Epilogue
Chiara
A year after I tore up those pages, the greenhouse smells like rosemary and warm earth.
I’m bent over the propagation bench, checking the cuttings for the spring planting, when I hear the door open behind me. The winter light shifts as Lorenzo steps inside, bringing a gust of cold air with him before he pulls the door shut.
“You’re early.” I don’t look up from the cuttings. One of the labels has slipped between the pots, and I need to retrieve it before I forget which tray it belongs to.
“I finished the accounts.” He crosses to the bench beside me, close enough that I can feel the chill still clinging to his coat. “And I wanted to see you before the tasting.”
“You saw me at breakfast.” I return the label to its tray and set the clipboard down. “That was three hours ago.”
“Three very long hours.” He leans against the bench, watching me work. “I’ve been thinking about you the whole time.”
“While doing accounts?” I turn away from the cuttings to give him my attention. “I hope you didn’t put my name in the wrong column.”
“The estate finances are impeccable.” He reaches for my hand, pulling me closer. “I’m an excellent multitasker.”
I let him draw me in, tilting my face up for a kiss that starts brief and turns into something longer. The greenhouse is warm around us, the heating humming quietly beneath the benches, and I have nowhere else I need to be for another hour.
“I love you.” He catches the pencil slipping from behind my ear before it falls between us. “And I think you need this.”
“I love you too.” I put the pencil safely beside my clipboard, freeing both hands to hold him for another moment. “But if you keep distracting me, the sample tins won’t be ready for this afternoon.”
“The sample tins.” He releases me with obvious reluctance. “What do you need?”
“String.” I gesture toward the spools lined up on the shelf behind him. “The burgundy, not the gold. And I need someone to tie double knots while I fill the tins.”
“I can do that.” He retrieves the spool while I move to the clean packing table, where the tins wait beside the finished bergamot blend.
We work beside each other until a row of finished tins fills the tray. He leaves room for my labels and keeps the cut ends of string out of my way. I enjoy the company more than the saved time.
“These are for the tasting?” He examines a finished tin, turning it to catch the light through the greenhouse glass.
“Samples for the buyers who come today.” I fill another tin and pass it over. “If they like what they taste, they can order full-sized batches.”
“And if they don’t?” He leaves the tin he is holding unwrapped, waiting to hear whether I want to include a different blend.
“Then I’ll ask what they’re looking for and see whether another blend would suit them.” I pass him the next tin; I’m happy with the one we’re packing. “Not every blend has to suit every customer.”
Lorenzo ties another knot and turns the label outward. “Was the bergamot blend popular in Lyon?”
“It was the first one that sold consistently.” I remember the early days, before I had regular customers, when every sale felt like a small miracle.
“A woman who ran a tea shop near the university started ordering it by the case. She told her customers where to find me, and they told their friends.”
“And now you’re doing it again.” He sets the finished tin with the others, a neat row of burgundy-wrapped packages. “Building something from the ground up.”
“Not quite from the ground.” I gesture around the greenhouse, at the rows of thriving plants, the drying racks hung with lavender and chamomile, the workbench where I’ve spent countless hours over the past year. “This time I had help.”
The greenhouse was finished in spring, built around the way I wanted to work. By summer, the benches held my plants and the work I had spent so long imagining.
Delacroix Botanicals is printed on the sign outside and on the cards waiting beside the samples. I still like the name. I chose it before I knew what the first year would bring, and it has been on every package I’ve sent since.
“We should finish these.” I pull myself back to the present, reaching for another empty tin. “The tasting starts at three.”
“I’ll carry these over before lunch,” Lorenzo says, finding the carrier beneath the bench.
“Don’t you have work?”
“We planned around the tasting, remember? I’m coming.”
“Thank you.” I set the last tin in its place. “And tell me if the whole room is too warm. You know I stop noticing when I’m talking.”
“I remember Palermo.” He lifts the carrier with both hands. “You explained an entire range of teas before you noticed everyone had taken their coats off.”
“They stayed to hear the end.” I hold the greenhouse door for him, enjoying the memory. “Clearly worth it.”
He laughs as he carries the samples toward the house. I finish putting the tools away, then go in after him. Neither of us needs to linger to prove that we’ll see each other again.
There are other things I no longer keep checking. Livia was convicted of attacking me in the autumn and is serving her sentence.
When the news came, I read it with Lorenzo, put it away, and went back to the work waiting on my bench.
***
The tasting room is filled with afternoon light when I arrive to check the display.
The old storage room is bright now, with soft white walls and shelves of my products. I set the lavender oil beside the sample tins Lorenzo helped me wrap.
In the center of the display, a bottle of La Botanica catches the light.
The label credits my botanical presentation beneath the Marchetti name. The winemakers have their own credit, as they should. Customers now ask for La Botanica by name, sometimes along with a tin of my tea. I like seeing both on the same table, each worth coming here for.
“The display looks wonderful.” Ortensia’s voice comes from the doorway. She’s dressed for the tasting in deep green, her silver hair swept up, her expression warm as she surveys the room.
“Thank you for helping with the invitations.” I adjust one of the sample tins, though it doesn’t really need adjusting. “It helped having someone else deal with the replies.”
“You had enough to do.” Ortensia sets the guest list beside the display. “Everything is ready.”
She still has opinions about the events I hold, but she asks before making changes. I’ve found it easier to ask her for help since she stopped treating the request as permission to take over.
“The bergamot is selling well?” She picks up one of the sample tins and examines the label.
“Better than expected.” I show her the larger tin that customers have started requesting. “I’ve had to increase production twice since October.”
“Good.” She sets the tin down carefully, in exactly the spot I placed it. “I’m glad. I liked the batch you gave me.”
I know she did. She returned the empty tin herself and asked if I could refill it.
“The guests should start arriving soon.” I check the time on my phone. “I should change.”
“I’ll watch the room.” She settles into the chair by the door with the air of someone who intends to stay. “Go. I’ll let you know when they arrive.”
I leave her there and head upstairs to change.
The dress I’ve chosen is simple, professional, something I can move in while demonstrating products and answering questions.
I’ve done enough of these events now to know what works: comfortable shoes, minimal jewelry, hair that won’t fall in my face when I lean over the display.
By the time I return to the tasting room, the first guests have arrived.
There are maybe twenty people in all, a mix of buyers from specialty shops in Palermo, a few restaurant owners who’ve expressed interest in featuring local products, and a handful of neighbors who have bought my blends at previous tastings.
I recognize most of them, including a shop owner who always brings a notebook full of questions.
“Signora Marchetti.” A woman I recognize from a shop in the city approaches the table. “I’ve been looking forward to this. The bergamot blend you sent last month sold out in two weeks.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” I gesture toward the sample tins. “I’ve brought a new batch, along with some other blends I’ve been developing. Would you like to try the lavender?”
She tastes the lavender, considers it, then asks for another sample. By the time she sets down her cup, she’s ordered three cases.
More guests arrive, and soon I’m moving between familiar customers and people trying my blends for the first time. Rosalia hands out cups behind the sample counter. She catches my eye and gives me a small, encouraging wink.
Lorenzo appears beside the sample table as I finish speaking to a buyer. He has been talking with guests all afternoon, introducing those he knows without taking over my answers.
“You nearly sold that man the entire lavender batch,” he says.
“Nearly?” I hand him the empty tray to put beneath the table. “Give me another ten minutes.”
“Should I distract his companion?”
“Only if she isn’t buying anything.”
He laughs and takes the tray. I would have enjoyed that joke a year ago too. What’s changed is how readily I expect him to share it. I don’t have to catch him before he becomes too busy to hear it.
The tasting winds down as the afternoon light begins to fade.
Guests filter out in small groups, carrying sample bags and business cards, promising to be in touch about orders.
Ortensia has been working the room in her own way, steering potential customers toward products she thinks they’ll like, redirecting conversations when someone threatens to monopolize my time.
It’s a kind of support I didn’t know I needed until she started offering it.
By five o’clock, only a handful of guests remain. I’m tired in the best possible way, the kind of tired that comes from doing work you care about, surrounded by people who appreciate what you’ve created.
“I’m going to close up here.” I touch Lorenzo’s arm as he passes. “Meet me at the greenhouse in an hour?”