“They’re ready,” Caresa said, pulling me from my musings. I took a grape from the same vine, just to make sure she was correct. As the intense flavor graced my palate, the sweetness levels at their peak, I turned to a silent, watching Caresa. “You are right.”
I sat back as Caresa cut down the bunch and placed it in the bucket. And for the next three hours, her smiles came frequently as she sorted the ripe grapes from their unripe neighbors.
With Pavarotti playing in the background courtesy of my father’s ancient cassette player, we completed the three rows ahead of schedule. And for the first time in seven months, I realized how much I enjoyed not doing the harvest alone.
It was . . . nice for someone to share in these moments.
And I liked Caresa’s smiles.
They were almost as sweet as the grapes.
Chapter Five
Caresa
I stood up, stretching my aching muscles. My legs shook from being crouched down for so long. Yet, despite the aches and pains, I felt good. Better than I had in a long time.
The sound of boots on the ground approached from behind me. When I turned, Achille was walking toward me. He had taken the last bucket of grapes to the barn. I had stayed behind to make sure no bunches of grapes on the row had been missed. They had not. I hadn’t really thought Achille would have made that kind of mistake anyway.
His eyes were on me, and as I looked up our gazes clashed. Achille swiftly turned his attention to the ground and ran his hand over the back of his neck. I noticed he did that when he was nervous. Throughout the morning, Achille had mostly kept quiet. He wasn’t one to waste his words. Everything he said was direct and offered with purpose—an instruction or explanation or, my favorite, praise that I had done something right. But there was no awkwardness in our lack of conversation. Words had not been needed. In the silence, he displayed his greatness. At times, I had been utterly taken aback by how much he knew about wine, how carefully and beautifully he cared for each precious step. It felt as if noise and idle chatter would have only soured the process.
I didn’t know his age. He didn’t look much older than me, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five. But what he knew about the harvest was astounding.
There was no doubt that Achille was beautiful. I thought so even more now, his bare torso glistening in the bright sunshine, his dark stubble shadowing his chiseled face. But more attractive still was the love he devoted to his work. In the few hours we had spent out here in the field, I saw more of his heart than he could have ever have expressed in words. His cheek would twitch with pride when I did something right. His nostrils would flare slightly, eyes drifting to a close, long lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks, when he savored a perfectly flavored grape. His lips would purse slightly in concentration as he felt a bunch in his rough palm, eyes cast away so he could simply feel. His trust in his instincts showed him the way. He was simplicity incarnate, yet simultaneously so complex. I wanted to get inside the mind of this maestro of viniculture. Wanted to hear his thoughts out loud.
Wanted to understand what true greatness felt like.
“Are . . . are you hungry?” Achille asked, dragging me back to the present.
I opened my mouth to speak, and my stomach growled. I couldn’t help it. I laughed, placing my hand over my stomach. My laughter caught on the breeze and echoed around the vineyard.
Achille was staring at my mouth, his lips slightly parted. The sight quickly sobered me. I schooled my expression, and Achille seemed to snap out of whatever trance he had been in.
“I have food.” He turned on his heel, heading toward the barn. I followed, wondering why my laughter had held him so captive. As I passed through the low-hanging trees toward the barn, I noticed the horses grazing in the paddock.
When I entered the barn, my eyes widened at the sight. Barrels were packed high, rows and rows stretching along the vast space. The barn seemed large from outside, but inside it was huge. To the side were a couple of fermenting vats, and beside them an old basket press. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that all his tools were made of wood. In modern-day winemaking, all tools had generally moved toward the mechanical. Presses were mostly pneumatic. This made the process quicker, easy to handle, with consistent and measurable results.
Quicker production equaled more profit.
Wooden equipment and hand-harvesting were viewed by many as unnecessarily traditional. I had never been persuaded. To me, the old-fashioned ways showed true human skill, using one’s knowledge and judgment over computers and gauges. It showed that the winemaker cared for his craft, nurturing his wine like parents nurtured their children.
A poetic, revered existence, in my book.
A chair leg scraped on the stone floor behind me. I looked over my shoulder; Achille had dragged a rickety chair from a curtained-off corner of the room. He placed it before a small wood burner then took a rag and began brushing off the thick dust that had gathered on the seat.
When he had finished, Achille motioned for me to sit. He took two dishes from a wooden countertop at the side of the room, and placed them on the table beside us. My stomach groaned. “Arancini,” I exclaimed. “They’re my favorite.”
Achille brought over two glasses of wine. One look at the deep red color, one sniff of the oaky scent, and I knew instantly what we were about to savor. “Your wine,” I murmured and tentatively took a sip. My eyes closed as the heavenly taste burst in my mouth.
When I opened them again, Achille was watching intently. His hand was rigidly gripping the stem of his wine glass. I licked my lips. “It doesn’t matter how much I drink it, I am still enraptured by its taste.”
Achille glanced away, taking a sip of his own drink.
“What year is this?”
“2011,” Achille replied, setting down his glass. He handed me a fork.
“Thank you.” I groaned as I took a bite of my arancini. Shaking my head, I declared, “Why does everything just taste so much better here in Italy?” I took another bite; it tasted even better than the first. “I swear my mamma is an amazing cook. My nonna was even better. When we moved to New York they cooked just as much as they ever did in Parma, but nothing, nothing, ever tasted like it does here.”
“It is Italy,” Achille replied. “The soil, the earth. There is just something in our land that makes everything taste superior.”
“Have you ever been out of Italy?”
“No, but I cannot imagine anywhere is more beautiful or magical than our home. You cannot improve on perfection.”
His words caused my heart to melt. “No,” I agreed. “I suppose you can’t. I have traveled to many countries and places, lived most of my life in America, but I’m beginning to realize that nothing compares to Italy. I have been homesick since I arrived, but it I think it’s more for my family and friends than Manhattan’s skyscrapers and ever-present noise.”
We ate the rest of our food in silence. Achille collected the dishes and took them to a small sink. He took two espresso cups from a high cupboard, and from his moka pot he poured two caffè. Just as he placed them on the table in between us, I saw a stack of newspapers on a workbench along the barn’s wall. My stomach lurched. Staring up from the top paper was . . . me.
I quickly rose from my seat and picked up the faded newspaper. Chippings of wood had settled over the top—the newspapers had obviously not been read. I blew off the debris and saw myself at last year’s New Year’s Eve ball in Manhattan. I had a tiara on my head and wore a silver beaded Valentino dress. It was a fairytale-themed costume ball. This cleverly taken picture had made me look every inch the aristocrat.
I read the headline: “A Princess for a Prince.”
I hadn’t realized I had groaned out loud until Achille coughed behind me. I turned and held up the paper. “Have you read this?”
Every muscle in Achille’s body seemed to tense before he silently shook his head. I checked the date—it was from last week. “Other winemakers would often bring newspapers here for us to read. My father used to read them every day when he was sick. We couldn’t get out much over the past year due to his illness. I think people keep bringing them now out of habit.”
I sighed and returned to my chair. Once I’d slumped down, I looked at Achille, held out the paper, and said, “Would you read it and tell me what it says? I hate reading anything about myself in the press. I avoid all articles about me or my family if at all possible. But I want to know what the Italian papers are saying. Whether it’s good or bad.”