15. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
Two mornings after the storm, Ortensia calls while I’m eating breakfast at the cottage kitchen table.
I almost don’t answer. The caller ID shows the Baglio landline, and I don’t want another conversation about when I might come home. But Ortensia has never been the type to call without purpose, and ignoring her will only delay whatever conversation she wants to have.
“Chiara.” I can hear the household moving around her, crockery being set down while she gets straight to the reason for her call. “The valley wine blessing is this afternoon. I assume you know about it.”
I do know about it. The annual blessing at the church, followed by a communal feast where the valley families share wine and food and gossip. I’ve attended twice since marrying Lorenzo, both times as an anxious newcomer trying to learn the customs of a place that wasn’t sure it wanted me.
“I wasn’t planning to go.” I push my plate aside. “Given everything that’s happened, I don’t think my presence would be welcome.”
“I want you there.” A chair scrapes at her end, then the background clatter fades as she moves away from the breakfast table. “Give them nothing to feast on, Chiara. Let them see that you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
They’ll talk whether I go or not. I don’t owe them an appearance, but I’m tired of staying away.
“Lorenzo will be there.” She waits, and I know she’s listening for a change in my answer. “The blessing is important to the estate. He won’t miss it.”
“That’s not a reason for me to go.” I look toward my coat hanging beside the door. “I’m not going to show up as his accessory to prove I’m still a Marchetti in good standing.”
“Then don’t go as his accessory.” I hear her close a door, shutting out the household entirely. “Go as yourself. The woman who was framed for something she didn’t do, who has spent the past week proving she won’t be driven away. Let them see that woman, and let them draw their own conclusions.”
I’m quiet for a moment, turning it over. Outside the kitchen window, Lucia crosses the courtyard with a basket on her arm.
“I’ll think about it.” I end the call before Ortensia can push harder.
After the call, I send Rosalia a message asking whether she has a moment. She rings while I’m clearing my plate, on her way to start work.
“Ortensia wants me at the wine blessing,” I tell her.
“Do you want to go, signora?”
“I want those women to stop behaving as if I should hide. I don’t know whether that means I want to spend an afternoon with them.”
“You don’t have to stay all afternoon.”
“No. I suppose I don’t.”
“And you don’t have to go to make anyone else feel better.”
“Including Lorenzo.”
“Yes, signora.” I hear a door close at her end. “I have to go in now. I hope it goes well if you do decide to go.”
I finish clearing breakfast. I want to look those women in the eye again. I want to enjoy an afternoon in this valley without wondering who thinks I should leave.
I pull out my phone and text Ortensia back. I’ll be there. I’m driving myself.
Her response comes within seconds. Good. Meet me at the church entrance before the blessing starts.
***
The church is older than the estate, its stone walls weathered by centuries of valley winters. I park near the edge of the lot and sit in the car for a moment, watching families stream toward the entrance in their best wool coats and careful expressions.
I recognize some of the faces. A shopkeeper who looked past me when I tried to buy groceries after the gala. The cluster of matrons who whispered about “the French woman” while I was standing close enough to hear every word. They all look so comfortable here, so confident in their belonging.
You belong here too. I make myself believe it as I open the car door. You’ve been Lorenzo’s wife for two years. You’ve walked through this valley, bought from these vendors, attended their celebrations. They don’t get to erase that because someone spread lies about you.
Ortensia is waiting near the entrance, her dark coat buttoned to the throat and one glove tucked beneath her arm. She nods when she sees me approaching, something like approval flickering across her face.
“You came.” She falls into step beside me as we walk toward the doors. “I wasn’t entirely sure you would.”
“I wasn’t entirely sure either.” I keep my voice low, aware of the curious glances already turning our way. “But I decided I was tired of letting other people’s opinions dictate where I go.”
“Good.” Ortensia links her arm through mine, a gesture of solidarity that surprises me. “Hold your head up. They’re already watching.”
She’s not wrong. I can feel the weight of attention as we enter the church, the way conversations pause and then resume in lower tones.
“After everything she did.” A woman near the aisle lowers her voice too late.
I recognize her before she turns toward the altar, and I keep walking.
I won’t give her the satisfaction of making me stop in the doorway.
I keep my eyes forward and my spine straight. Ortensia guides me to a pew near the front, where the Marchetti family has apparently sat for generations. The seat puts me in full view of most of the congregation, which I suspect is exactly what she intended.
The blessing itself is beautiful, the kind of ceremony that reminds me why I fell in love with this valley in the first place.
The priest speaks about the gift of the vine, the labor of the harvest, the communion of sharing what the land provides.
Bottles from the valley’s estates stand together for the blessing.
I recognize an older Marchetti reserve among them, part of the stock untouched by the ruined launch.
When it’s over, we file out into the pale winter sunlight and begin the walk to the communal feast. The gathering is held in a covered area near the town square, long tables set with food and wine and the comfortable chaos of a celebration that’s been happening longer than anyone can remember.
I’ve barely stepped under the canopy when the first matron approaches.
She’s one of the women from the shop, the one who told her friends I was “the French woman who ruined the vintage” while I was standing right there. She’s wearing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and carrying a glass of wine like a prop.
“Signora Marchetti.” She plants herself between me and the end of the nearest table, leaving me to stop or push past her. “How brave of you to show your face today.”
I feel Ortensia tense beside me, but I speak before she can intervene.
“Brave?” I leave my gloves in my hand instead of twisting them the way I want to. “I’m attending a community celebration in the valley where I’ve lived for two years. There’s nothing brave about it. It’s simply where I belong.”
“Well. After what happened at the gala.” The woman glances toward her friends beside the table, looking for someone to agree before she finishes. “Most people would have stayed away a little longer.”
“What happened at the gala was that someone sabotaged the wine and made sure I took the blame.” I meet her eyes directly. “The laboratory confirmed the contamination was deliberate and had nothing to do with my presentation. But I notice you’re still repeating the lies anyway.”
A small crowd is gathering now, drawn by the tension in our voices. I can see other faces I recognize, other women who whispered and turned away when I walked past. They’re all watching, waiting to see what happens next.
“The laboratory.” She shifts her wineglass into her other hand, making room for a friend to join her in front of me. “How convenient that the Don’s own investigators would clear the Don’s own wife.”
“The findings cleared me.” I hold her gaze. “But you’d already decided I was guilty before you knew any of the facts.”
“Now, now.” A second woman joins the first, her expression falsely sympathetic. “There’s no need to get defensive, signora. We’re just concerned. For the family’s reputation, you understand.”
“Concerned.” I look from her to the friend still blocking my path. “Is that what you call cornering a woman in a shop and telling her she should have stayed in France? Is that what you call spitting on the ground in front of someone you’ve never spoken to?”
The second woman looks away. She wasn’t the man who spat at my feet, but I remember her laughing at the shop while her friend told me I didn’t belong here.
“We were upset.” She looks for Ortensia’s support and finds none; my mother-in-law stays at my shoulder. “The launch was supposed to be a celebration. When it fell apart…”
“When it fell apart, you needed someone to blame.” I step closer to her, and she actually takes a step back.
“You needed a foreigner, an outsider, someone you’d never really accepted anyway.
It was easier to believe I’d destroyed the vintage than to ask who actually had the means and the motive to do it. ”
The crowd has grown larger now. I can see faces I don’t recognize mixed with ones I do, all of them watching this confrontation unfold. Some look uncomfortable. A few look almost… thoughtful.
“Chiara.” Ortensia touches my sleeve, then moves aside to give someone room through the crowd. “Lorenzo is coming.”
I turn and see him making his way through the crowd, his expression unreadable. He’s dressed formally, the way he always is for valley events, but there’s tension in his shoulders that suggests he’s been watching this exchange for longer than I realized.
“My wife is innocent.” Lorenzo stops beside me, leaving me facing the women instead of putting himself in front of me. Someone behind the first matron lowers a plate onto the table. The sound is loud in the sudden quiet.
“The laboratory confirmed deliberate sabotage. Chiara’s presentation had nothing to do with it.” He looks beyond the women to the people listening behind them.
The first matron opens her mouth to speak, but Lorenzo continues before she can.