My cheeks blazed on seeing her body this way in the daylight. It reminded me that what had happened last night was real. We had kissed and explored and made love. She had smiled at me, cried for me, and let me hold her close.
As I placed the fragrant white rose on the pillow beside her, I wondered if she knew what she had done for me too. I wondered if she could tell that she had been my first. I wondered if she knew that I had never touched anyone the way I’d touched her. That what she had given me was more than I could ever have prayed for.
She had allowed the barriers around my heart to finally fall . . . just as quickly as I was falling for her.
Caresa moved her arm, her delicate fingers with their purple nails landing right beside the white petals of the flower. It was an appropriate symbol—white petals for my innocence, beside the hand that had taken it as its own.
I had to turn away when the stabbing pain in my stomach became too much. The rose was a pitiful token for the gift she had given me. But nothing I could give would ever be enough. She was a duchessa. I was just me—no titles, no money.
Just me.
A Marchesi would never be enough for an Acardi. It was a fool’s dream to even entertain such a thought.
I cast my head down, running my calloused hand over my face. My eyes fell on the drawer of my nightstand. Before I knew it, my hand was moving to the drawer. I opened it up, withdrawing its solitary occupant. My father’s letter sat heavily in my hands. And like I did once a day, I clumsily took it from the envelope and unfolded it.
The same wave of frustration and anger surged through me as my eyes tried in earnest to read the cursive script. And like every day, I could make out a few simple letters before they all became a jumbled mess of confusion on the page.
The letter shook along with my hands. I had no idea what my father had left me in this letter. Several months of wondering and guessing and praying for the ability to just hear from him again. He knew I couldn’t read yet he had left me a letter. I struggled to understand what he had been thinking. Why would he taunt me so?
My father was the kindest man I had ever known; there wasn’t a cruel bone in his body. Nothing about this made sense.
I averted my eyes from the letter, searching for some calm. My eyes fell on Caresa, sleeping. The sight was an instant balm to my anger. As I felt the sheets of paper between my finger and thumb, I wondered if I could get her to read it to me. I . . . trusted her. I knew she would do it if I asked.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
If my father needed to tell me something in a letter, I wanted it to be me who read it.
Then I thought of her offer. I thought of what she said could be wrong with me. That the wires in my head were simply crossed, my path blocked with fallen branches. That we could find a way to get around them, to help me see words and write them down—together.
“Okay,” I whispered, so quietly she didn’t even stir. “Okay, Caresa. I want you to show me the way.”
It was several minutes before I put the letter back in the envelope and forced myself to leave the sanctuary my bedroom had become. Falling back into my old routine, I went to my vines, with my cassette player and my grapes. And I did what I did best.
Only with Caresa’s scent still on my skin . . .
. . . and the memory of her lips against my own.
Knowing that, for a brief moment in time, we had been two halves of one whole.
*****
Two days came and went without a word from Caresa. Then on the third day, when I arrived in the barn to begin crushing the grapes from the final two rows of vines, I found her near the fire, a long table pulled close to its warmth, two seats tucked underneath.
A mobile whiteboard was standing in front of the table; pens, pencils and piles of paper were stacked upon the tabletop.
My blood cooled when I saw all the reading and writing supplies. Then it warmed when Caresa lifted her head, as beautiful as ever, if not more. Flashes of our night together instantly filled my mind. I idly wondered if she had liked the rose. When I had returned that night Caresa had gone. She had not come to say goodbye to me among the vines.
But the rose was no longer on the pillow.
I didn’t know why, but it made me feel ten feet tall.
“Achille,” Caresa called in greeting, her voice slightly breathless, her tanned skin rosy. She was casually dressed in jeans, brown heeled boots and a simple white blouse. Her hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, wisps of baby hair framing the edges of her face. It made her appear younger than twenty-three.
She must have seen me staring at her hair, because she lifted her hand and explained, “I thought today called for a power ponytail.” She laughed at her own joke.
I had no idea what a power ponytail was. Yet I smiled at the amusement she found in herself. I placed the bucket down near the crushing barrel, needing to tear my eyes from her face. I thought this moment would have been easier than it currently felt. I found myself wanting nothing more than to march over to where she stood and take her in my arms. I wanted her heartbeat pounding in tandem with my own, and her warm lips back on my mouth.
“Sorry I have not been here for the past couple of days,” she said. “I had to go to Rome. There is an American school there. It was the only place I could find what I needed. My old professor’s colleague is the principal, and he arranged for me to meet him.”
My back tensed as she spoke. I straightened and faced her. “You didn’t have to go to Rome to get these things. It’s not that important.”
Her expression fell. “It is that important, Achille. And no matter how many times you try to divert me from doing this with you, it won’t work.”
My shoulders sagged in defeat.
Caresa came closer until she was right before me. I had to clench my hands into fists at my sides to stop them from reaching for her. I could see the torment flickering on her face too, the understanding in her eyes when they fell to my tensed arms.
Neither of us said anything out loud. Both of us were trying to change poles on the magnetic draw that always pulsed whenever we were near one another. If possible, it was even stronger today. Now it had a taste for what we felt like joined, it refused to have things any other way.
It could never happen.
“You are nearly finished?” Caresa broke the silence first, stepping back to point at the bucket of grapes.
“It’s almost time for putting the fermented wines into the aging barrels.”
“I’m excited for that,” Caresa said and smiled. And it was a genuine smile. I could tell by the way two tiny lines creased at the corner of her eyes. “How is Rosa?”
“Missing you,” I blurted, the air between us thickening again. We both understood the subtext. I was missing her. I was missing her more than I’d imagined was possible, as if a hole caved in my heart a little bit more with each day she was gone.
Caresa lowered her head, and with such sadness in her voice, confessed, “I missed her too.”
She lifted her head. Her beautiful dark eyes caught my gaze and held it for a long moment.
“Moka?” I offered, walking to my coffee pot, desperate to put some space between us.
“Thank you.” Caresa moved to the table she had set up. When I came back, coffee in hand, she said, “I hope you can take a break now and we can start this.” Her pretty face was so hopeful.
It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I found myself agreeing. I wondered if she had any idea of the effect she had on me.
“Good,” she said excitedly. “Then maybe I can help you crush the grapes later tonight?”
My hand froze as my cup of coffee was just about at my lips. Memories of being in the barrel a few days before were suddenly all I could think about. “I’m . . .” I cleared my throat. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Caresa.”
Her face beamed with redness, and a nervous laugh escaped her lips. “No,” she sighed. “I suppose it’s not.”
She sat down and patted the chair beside her. I sat warily, my eyes raking over the sheets of paper she had brought. I stared at the pens and pencils, and the strange rubber casings placed over them.
“They are tripod grips. They’re designed to help your grip when you write,” Caresa explained. I tensed, realizing she must have been watching me closely. She picked up a pencil and held it in her hand—just like all the kids at school had done with ease.