19. Chiara #2
“Is there anything else you need, signora, before they arrive?” She checks the open space beside me instead of rearranging something I’ve already placed.
“Only your honest opinion when I send the new blend over.” I make sure the lids are secure. “I think Lorenzo may be biased.”
“I’d be happy to try it, signora.” She takes the empty packing box away before it can become something I trip over.
The guests are filling the courtyard now, familiar faces from the original gala.
Some of them meet my eyes and look away quickly; others offer careful nods of acknowledgment. A few stop at the jars before approaching me, which gives us something useful to discuss. I’m not here to accept apologies or grant absolution. I want them to hear what I came here to say.
An older couple stops at the display, uncertain which jar to try first. I lift the lavender lid and offer it to the woman, then pass her husband the dried cherry.
“You don’t have to agree about what you smell,” I tell them. “Try both.”
They exchange jars, then begin comparing their answers. Another guest comes closer to listen. I make room for her and uncover the oak shavings.
For a few minutes, nobody asks about the first gala. They ask about what is in front of them, and I have answers I enjoy giving.
Rosalia passes with a tray of clean glasses. She catches my eye, smiles, and keeps going. Later, I want to tell her how good this part felt. For now, I turn to the next guest.
Ortensia finds me a few minutes before the presentation begins. She’s wearing deep burgundy, her silver hair swept up, her expression carefully composed.
“Chiara.” She stops at a respectful distance. “You’ve done beautiful work with the display.”
“Thank you.” I accept the compliment without searching it for a request. It’s pleasant to have my work recognized plainly.
“I want to hear your introduction.” Ortensia moves into the space the guests are leaving in front of the display. “I’ll be over here.”
She settles where she can see me without standing at my shoulder. I leave her there and turn toward the pouring alcove.
The winemaker signals that it’s time to begin. I take my place beside the display table as the courtyard falls quiet, three hundred faces turning toward me expectantly.
Lorenzo steps forward first, his voice carrying easily across the space.
“Thank you all for joining us tonight. My father began planning this vintage years ago. Tonight, we honor his vision and share it with you at last.” He pauses, his eyes finding mine across the crowd.
“Chiara Delacroix-Marchetti designed tonight’s presentation.
The botanical display and the tasting format are her work, and I’m proud to share this evening with her. ”
I step forward, the covered jars arranged beside me, the first bottle ready to be uncorked.
I recognize the woman nearest the pouring station. At the church feast, she wouldn’t meet my eyes after Lorenzo spoke. Tonight she is watching me, waiting for my introduction. I let myself notice that before beginning. I worked hard on this presentation, and I want to enjoy giving it.
“Cesare Marchetti imagined this evening long before we gathered here.” I gesture toward the winemaker. “Our winemakers brought his vision to life. I’m delighted to help you enjoy it.”
A murmur of appreciation ripples through the crowd. I let it settle before continuing.
“What I’ve prepared for you is something different.” I move to the display table with its covered jars, arranged in the sequence I designed weeks ago. “Not ingredients. Not additions to the wine. These are aromatics, meant to help you recognize what you’ll taste in the wine.”
I uncover the rosemary, then the fruit and oak. “You might recognize these in your glass, or find something else entirely. You don’t need the right words before you’re allowed to enjoy it.”
A guest near the back moves closer to see the jars. I turn one so its label faces her, glad I can give her something to examine instead of another claim to take on faith.
“I spent months learning this land.” I replace the last cover and turn to face the crowd directly. “This display is a way to share what I learned with you. Consider this an introduction to the Marchetti terroir, guided by someone who came here as a stranger and fell in love with what grows here.”
Lorenzo remains beside the pouring station, leaving the presentation to me. His introduction used the credit I asked for. I don’t have to stop and explain what part of this evening belongs to me, and I can feel how much easier that makes it to speak.
“Now.” I turn toward the servers waiting at the edge of the courtyard, their trays loaded with empty glasses. “Let’s taste what Cesare imagined.”
The first cork comes free. I watch the winemaker pour, unable to look away until the clear, dark wine catches the light. Glasses pass through the waiting crowd.
When I accept mine, my fingers are steady. I can finally enjoy the evening I worked so hard to create.
Around me, guests are lifting their glasses, swirling the wine, breathing in the aromatics I described.
Some of them glance toward the display table, making connections between the dried herbs and what they’re smelling in their glasses.
A woman near the front closes her eyes as she tastes, her expression shifting to surprise and then appreciation.
I taste the wine. The wine is exactly what we tasted in the kitchen: complex, layered, worthy of the three years it spent aging. I notice the herbal note after the fruit, then the oak. I let myself feel the relief of that, the pleasure of finally tasting it here.
“Signora Marchetti.” A man I don’t recognize has approached the display table, his glass in hand. He’s older, formal, with the bearing of someone accustomed to being listened to. “I hear you’ve been working with cover crops as well. Did that work inform this display?”
A real question. A professional question. Not did you really try to poison the wine or how does it feel to be vindicated.
“They’re separate projects.” I set my glass beside the jars. “The display draws on my botanical work, including the blends I developed in Lyon.”
“Then I look forward to hearing more about it.” He retrieves the printed introduction he had tucked beneath his arm and checks my name. “Will you be giving other presentations?”
“I hope so.” For once, I don’t qualify that hope before I’ve finished saying it. “I enjoyed preparing this one.”
He moves away, and I realize my shoulders have dropped from where they’d been climbing toward my ears. One conversation. One real conversation about something that matters, with someone who asked because he wanted to know the answer.
The string quartet shifts into a waltz, and couples begin leaving their glasses at the tables. They drift toward the open space near the musicians, laughing as they choose partners. The first pour worked. The presentation landed. I let myself enjoy the sound of people talking about the wine.
Lorenzo appears beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne over the wine and the night air. He’s watching the dancers with an expression I can’t quite read.
“You still owe me a verdict.” He turns to face me, one eyebrow raised. “Earlier you said my suit was acceptable. That was before the presentation.”
“You chose it well.” I take my time admiring the fit of his jacket before returning to his face. “I was distracted earlier.”
“Can I distract you again?” He offers his hand toward the space near the musicians. “Dance with me.”
I take his hand. His fingers close around mine, warm and certain, and he leads me into the space where other couples are already turning in slow circles. He settles his other hand at my waist, and I move closer before we begin.
“Everyone’s watching,” I observe. A few faces have turned in our direction, curiosity and something else flickering across their features.
“I know.” His thumb traces a small circle against my waist. “That’s the point.”
“The point being?” I slow our first step, wanting him to answer before we go further.
“I’m proud to be here with you.” He waits for me to move with him before guiding our first turn. “And I’d like to keep the most interesting person here to myself for one song.”