What a mess.
It was all such a mess.
I didn’t know what I could do to help, but I had to try and do something. I had to learn more, study Achille’s work in greater depth. Because he couldn’t lose this, whether through Zeno or me.
As my finger ran over the simple vine ring lying on my nightstand, Zeno’s expensive diamond still in my pocket, I knew I had to find a way.
There had to be a way we could all rise from these dark shadows. Because I wanted that forever with Achille by my side.
And that’s how I fell asleep.
Hearing Achille’s soft voice echoing through my mind . . .
. . . Mi amore per sempre . . .
Chapter Eleven
Achille
I ripped the unneeded vines from their stems and discarded them in the buckets at my feet. All the wine was now aging in its barrels. I would leave it there until December, when it had to be bottled.
The clouds above were gray, the rain threatening as I finished pruning, readying the land for the planting of the next crops.
Caresa had come to my cottage again last night. She had an appointment in town today with her friend so couldn’t be here to help. And I missed her. She had only been out of my sight now for about six hours, but I felt her absence seep into my heart.
As the bucket filled, my thoughts drifted to next year’s harvest. I froze, my eyes staring blankly at the soil beneath my boots, as I wondered what next year looked like. What next month would look like. What would happen when Caresa told her family about us?
I lifted my eyes and ran them over the now-bare vines. I couldn’t imagine not having this, not waking each day to the rich smell of the bustling leaves, or the sun rising over the distant hills.
But I also couldn’t imagine my life without Caresa.
I didn’t understand why this all had to be so hard. I loved her and she loved me. That should be enough.
It had been five days since the night Caresa had come back to me. And every night she had come to me and I had read to her by the fire. We had drunk wine and cooked food and made love all night long.
My stomach fell. Because I hadn’t realized until this week just how much of life I had been missing. I hadn’t realized how lonely I had been. Hadn’t realized why my father had sat staring at my mother’s picture each night when I was growing up—he was only half a heart without her. And although he had me, I now understood how much pain he must have been in. Caresa and I had only been truly together for a little less than a week, yet it brought agony to my heart to think of losing her.
But I let in the light again when I thought of how she had left me this morning, with a soft kiss and a promise to return.
Beethoven played through my headphones while I worked. I lifted the bucket to take it to the heap of dead vines I would later burn, and when I turned, I stopped dead.
A man stood at the end of the row. He was dressed in a suit and looking my way. He waved and indicated to me to take out my headphones. I dropped the bucket of vines and did as he asked.
The prince—I supposed technically he was the king now, but I couldn’t get my head to accept that fact—was in my vineyard.
The minute Beethoven was silenced and the familiar sounds of my vineyard enveloped us, Zeno put his hands in his pockets and strolled toward me. I didn’t know what to think.
“Seems the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.” Zeno stopped a few feet from me. As I narrowed my eyes, wondering why he was here, I couldn’t help but think of Caresa. He didn’t deserve her.
He couldn’t have her.
I waited for him to continue. Zeno smiled and raised his eyebrows. He pointed around the vineyard. “You and your father. Seems whatever ran in his blood runs in yours too.” Zeno tilted his head to the side. “Though you look nothing like him. Your father was short with fair hair. You’re tall and dark. But the winemaker gene was clearly more dominant than his coloring.”
I stayed silent. Zeno laughed and shook his head. “What, Achille? No greeting for your old best friend?” He gestured in the direction of the track beyond the trees. “We used to play on those roads as children, yet you have nothing to say to me now?”
“Prince,” I said coolly.
Zeno narrowed his eyes. “It’s Zeno and you know it. You were the only one who never cared about my title when we were children. Don’t start now.”
“Why are you here?” I asked, not interested in reminiscing about our childhood, or how he was my very best friend and just one day stopped coming by.
“Straight to the point, I see.” He laughed. “Well I guess you haven’t changed all that much.”
“You have,” I snapped back, then shrugged. “Or at least you seem to have. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen or heard anything from you in years.” I picked up the bucket and walked past him. I dumped the vines in the pile I had made over the past few days.
I heard him following behind me. When I turned, he was rubbing the back of his neck as though he was nervous or uncomfortable. When he caught me looking at him, he sighed. “Look, Achille. I know I haven’t shown much interest, or any interest, in the wines or the people here in this vineyard, but I want to start now.”
Shock rippled through me. Zeno dropped his hand from his neck and said, “How is this year’s vintage coming along? Do you think it will be as strong as the last?”
“Stronger,” I replied and headed toward the barn. Zeno followed, his expensive polished leather shoes no doubt being scuffed by the rough dirt.
As we entered the barn, I pointed at the barrels stretching the length of the building. “They are aging now, then they can be bottled. This year was a good year.”
“Good,” Zeno replied.
I motioned to my moka pot. “Caffè?”
Zeno nodded and walked over to the two chairs that sat beside the fire. He sat down in the one that was now Caresa’s. I wondered if he had any idea she came here every day. I wondered if he would even care.
From what Caresa said, I was sure he would not.
I brought the small cup toward him and sat down. It was awkward and uncomfortable. I could talk to Zeno as a child, when he was my friend. But now, as adults living two very different lives, I scrambled for something, anything, to say.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I said eventually.
Zeno’s hand stilled as he brought his cup to his mouth. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.” He shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “Sorry about yours too.”
I nodded my head in thanks and took a sip of my own coffee. Zeno was studying the barn. “You really did it,” he said. He must have seen my confusion, because he added, “The Bella Collina merlot. You used to talk of being its head winemaker one day. And you did it.”
“I made my first vintage at sixteen, Zeno.”
“You did?” I saw the realization appear on his face. “2008,” he murmured. He shook his head in disbelief. “You were the difference? You’re the reason why it changed? For the better?”
“That was the year I took charge,” I said. “Though my father guided me for many years to come . . . until the day he died.”
Zeno finished his coffee and placed the cup on the floor beside his chair. “My father would have loved you to have been his son. He loved wine, all wine, but especially this wine, your wine.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
I nodded. “The king would come to see us frequently. This was his favorite part of the vineyard.”
Zeno sat back, deflated. “He should have left this business to someone like you. Not me.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I can make wine. I know nothing about the sale or promotion of it.”
“But you see,” Zeno said, “that is all I have been asked about since I have been meeting with the buyers. They wanted to know that I understood how everything worked. I didn’t. I don’t.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s why I’m here now. I want to know the winemakers that produce the wines. I want to understand the business.” He sat up straighter. “You produce our most famous wine, Achille. And . . . and I knew you once. We were best friends. So I wanted to start with you.” He gave a short laugh. “I have recently been told that I should start living for the business instead of by it. Let’s just say that the message got through.”