“Caresa?” Maria came scurrying around the corner, in the constant fluster she always seemed to be in. “We must get to the main stage to award the prize.” She checked her watch. “The phone call will be coming in soon, in about ten minutes.”
Without looking back, I followed Maria to the stage, congratulating the rest of the contestants for their efforts on my way. Their faces were bright from the exertion of the competition, glasses of wine in their hands—not yet the coveted merlot.
When I got to the stage, Zeno was already there, chatting smoothly with the winning pair. He moved to the microphone and introduced the winners. I handed over the check, and we all posed for the picture that would be printed in tomorrow’s newspaper.
When the winners left the stage, a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes fell on the phone that sat on the small table at the front of the stage.
I let my eyes drift across the assembled crowd as we waited for the clock to strike three. Then, at the far back of the courtyard, hidden in the tunnel that led to the fields beyond, I saw a familiar figure. A figure so well-known to me that my heart pumped faster the minute my eyes fell on his messy black hair and bright blue eyes. He was dressed as he always was these days, in jeans and a green flannel shirt.
I wanted to run to him. To stand by his side as the call came in. I wanted every person here to know that the wine they were all here celebrating belonged to the genius of one man.
Yet I didn’t move.
But I saw the moment he knew I had seen him. Achille pushed off the wall and stepped further into the light. My lungs struggled to find air as his warm eyes met mine. Then my stomach fell when I saw the pain in their depths—deep pain and sadness. I didn’t understand it, until I felt Zeno at my side, his hand on my back. I went to move, to pull from under his hand, when the phone began to ring.
In my peripheral vision I saw Zeno answer the phone, but my gaze stayed locked on Achille.
And his on me.
I heard Zeno’s deep voice in the background, but to my ears, it sounded as if he were underwater, words muted and blurred. Then the crowd broke into loud shouts of celebration, and I knew.
Achille’s wine had won again.
Achille blinked and cast his stunned eyes around the celebrating crowd. And I saw it, I saw the moment he realized he had won, and I saw the pride and passion flare on his handsome face.
But my heart broke anew as he looked around him, as he stood alone, no one to share in his joy. No one to tell him that he deserved this, that they were proud of him for all that he had achieved.
That he was worthy of all this adoration.
Looking lost and so very alone, he stumbled back into the shadows. He turned and made his way down the tunnel. The crowd descended upon the servers that had appeared with small samples of the award-winning merlot. Acting on instinct, I left the stage and rushed toward the tunnel.
Pia was beside the mouth of the tunnel. I met her eyes as I passed. They narrowed at my hasty retreat toward the fields. But I didn’t stop. I kept running through the tunnel until I arrived at a field and saw Achille disappearing through a far row of vines.
Not giving up on my chase, I stumbled over the uneven ground until I hit the row. He was almost at the other end. “Achille!” I shouted. He froze in his tracks.
He didn’t turn around as I hurried to meet him, but he didn’t run away either. When I caught up to him, out of breath, his shoulders were tense.
“Achille,” I said again. I reached out my hand and pressed it against his back. Achille heaved out a long sigh and turned. My hand slid to his stomach. But his eyes never met mine. They stayed focused toward the sounds of laughter and music coming from the courtyard.
Distant.
“Achille,” I repeated one last time, stepping closer to him. I wanted to close my eyes and savor his addictive scent. But I kept my composure. “You won, Achille. Your merlot won again.” He didn’t seem to react. His face was blank, only the slight crinkles around his eyes showing that he’d heard my words.
His skin under my palm was scalding, the muscles hard. This was as close as I had been to him in weeks. When we’d studied lately, I had forced myself to keep my distance, as difficult as that was. But right then, I wanted nothing more than to be close. I wanted him to look at me and smile. I wanted to share this special moment with him.
But that was all crushed when his jaw clenched and he said, “You looked good together on that stage, Caresa.”
His eyes finally found mine. Pain, raw and uncensored pain, shone back at me. “Achille,” I whispered, hearing my voice crack. He made himself smile, but if anything that was even more devastating. Because I had seen Achille when he was happy.
This was nothing like that.
“You had better get back to your guests,” Achille said. “The prince will be looking for you.”
He moved to turn away, but I found myself wrapping my arms around his waist and holding him as close as I had wanted to from the minute I saw him in the tunnel. I pressed my cheek against his chest and refused to let him go. Achille was a statue in my arms, until, with a pained sigh, he wrapped his arms tightly around my back.
“I’m so proud of you,” I whispered into the warm fabric of his flannel shirt.
I squeezed my eyes shut and fought back the rising lump in my throat as his lips brushed a soft kiss to the top of my head. I held him tighter. I wasn’t sure how I would ever let him go now that I had allowed myself to fall once again into the safety of his arms. “You deserve this. I’m so very proud.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, a rasp in his voice. And then he pulled back. My arms dropped to my sides as he gave me one last long, agonized look and left the row of vines for the protection of his small, isolated vineyard.
I felt cold without his warmth.
I let the tears that had built fall. I allowed myself to face the truth—I was completely, soulfully, in love with Achille Marchesi.
And that had just complicated things exponentially.
“Caresa?” I turned to look back toward the courtyard, only to see Zeno at the bottom of the row wearing a confused expression. As I walked toward him, I schooled my features, once again the duchessa approaching her betrothed. “What are you doing down here?” he asked, searching the now-empty vines for clues.
“I just needed to get away for a moment. The atmosphere in there became very overwhelming.”
I could see Zeno carefully assessing my answer. But then he shrugged. “You are expected to be present to mingle with the guests. Some of the ladies from the furthest points of Italy were looking to meet you. Maria said we have about an hour before we must get ready for the dinner tonight.”
“Of course, the coronation,” I said dully as we walked back through the tunnel that, moments ago, had led me straight to Achille. Now it was guiding me back into the life of a duchessa, the future queen.
A future queen whose heart was currently trailing behind its counterpart as he trudged alone, back to his simple life, with tears in his eyes and, it seemed, a fracture in his heart.
*****
“Your father was a great king, a true leader for those of us who still regard true Italian history and heritage as a priority.”
I feared my face would twitch with the effort of sustaining my smile. As I glanced at Zeno beside me, I could see he was living the same lie.
The lie that we were happy.
Barone De Luca sat in the seat next to Zeno, holding up his glass of champagne. There were at least fifty people at our table. The decorations were grand and the courses many. The great dining room was swathed in red and gold, hung with oil paintings dating as far back as the Renaissance and before. This room had seen many monarchs.
I wondered what those days had been like. Coronations back then would have been public, of course, but then the king or queen would have been brought back to celebrate quietly in estates such as these. I wondered what these oil paintings would tell us of those coronations, if they could talk. Would they speak of money and politics and crowns and elegant jewels? Would they talk of palaces being constructed, red velvet cloaks and gilded thrones?
Of course, in this relatively modest gathering, there was nothing of the sort. No crown was being placed upon Zeno’s head. No orb made of gold sat on Zeno’s lap. No golden staff was in his hand, no ampulla and spoon anointed his head, declaring to God and country that he was the newly chosen, holy king.