
The vegetable stall is closest, run by an older woman who usually asks how I am using her winter greens. I approach with Rosalia’s list in my hand and what I hope is a neutral expression on my face.
“Good morning.” I hold the list where she can see it, giving her the same greeting I always do. “I need potatoes, carrots, and whatever greens you have.”
The woman looks at me, then past me, then back at me. Her mouth tightens into a thin line.
“We’re out.” She gestures at the baskets of vegetables clearly visible behind her. “Everything’s spoken for.”
“I see.” I let my gaze move deliberately over the full baskets, the abundant displays, the obvious lie. “Perhaps tomorrow, then.”
I move to the next stall, where a younger man sells bread and pastries. He watches me approach with wary eyes.
“A loaf of the country bread, please.” I point to the basket where several loaves are clearly visible. “And some of those rolls.”
“Just the one loaf?” He picks up the bread without meeting my eyes. Usually he tries to sell me enough pastries for the entire house. Today he seems keen to finish before anyone sees us talking.
“And the rolls.” I put the money on the counter and wait until he wraps everything. I am not going to apologize for buying bread.
At the general store beside his stall, Rosalia collects the flour and salt.
Another vendor sells us vegetables without comment, passing the bags to the driver when he comes over to help.
We have what we need. I should feel relieved.
Instead I am furious with myself for feeling grateful to people who merely accepted my money.
On our way back to the car, we pass a group of women I recognize from church, gathered beside the fabric stall. One of them wished me luck with the launch when she saw me last week. Today she turns her back before I can greet her.
“There she is.” The woman who wished me luck angles herself toward her friends, keeping her back to me. Her voice carries clearly across the space between us. “The French woman. The one who ruined the vintage.”
I keep walking. I will not give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
“My cousin was at the launch.” Her friend stops examining a length of wool when she hears me mentioned. “Said it was chaos. Three hundred people watching while the Don’s wine came out spoiled.”
“Imagine the shame.” The first woman glances over her shoulder to see whether I have heard. “Poor Don Lorenzo, having to clean up his wife’s mistakes.”
I stop beside Rosalia. We are close to the car, and I can leave whenever I want. That doesn’t mean I have to let this woman pretend I didn’t hear her.
“I didn’t spoil the wine.” I turn to face them, my voice clear and carrying. “The botanical presentation was completely separate from the cellar operations. I had no role in preparing the wine. A different event plan didn’t spoil it.”
The women exchange glances, their expressions shifting from righteous to uncertain.
“That’s not what we heard.” The first woman looks toward her friend, waiting for the cousin’s account to save her from having to answer for her own words.
“I’m sure it isn’t.” I take a step closer, and she takes a step back. “But what you heard is a lie. Someone sabotaged that wine, and it wasn’t me.”
“Then who?” The second woman folds her arms across her chest. “Who else would want to ruin the Marchetti launch?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” I hold her gaze until she looks away. “Until then, stop telling people I did it.”
I turn and continue through the market, Rosalia hurrying to keep up. My heart is pounding and my hands are shaking, but I don’t regret it. I refuse to let these people condemn me without at least hearing my defense.
We’re almost to the edge of the square when I see the old man.
He’s sitting on a bench near the fountain, wrapped in a heavy coat despite the relative mildness of the morning. I recognize neither his face nor the walking stick resting against his knee. As I pass, he turns his head and spits on the ground in front of me.
I stop. The glob of saliva glistens on the cobblestones, inches from my shoes.
“Outsider.” He drags his walking stick back against the bench, blocking the space I might have used to step around him. “Should have stayed in France where you belong.”
I stare at him, this stranger who has decided I deserve his disgust without ever speaking to me, without knowing anything about me except that I grew up somewhere else.
“Signora.” Rosalia’s hand tightens on my arm. “Let’s go.”
I let her lead me away, past the fountain, past the stalls, past people who look away when I meet their eyes. The driver is waiting where we left him, and he opens the door without comment when he sees us approaching.
In the car, with the market disappearing behind us, Rosalia finally speaks.
“Livia has worked her way into every house in the valley.” Rosalia watches the square until we turn out of it, checking that no one has followed us to the car.
“She’s been doing it for years. Building relationships, trading favors, making herself useful to everyone who matters.
By now, there’s hardly a family she hasn’t helped with something. ”
I lean my head against the cold window. “I knew people liked her. I didn’t know that gave them permission to hate me.”
“That doesn’t mean everyone thinks she’s right.” Rosalia turns to face me, her expression serious. “But they know her. They listen when she says she’s worried. She’s been talking about the launch since you took it on, and now they think last night proved her right.”