“You’re probably wondering why I’m back,” she ventured. I brought my eyes back up to meet hers. Her gaze dipped under my attention, and she shook her head, a self-deprecating laugh escaping her full pink lips. It only served to confuse me even more.
“Are you okay, Duchessa?”
She straightened her shoulders. “It’s Caresa. Please call me Caresa, Achille. I hate being called ‘Duchessa.’ The title hasn’t truly existed for over a century anyway, not really.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say. The duchessa—no, Caresa—batted her hand in front of her face and took a deep breath. “You’re probably wondering why I’m back?” she repeated, her eyes fixed on my face as if trying to read it. I showed no emotion. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I was too busy staring at her pretty, flustered face. Her nervousness strangely brought a lightness to my chest.
I wondered why.
“You are lost again?”
She laughed softly. “No, I admit I’m not that good with directions, but thankfully I’m not so bad that I’d forget the path home after a day.” She rubbed her forehead, looking as if she was anxious about something. “Look, I’m terrible at getting my words out at times. But” —she stepped closer and searched my eyes— “You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Last night, when the housekeeper told me about this place . . .” She paused. “I didn’t realize this was it. That you were him.”
I looked around us; I had no idea who she thought I was. “I . . . I don’t understand,” I said, watching Caresa’s blush intensify.
“I haven’t been very clear, have I?” She covered her eyes with her hand in embarrassment. She lowered it again and said, “Achille, you are the maker of the Bella Collina Reserve merlot, yes?” It seemed as though she already knew the answer, but there was definitely a hint of a question in her tone.
“I . . .” I began and then stopped speaking. The king had always asked for my father’s and my discretion regarding our wine. He never wanted anyone to know about this small vineyard and the Marchesi family that produced it. But as Caresa’s open, expectant face froze, awaiting my response, I could not lie.
I . . . her face . . . she . . . she made me not want to lie.
“Yes,” I whispered, heart racing fast.
Her reaction was immediate. Caresa’s whole face lit up with an incredibly joyful smile. For a moment, I thought I was overcome with finally telling a virtual stranger about this vineyard, but as I stared at her dark features, feeling further and further drawn in by her impossible beauty, I knew that wasn’t it . . .
. . . it was . . . her.
She was exquisite.
She was lovely.
She was . . .
I turned away abruptly, desperate to escape her attention and my wayward thoughts. My heart was stuttering simply by being beside her. I wasn’t used to these feelings.
I wasn’t used to this kind of attention from anyone, period.
“I can’t believe it,” Caresa murmured from behind me. My shoulders stiffened. The next thing I knew she had walked around me. I reluctantly met her eyes with my own and was taken aback by the intensity of the fascination I saw there. “Achille,” she murmured. My name sounded like a prayer from her lips. “I can’t believe I’m actually here, with you.”
“Me? Why?”
She reared back, a furrow marring her brow. “My father is part-owner of these vineyards, and even he does not know who makes the Bella Collina Reserve. As the child of a wine distributor, specifically of the Bella Collina merlot, meeting you is . . .” She shook her head. Her gaze lowered, and then, shyly peeking up at me through her long lashes, she said, “Achille Marchesi, I have three loves in my life: psychology, horses and wine.” She shrugged, and the adorable action almost destroyed me. “Especially the Bella Collina merlot. There is nothing like it for me. It is, in one word . . . ” She paused, then proudly announced, “Perfection.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of reply that praise warranted.
Caresa waited for me to speak. When I did not react, she cast a long gaze around the vineyard. “I can’t believe I’m standing in the vineyard where the merlot is made, grown and nurtured.” She reached out to touch a bunch of grapes beside us. “You hand-harvest all of these?”
“Yes,” I replied, watching with assessing eyes as she delicately lifted the fruit in her hand. I wanted to see if she knew what she was doing. That question was answered when she said, “These are not ready yet, are they? I can tell by the color of their skin. They are not a deep enough red?” Her eager face looked to me for confirmation. I studied the grapes in question, then felt a small smile pull on my lips. “You are right.”
“I am?” she said breathlessly.
I nodded.
“Achille?” Caresa asked. “Do you do all this alone? The picking, crushing, fermenting, bottling . . . everything?”
A sudden stab of pain sliced through my chest. I cleared my throat and rasped, “I do now.”
Sympathy flooded her pretty face. She did not push me for a longer answer, for which I was thankful. The truth was, I had been on my own for the past two years. With his illness, Papa hadn’t been able to do much of anything except advise. He had been too ill to attempt manual labor, but he was always there beside me, instructing me, keeping me in check. I never realized how much I had relied on his advice until he was gone.
Life for me now was just so . . . silent.
“How can you be sure they are ready?” Caresa asked, pulling me back to the here and now. “The pressure to make such a sought-after wine must be so difficult to handle.”
I shrugged.
“It isn’t?” Her eyes were wide as she waited for my answer. Her black lashes were so long that they were like fans as she blinked, her cute nose twitching as a loose strand of hair tickled the tip.
I could scarcely look away.
“No.” I bent down and took a bunch of grapes from the bucket at my feet. I plucked off a single grape and held it out. “This is ready. I know this by the shape, the weight, the color, and by the taste.”
“How do you ‘just know?’” she inquired, studying the grape in my hand as if it were the world’s most unsolvable puzzle.
“Because these grapes are my life. My grandfather was the original winemaker of this vintage, then my father, and now me. I do not use machinery in any part of the process because everything I know is kept here.” I pointed to my heart, then to my head, then to my roughened hands. “There has not been a day in my life when I have not been out here with these vines, harvesting or producing the wine. It is all I have ever known. This vineyard . . . it is my home, in every sense of the word.”
Caresa’s smile came slowly to her mouth. And when it did, I was trapped in her pull, fascinated by the golden skin on her cheeks. “This is your heart’s passion. Your why in life,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
I thought of the happiness I found out here each day, knowing there was nothing else in the world I would rather be doing. In fact, without this vineyard in my life, I wasn’t sure what my purpose would be, how I would find peace and joy.
“Yes.”
“It’s why your wine is the best. Passion fused with knowledge always births greatness.”
A sudden warmth burst in my chest at her words. Your wine is the best . . .
“Thank you,” I said honestly. A heavy silence followed. I needed to get back to work, but I did not want to be rude by walking away. As I tried to make myself speak, to explain, I realized that I didn’t really want her to leave. Shock rippled through me. I lifted my hand and ran it through my hair.
“Achille?”
I dropped my hand to my side.
Caresa’s eyes went to the bucket of grapes at my feet, then back to me. “Could I . . . would it be possible, if I . . . helped?”
Taken aback, I clarified, “You want to help harvest the grapes?”
Caresa smiled and nodded. “I have always wanted to understand your wine. How it is made, the process.” She took a deep inhale. “I would be honored to see you work.”