This cottage was our true home.
Zeno spent most of his time at the Palazzo Savona in Florence, but was here often. Together we ran the Italian side of the business, and together we had made the business flourish. Savona Wines was better now than it ever was under our father the late king. And Zeno listened to me as I did him. He trusted my judgment on wines we should produce or vineyards we should acquire. And I was proud of Zeno. Gone were his playboy days. Instead he had thrown himself into the business one hundred percent and had become truly great at what he did.
And he was once again my best friend.
He was my brother.
We sat on the deck as the horses grazed in their paddock. “So,” I said to Zeno when Caresa went inside for the food. “How are the sales of the Nero d’Avola?”
“Through the roof,” Zeno said with a smirk. “You were right again, brother. The wine is a hit.” The first year I had come on board, I suggested Savona Wines acquire my Zia Noelia’s wine. They had gone as far as they could alone, and now, with our backing, they were soaring.
“And your love life?” Caresa asked, coming out of the house with bowls of her homemade cioppino. It was my favorite.
Zeno laughed. Caresa placed Santino in his high chair and sat down. “I’m married to my job, Duchessa. You know this.”
Her hand covered his. “As proud as I am of you, Zeno, you need love too.”
Zeno shrugged. “One day. Maybe. But for now, I’m . . .” He sighed contentedly. “I am happy. For the first time in a long time.”
We ate our food and laughed long into the night. My brother and I discussed business, and when Santino’s energy was depleted, Zeno left with the promise of coming back again tomorrow.
He wanted to help me with the harvest. As he had done last year.
Together.
As we entered the house, Caresa went to put Santino to bed. But as the door shut behind us, I took our son from her arms. “I’ll put him to bed. You go wait for me by the fire.”
Caresa’s face melted into the most beautiful, loving expression, and she made her way to the large cushions that lay before the glowing embers.
Santino yawned. I kissed him on the cheek as I led him into his bedroom. I changed him into his pajamas and laid him down on the bed. Before I had even sat down, he scrambled across his bed to his stack of books and brought one back for me to read. As I read the title, I playfully rolled my eyes. “This one again?”
Santino laughed and settled under his comforter. Shuffling beside him, I opened the first page. As I always had to, I focused on the words and allowed them to make sense in my head. And then I read. Santino laid his head on the pillow next to me, his arm around my waist. He laughed when I made the appropriate animal’s noises at the right time, but when the laughter stopped and I looked down, my little boy was fast asleep.
Heart melting at his slightly parted plump lips and messy dark hair, I slid from the bed and kissed him on his head, whispering, “I love you forever.”
I placed the book back on his shelf, knowing that one day I would read him Tolkien, just like my father had done with me.
I closed the door to his room and made my way back to my wife. Caresa was lying by the fire, her gaze lost to the flames. She smiled. “He fell asleep?”
“Almost straight away. We didn’t even make it a quarter-way through the book,” I said and sat down beside her. Caresa shifted until her back was against my front. As she settled back, I leaned my back against a large pillow.
A second later a book was in my hand—Plato’s Symposium. I glanced down to see Caresa looking up at me, her long lashes kissing her cheeks as she blinked. “Read to me.”
My heart exploded in my chest at the amount of love in her eyes. Love that only seemed to increase day by day, as impossible as that seemed.
“Always,” I said and opened the book to our favorite part, the part I read to her every night. Caresa snuggled into my chest, and I laid my free hand over her stomach. Then I read. Against the firelight, in our home, with our son in his bed and our daughter listening in, I spoke of wandering lost souls meeting their missing parts and being struck from their senses by love. And as I glanced down at my beautiful wife, my other half, with her hand pressed over mine, I spoke of belonging to one another, knowing Plato spoke of couples like us.
Because from the moment I saw her, and allowed myself to fall in love, my soul recognized her as my own. And . . . we would never want to be separated from one another . . .
. . . not even for a moment.
The End