19. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
The following afternoon, I leave the cottage in time to reach the Baglio before sunset.
The road winds through hills that have gone brown and quiet, the vines stripped to bare wood, low cloud breaking near the coast. My replacement phone sits in the cup holder with Lorenzo’s reply still visible on the screen: I’ll be there.
He hasn’t asked what I want to say. I’m relieved; I’d rather answer him in person.
I park near the main house and walk the rest of the way.
The pigiatura vat sits at the edge of the vineyard, a broad stone basin that hasn’t held grapes since the autumn crush. In autumn, it smelled like crushed fruit and fermentation; now it just smells like cold stone and dried leaves.
The sun is already low, throwing long shadows across the terraced slopes.
Lorenzo is waiting when I arrive.
He’s leaning against the far edge of the vat, his coat buttoned against the chill, watching me cross the last stretch of path. He doesn’t move toward me, doesn’t call out. Just waits, the way he said he would.
I stop a few feet away, close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the careful stillness of his hands in his pockets. I invited him because I want to be here. I should probably tell him that before he wears a hole in his coat pocket.
“You came.” He pushes away from the vat, making room beside him.
“I invited you.” I step closer to the vat, running my hand along the stone rim. It’s cold under my palm, rough with age. “Did you think I wouldn’t show?”
“I thought you might change your mind.” He watches my hand on the stone. “You have every right to.”
“I read your letter.” I move along the edge of the vat, closing some of the distance between us. “And you asked me a question outside the hospital. Why I haven’t signed the divorce papers.”
“You didn’t answer.” He stops watching my progress along the rim and gives me his full attention. “I told myself not to ask again.”
“I’m answering now.” I stop when I’m close enough to touch him, though I don’t. Not yet. “I haven’t signed them because I still want a marriage with you. I need to find out whether we can have one.”
He starts to reach for me, then stops with his hand between us. I take it for a moment, long enough to let us both enjoy what I’ve said before I continue.
“I’ll still go back to the cottage tonight.” I release his hand and start along the path beside the vat. “But I’d like to have dinner with you this week. Something we arrange because we want to spend an evening together.”
“Tomorrow?” He’s quick enough with the answer to make me smile. “I’d like tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow works.” It feels good to have something to look forward to that doesn’t involve waiting for news from an investigator.
“I want you to ask me things that have nothing to do with the estate.” I turn back to face him. “I want to tell you about my day without wondering if you’re waiting for the part that concerns you.”
“How did the blend turn out?” He joins me on the path. “You were going to finish it before reading my letter.”
“Ready for a test batch. It still doesn’t have a name.” I tell him about Rosalia’s objection to ‘Trying Again,’ and he laughs before I finish explaining. “You’re taking her side?”
“I’d buy it for the taste.” He slows where the path narrows. “The name might make me wonder what happened to the last batch.”
“Excellent. Now there are two of you.” I can object without wishing I hadn’t told him. This was the conversation I almost started yesterday. I’m glad I waited until I could enjoy it.
“This way.” I choose the short path that leads between the vine rows. “We can argue about branding while we walk.”
He falls into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost brush. The path is narrow, meant for workers during harvest, and we have to walk close together to stay on the packed earth. The bare vines stretch out on either side of us, dormant and waiting for spring.
“I keep thinking about that night.” I gesture back toward the vat. “The grape crush. You climbed in to catch me and ruined your trousers.”
“You were explaining pressure distribution.” He gives the vat a last amused glance. “I thought you were going to insist the grapes cooperate.”
“You were paying attention to me.” I glance at him sideways. “I remember wondering if you’d be annoyed about the stains.”
“I wasn’t.” He steps over a rut in the path, still amused by the memory. “I was trying to hear the end of your explanation without laughing.”
“Then I hope you appreciated the effort.” I remember trying to sound authoritative while gripping his sleeve. “It’s difficult to maintain professional dignity with grapes between your toes.”
We walk in silence for a few minutes, the path winding between rows of sleeping vines. The sun has dipped below the horizon now, leaving the sky streaked with pink and gold. It’s cold, but not unbearably so. I’m glad I wore my heavier coat.
“I should start back to the cottage.” I stop at the end of the row, where the path turns back toward the main house. “I’d rather reach the main road while there’s still some light.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.” He doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to extend the evening. Just accepts what I’m offering.
We walk back together, past the empty vat, past the outbuildings, to where my car is parked near the main house. The lights are on inside, warm yellow against the deepening blue of the sky. His home. Our home, once. Maybe again.
“Lorenzo.” I stop beside my car, keys in hand. “I’m glad I came.”
“So am I.” He reaches out, slowly enough that I could pull away, and brushes a strand of hair back from my face. His fingers are cold, but gentle. “Drive safe.”
“I will.” I unlock the car and slide into the driver’s seat. Through the window, I can see him standing in the driveway, watching me go.
I start the engine and pull away, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror until the road curves and he disappears.
***
Three weeks after that evening, the Baglio is full of light.
I stand in the side room off the main courtyard, reviewing the program for tonight’s presentation. A sentence in the introduction credits me with “saving the Marchetti vines.” I draw a line through it.
My trial covered one small strip. The vines were healthy long before I arrived. Beneath the correction I write: Presentation concept and botanical display: Chiara Delacroix-Marchetti.
“You’re editing.” Lorenzo appears in the doorway, already dressed for the evening in a dark suit that fits him perfectly. “What needs changing?”
“Apparently I single-handedly rescued the entire harvest.” I hold up the program. “Someone has a very creative interpretation of my contribution.”
He crosses the room and takes the page from my hand, scanning my corrections. “You should have credit for what you actually did.”
“I do. Right there.” I point to the line I’ve amended. “Concept and botanical display. That’s accurate.”
“Not the garden work?” he asks.
“That didn’t make this vintage. The presentation is mine, and it deserves its own credit.”
“Then that’s how I’ll introduce you.” Lorenzo reads the corrected sentence aloud when I pass it back to him, using my full name, and sets the page with his other notes.
For three weeks, we have been finding reasons to spend time together. I still sleep at the cottage, but dinner with Lorenzo has become something I choose again, even after an evening when we disagree. Last time, we argued over music until the food went cold.
Neither of us mistook a difference in taste for a threat to the marriage.
“You can choose the music at dinner next time.” I gather my own notes for the presentation. “I promise not to call it gloomy before the second song.”
“Generous.” His amusement reminds me how thoroughly I criticized his choice last time. “Will I also be allowed to finish the first song?”
“Let’s see how tonight goes.” I like that he can complain about my interruption without dismissing everything I say. Now I need to turn my attention to the launch.
“Have you checked the wine?” I head for the door. “I want to know it’s perfect before three hundred people are watching me describe it.”
We walk together through the corridor toward the main courtyard, which has been transformed for the evening.
Heated lamps line the covered arcade, their warmth holding back the winter chill. Tables beneath the stone arches hold empty crystal glasses. My covered aroma jars occupy their own display, apart from the pouring station.
We invited the original guest list back for the launch we never got to finish.
At the kitchen doorway, the winemaker offers us a glass from the bottle he’s just checked. Lorenzo passes it to me first.
I taste the dark fruit and oak, then the faint floral note beneath them. Exactly as it should be.
“Perfect.” I hand it to Lorenzo. He tastes it and smiles, and some of the tightness in my chest eases.
“Then we’re ready.” I turn toward the courtyard, where guests are beginning to filter in through the main entrance. “I should check the display.”
“Chiara.” Lorenzo catches my arm, gently. “You look beautiful tonight.”
I’m wearing a dress I chose myself, dark blue silk, with a wrap waiting near the display in case the heaters aren’t enough. I chose it on an afternoon in Palermo, and I liked it before I started wondering what Lorenzo would think.
“Thank you.” I don’t pull away from his touch. “You look acceptable.”
“Acceptable.” He inspects the cuff I straightened without noticing I was doing it. “Should I be worried?”
“I’m saving the compliments for after the presentation.” I step back, letting his hand fall. “You can wait.”
“I’ll look forward to the verdict.” He lets me get back to the display, but I catch him admiring the dress as I leave.
At the display, I straighten a label and check the jars one last time. The first guests are coming through the courtyard entrance.
Rosalia has put my wrap on the stool behind the display, leaving the whole tabletop free.