It both terrified and excited me.
I began tipping the buckets of grapes into the stomping barrel. By the sixteenth bucket, my stomach was growling. I cut off a hunk of the Parmesan cheese that was on the table beside me and drizzled aged balsamic vinegar over it. I also grabbed the last of the bread Eliza had brought me yesterday. Eliza was a housekeeper at the main house and the wife of one of the oldest winemakers on the estate. She and her husband, Sebastian, had been my father’s best friends. Ever since his passing, Eliza had made sure my pantry was always stocked with food. Especially during the harvest. I had little or no sleep for a good few weeks each October, and things like food came second to the winemaking process.
But I loved it.
I lived for this time of year. Everything led up to this point. This was when I was most content.
This was when I felt most alive.
I inspected the grapes again as I ate, making sure each was perfect. As the sun began to descend in the sky, I poured the rest of the grapes into the barrel, only stopping when the final bucket was empty.
Kicking off my boots, I cleaned my feet, rolled up my jeans and stepped into the barrel. The grapes immediately began to split and spill their juice. The stems were hard under my feet, but they were essential to making the darkest, deepest red wines.
Many minutes passed by, and the minutes changed into hours. Once the grapes had been crushed, I felt my muscles begin to ache. They ached liked this at the same time each day, when I had pushed my body to the maximum.
I jumped from the barrel and cleaned my feet. For the next few hours, I pressed the wine and began the process of fermentation.
I looked up out of the doors to see a sea of stars shining in the cloudless sky. The moon hung low, illuminating the water from the sprinklers as they sprayed the vines. It was a light show of silver threads, green leaves and red fruit.
Bringing my hand to the back of my head, I walked out of the barn and closed the doors tight. Nico and Rosa saw me come out and immediately headed for their stables, knowing what was to come. I jumped over the paddock’s fence, grabbed their buckets of feed from the tack room and carried them to the stables. The horses quickly ducked inside. I filled their water and put out some hay. When I came back, Rosa was standing in my way.
“Hey, beautiful,” I greeted her, running my hands over her ears and along her neck. Rosa stood as calm and still as ever. That was all down to my father. He had a way with horses that I never would. Nico was mine; I rode him every day. Rosa was too small for my build, so she had to make do with being lunged and schooled in hand.
As Rosa walked away, I felt a deep pit burrow in my stomach. She seemed so lonely and lost without my father. As if she knew her purpose was exhausted with him gone. We used these horses for work in the fields. Without my father, Rosa was lost.
Her and me both.
Papa had trained her in dressage, spent time with her every day making sure each move was perfected and polished. I was sure Rosa missed dancing across the paddock with my father on her back. I had no such skill with which to help.
A wave of guilt crested in my chest.
I just love horses. I used to ride competitively . . .
I blinked as the duchessa’s words suddenly came forward, drifting through my mind. I thought of her big brown eyes and soft smile as she had talked to me about Rosa and Nico. Remembered the awe and sadness in her voice as she spoke of her old horse.
I looked down at my bare arm. Shivers had broken out along my skin. I didn’t feel cold, but the temperature had dropped, so I rationalized that must have been it.
I left the paddock and made my way home. Solar lights lit my way along the garden path. When I entered the cottage, I walked straight to the fire and threw on some newly cut logs. My muscles ached and I needed heat. As the fire sprang to life, I shed my clothes and climbed into the old shower. The hot water relaxed my tense neck and shoulders. The scent of burning wood hung in the air. I didn’t move, head hanging forward, until the water turned tepid, then freezing cold.
I threw on some sweatpants, let my wet hair drip-dry and made some coffee in my moka pot. I took some ready-made fresh pasta from the fridge and poured myself a glass of my 2010 merlot.
Before I sat down to eat, I put a new vinyl on my father’s old record player. When the needle scratched the vinyl, Verdi’s La Traviata came crackling through the ancient speakers.
For a moment, as the opening bars filled the quiet of the room, I stared across at the single wooden chair beside the fire. Once there had been another opposite. If I closed my eyes, I could see my father sitting, reading his book—out loud to me, as always—his favorite opera playing in the background. From when I was a young boy, we had sat beside that fire each night after a hard day’s work, and he had read his favorite stories to me. From the classics—my favorite being The Count of Monte Cristo, his being Sherlock Holmes—right through to fantasy—my favorite was The Hobbit, and his was The Lord of The Rings. But his absolute favorite, and my absolute favorite too, was philosophy. He would talk to me of Plato and Aristotle and their philosophies on love. He would talk about my mother, who he loved beyond measure. And he would talk about how she was the other half of his soul.
He would tell me how, one day, I would find my other half too.
Since he had been gone, the old house seemed devoid of life. The single, now solitary, chair beside the fire sat just as lonely as my heart.
I opened my eyes and stared into the climbing red and orange flames. I blinked away the sheen of tears from my eyes, refusing to let them fall.
The music reached a crescendo, and I went back into the kitchen to retrieve my food and wine. I brought them back to the front room and sat down on the seat before the fire. I ate my food quickly, then washed and put away the single dish.
Feeling exhausted, I turned off the lamps in my small home one by one. I made my way to my bedroom and, as I did every night, sat on the edge of my bed. With a deep breath, I pulled out the envelope from my nightstand and opened the back. As carefully as possible, I pulled out the three-page letter. With shaking hands, I let my eyes rake over the perfect cursive writing, studying every single word. And like every night, as I scanned each page, I felt my heart break in two.
A lump rose to my throat, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
I inhaled deeply and skirted my fingers over the paper before folding it back up. I put it in the envelope and placed it back in its drawer. I got under the covers and turned out the lamp. The dark sky was visible through my open shutters, and I stared up at the bright stars beyond. The sound of the horses huffing and walking around the paddock met my ears, as did the whirring of the sprinklers watering the vines. As I closed my eyes, tiredness sneaking in, I found myself picturing a pair of large, kind brown eyes, and a soft, gentle laugh catching on the breeze.
Curiously, the image momentarily displaced the sinking-pit feeling in my stomach that had burrowed within me seven months ago, and made it easier for me to breathe.
*****
The sun had barely risen the next morning when I tackled the next row of vines. I had just filled three buckets when the sound of rustling leaves filled the two-second pause of the cassette player as it changed songs. Noticing a flicker of movement to my left, I looked up, only for the air to freeze in my lungs.
The duchessa appeared at the end of the row, wearing similar black fitness clothes to yesterday. Her lips curved into a smile as she gave me a small wave. I got to my feet, my heart thundering in my chest.
Why is she here? I thought as I dusted off my dirtied hands on the thighs of my jeans.
The duchessa approached, and the closer she got, the more I noticed a strange expression on her face. It appeared to be one of disbelief. Or perhaps awe or . . . I wasn’t sure.
“Hello again,” she said. She leaned in and ran her hand over the vines beside us. Her fingers padded along the leaves and grapes as though they were made of gold, as though they were most precious things in the world.
“Hello,” I replied, confusion at her presence thick in my voice. The duchessa smiled wider when she looked back at me, and I saw a faint blush light up her olive-skinned cheeks. Her brown eyes were bright, and strands of her dark brown hair had escaped her high bun. I liked it. It made her look less . . . regal. Less important.
I waited nervously as she rocked on her feet, her skintight fitness clothes showing off her slim but curvy figure.