“That is so sad,” Caresa said. The sound of a tractor intruded from the near distance. The other winemakers of the mass-produced Savona wines used mechanics in their harvest. As far as I knew, it was only me who did not.
“He must have missed her terribly,” Caresa said, muting the tractor in my ears. I turned to face her. “Your father,” she explained. “He kept all of her rosettes and newspaper write-ups in the tack room.” Her expressive brown eyes had drifted from bright to sad. “He must have loved her a great deal.”
I pictured my father every night before his death. For the last few weeks, when we knew his time was near, he held my mother’s picture in his arms as he lay in bed. With each passing day, he clutched it tighter; he knew the time to meet her once again was nigh.
My father had held no fear of death. Because . . . “He would be whole again,” I verbalized, not meaning to finish my thought aloud.
My cheeks blazed as Caresa studied me. “What?”
I shook my head, wanting to forget it, but Caresa surprised me by reaching across and laying her hand on my forearm. The moment her fingers touched my bare skin, warmth rose up my arm. Her fingers were small and slim, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her nails. They were perfectly shaped and painted a light lavender color.
I looked up; when I did, I felt Caresa’s thumb brush back and forth on my arm. It was only the once, and it was as light as a feather, but I liked this soft caress.
She stilled. It had been an absent-minded action, but one that caused my skin to bump in the wake of her touch.
Caresa took back her hand. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Please continue. I would like to hear about your father. About whatever it was you were going to say. You said something about him being whole again?”
Browning leaves from a low-hanging branch brushed my cheek as we passed. I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Caresa waited patiently for me to continue. I shifted nervously on my saddle. Nico must have felt it; his head flicked up and he huffed out a long breath. Caresa laughed gently at my gelding’s quick-changing mood.
I couldn’t help but smile in reply.
“You don’t have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable,” Caresa said. “You’ve only just met me. I shouldn’t be prying.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s not it. It’s just . . .” I paused, trying to phrase my words correctly.
“What?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s almost silly, I guess. My father . . . he was a hopeless romantic. Yet he only ever truly loved my mother. He never remarried, never looked at another woman in all the years he lived after her death.” I glanced out across the fields of green. “He had unique beliefs about love and matters of the heart. Maybe unrealistic. And I don’t . . . I couldn’t bear . . .”
“To have his memory ridiculed?” she completed when I couldn’t finish my sentence.
I nodded. “He was my father. He . . . he was everything I ever had.”
“I would never ridicule him, Achille. It would be the last thing I would ever consider.”
I searched her eyes then. Actually peered into their darkest depths. And all I saw was the truth shining back at me. Acceptance and understanding.
And maybe . . . affection?
I steered us right, around the perimeter track. I could see my cottage in the distance, the autumn colors creating a masterpiece of my home—my father’s home. “Have you heard of Plato?” I said.
“The Greek philosopher?”
“Yes.”
Caresa looked confused, but she didn’t push me. My stomach lightened. She wasn’t what I thought she’d be. Well, I had never given her much thought before she turned up at my vineyard, but I had assumed she’d be like the prince. Arrogant and rude to anyone but those on his level of social standing.
She was not like that at all.
“My father liked to read,” I went on, feeling my lips turn up at the memories circling my mind. “He read all the time, anything he could get his hands on. He used to read me Tolkien as a child. That was my favorite.” Caresa absently reached down to pat Rosa’s neck. “He liked pretty much everything, but his favorite by far was philosophy.” I released a nervous laugh. “Strange for a simple winemaker, I know.”
“Not at all,” Caresa said vehemently. Her strong response surprised me. “I see every reason to believe why he would embrace philosophy. Philosophy contemplates the world in every facet—its creation, its beauty, its flaws, its meaning. A winemaker takes the seeds from a simple fruit, uses the earth to nurture it, then gives it new life in the most beautiful way. I can see exactly why your father loved philosophy. He lived it, as do you. I don’t think many people can say that about their life’s work.”
I stared at Caresa. I couldn’t look away. Her words were a balm to a wound I never knew I had. She didn’t regard what we did here on this land as lowly, like some. She saw its value.
She saw mine.
“My father was obsessed with Aristotle. But his favorite was Plato. He read Plato’s Symposium to me as a child.” My throat grew thick at the memory. “He . . . he would especially read me the parts about love.” My face and neck seemed to ignite with fire. I had never talked to anyone about love before. Never mind the duchessa.
“Love?” Caresa asked. “What does Plato say about love? I’m afraid my recollections of philosophy are limited.”
I loosened Nico’s reins, allowing his head more freedom as we strolled down the long, lazy track. “My father liked Plato so much because he proposed the theory of ‘split-aparts’. It’s how he saw my mother and himself, their life together. It’s why he loved so hard for so long, even long after she was dead. She made him whole.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand. What is the theory of ‘split-aparts’?”
“This is where it becomes fantasy, I think. Plato wrote that once upon a time—according to Greek mythology—humans were created as one whole being with four arms, four legs, and a shared head with two faces. It was written that they began to challenge the gods, who feared that humans may one day become successful and overthrow them. Zeus sent down a thunderbolt, splitting them into two parts—two parts of one whole. The two parts were sent to different areas of the world.”
I glanced at Caresa to check if she was still listening. Her eyes were locked on me, her pupils wide. “Then what?” she asked softly. “What happened to them?” I thought, in that moment, she seemed as taken by the concept of the split-aparts as my father had been.
“They were broken, in pain, never feeling complete without their other half. Zeus, in an attempt to keep power, had condemned the split-aparts to spend their lives searching for their counterparts. They could not challenge his power when they had only half a soul.”
“And your father . . .” Caresa trailed off.
“He believed that the story was really just fiction, for the sake of ancient myths, but the theory was not. He said that when we’re born, we also have the other half of us, our split-apart, waiting for us out there in the world. Not everyone will find theirs. Finding them can also go very badly. Some who do find their missing half become so consumed by the other person, so addicted to them, that the blessing becomes their curse—their love is too consuming, obsessive, unhealthy. But for others, it is pure destiny. It is meant to be. It is perfect and benevolent. He said that it explained the circumstance of instant love. And of the loves that defy the odds and last a lifetime.”
“Like that of him and your mother,” she said softly. Her eyes were glistening, and the apples of her cheeks were pink.
“Yes.” I sighed. “He said that once you find that person, your split-apart, you are blanketed by such belonging, such desire, that you will never want to be without it . . . as Plato said, ‘and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment.’”
We followed the direction of the track to a part of the dirt road bordered by tall, imposing cypress trees. We were almost back at my home. As I saw the chimney smoke from my wood burner rising into the darkening sky, I found myself wishing this ride could last just a little bit longer.