Home > A Veil of Vines(12)

A Veil of Vines(12)
Author: Tillie Cole

I glanced down at my dirty hands and my even dirtier jeans. I allowed myself to look Caresa over. “You will not remain clean,” I warned. “It is messy work. It is hard work.”

“I know,” she replied. “When I lived in Parma when I was young, or when visiting for the summer, I helped in our family’s vineyard. I know the effort it entails.” I was surprised by the quiet hard edge to her voice. She was the aristocracy. I did not know many people of the upper class, but the ones I had met or seen were not the type of people to spend their days in the fields, working from sunup to sundown.

Caresa must have taken my silence for refusal. Her arms wrapped around her waist, and the flash of hurt on her face was almost my undoing. “It’s fine, really,” she said and forced a smile. “I understand. It is a sacred process, and a secretive one to boot.” She shook her head and moved past me. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

She made her way toward the end of the row of vines, and I found myself saying, “You are the duchessa. You are the lady of the house. This will soon be your land. You may do as you wish.”

Caresa stopped dead in her tracks. Her back tensed. Her shoulders stiffened, then dropped, and she looked back at me, her bright eyes dulled. “I would rather you agreed not because I am the future wife of the prince, but because I am a genuine lover of wine and utterly fascinated by you and your work.” My stomach rolled at the sound of the sadness in her gentle voice. She looked so small and fragile.

Then I remembered that she had not long arrived in Italy from America. Maybe she knew no one either.

I had no experience with this type of situation. I had upset her. I could see that. I never wanted to make anyone sad.

I averted my eyes to stare at the ground beneath my feet. “Then please stay.”

I heard Caresa’s quick inhale of breath. When I looked up she was watching me closely. I rocked on my feet. “I will show you. Not because of who you are, but because you want to know and love my wine.”

Caresa didn’t move for several seconds. As color filled her cheeks and a happy smile returned to her face, she walked back and stopped before me. “So where do we begin?”

Confused by the heady feeling of blood pumping fast around my body, I turned and dragged the bucket at my feet to the next section of vines. Caresa was instantly by my side. I bent down and leaned in to a bunch of grapes. As educated by my papa, I studied them, feeling their weight, gauging their color.

The feeling of her warm breath sent shivers down my spine, bringing goose bumps to my skin. My hands froze on the grapes as the warmth hit the back of my neck. I turned around; Caresa was very close, watching me over my shoulder, fascination clear in her expression. At my movement, her eyes fell from my hands on the grapes and collided with mine.

I didn’t move.

Nor did she.

We just stayed still, breathing in the same air.

A gentle breeze skated over her hair, blowing the loose strands across her face. The wind broke whatever spell had been cast on us. Caresa moved back. She pushed her hair from her eyes and, red-faced, apologized. “Sorry, I was trying to see what you were doing.”

I cleared my throat, ignoring the pulse slamming in my neck. “Checking the quality of the fruit,” I explained. Shifting to allow her closer, I pointed to the grapes. “Please, come closer.”

Caresa didn’t hesitate, taking only a second to crouch beside me, concentrating on my hands. The breeze blew over her hair again, and the scent of peach and vanilla filled the air.

“You are checking the coloring and weight?” Caresa asked, unaware that I was staring at her . . . that my heart was beating too fast. Her skin was flawless, so soft and pure. Her hair was dark and shiny like the finest Perugian chocolate.

Caresa turned to face me, and I immediately refocused on the grapes. “Yes.” I lifted the bunch in my fingers. “They must be heavy. It means they are full of juice and should hold the perfect amount of sweetness. The red skin must be deep in tone, with no patches of lighter flesh.”

Caresa nodded, drinking in my every word. A surge of something unrecognizable took hold of me as she listened, as she learned . . . as she shared in this with me. I pulled my hand back from the grapes. “Would you like to feel them?”

Caresa’s eyebrows rose, but she quickly nodded, eager to be taught. She placed her hand underneath them. “How should I do it? How will I know what I’m looking for?”

I was unsure how to explain it. I had to show her. I had to guide her.

Feeling my cheeks flood with heat, I brought my hand under hers and, with my palm and fingers, guided her to the grapes. I leaned in closer, so close that our cheeks were only a few centimeters apart. “Feel the heaviness in your fingers,” I instructed. “Allow your fingertips to press lightly into the flesh to test its fullness.” Caresa gently, and with an innate delicacy, did as I said.

“Like this?” she whispered, sotto voce, as if the very sound of our voices might disturb the grapes, currently so happy at home on the vine.

“Yes.” Guiding her hand further, I slipped my fingers to a single grape and, taking hold of one of her fingers, used it to rotate the grape in a circle to check the coloring. Caresa was as methodical and patient as the task required, extra-careful not to snap the precious fruit from its stem.

“It’s perfect,” she murmured and turned her face toward me. She blinked, once, twice. “It is, isn’t it? Perfect?”

“Yes,” I rasped, unsure if my reply was referring to the grape or to her.

Caresa’s breath hitched. “So it is ready to pick?”

Using the hand still on hers, I took the grape from its stem. “The last test is the taste.” I placed the single grape in the palm of her hand. Taking another grape for me, I brought it to my mouth and bit into its fleshy ripeness. The burst of intense sweetness immediately told me what I needed to know.

Caresa watched my every move, then as I tipped my head toward her in encouragement, she took the grape into her mouth. Her eyes widened when the taste hit her tongue. A light groan left her throat, and she momentarily closed her eyes. When she swallowed, she opened her eyes and whispered, “Achille . . . how do you make them taste like this?”

“What did you notice?” I asked, fascinated by her first experience with the process.

Her eyebrows pulled down in thought, her cheeks hollow as she examined the aftertaste in her mouth. “Extremely sweet. Juicy and soft,” she said. “Is that right?”

I felt a flutter of pride for her and could not help but smile. “Yes. This means these grapes are ready.”

A happy laugh slipped from her lips as she stared at the grapes. “I see now,” she said reverently. “I see why you do this by hand. Machines could not give you these moments, could they? They cannot measure what our senses are capable of telling us.” Her gaze met mine. “I truly see it, Achille.”

I nodded curtly, tearing my eyes from her elated face. I took the secateurs from the bucket. “Would you like to cut them?”

“Yes, please,” Caresa said. As before, she let me guide her hand with my own. My arm brushed hers as she took the grapes from the vine. Pulling back, I dragged the bucket near to where she crouched. As carefully as she had performed everything else, she laid the grapes down on top.

She exhaled deeply, then with fire in her deep brown eyes, asked, “And now we do it again?”

My lip hooked up into a smirk. “I must get through three rows by the end of today.”

“Then I can most certainly help with that,” she said, her voice laced with excitement.

I shuffled along to the next bunch, Caresa my eager shadow. And just as before, I talked her through every step. Ever the perfect student, she readily absorbed every word and every movement. As I watched her eat another grape, assessing the taste and texture, I couldn’t help but think that my father would have loved her. He wasn’t a complex man. He never understood why people complicated their lives. He loved me, had loved my mother and loved what he did. But as much as that, he loved these vines.

His heart would have swelled if he could have seen Caresa, the future mistress of this land, share so passionately in his life’s work.

   
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