Walking to the end of the row, I made my way toward the cottage. Hopefully someone would be home.
As I walked, at a slow, steady pace, a sense of peace settled over me. Out here, amongst the vines, I felt a sense of freedom I had not experienced since I was a child. The past three days had been a mixture of jet-lag and duty. Sleep hadn’t come easily, and more than that, I was homesick. So very homesick that it felt like a hole had been carved into my stomach. My parents were excited for my upcoming wedding, so I hadn’t told them how I felt. Marietta, however, had immediately seen through my façade. She told me the only thing she could—that I had to keep strong.
The ground began to slope upward. I trudged forward until I could see the cottage better. I stopped where I was and blinked. The vines that I had found myself among had ended. A plain grass field stood between me and another field of vines, but that field was protected by a large wooden fence.
Forcing myself to keep moving, I noted that this field of vines was much smaller than the others I had seen on the Bella Collina estate. Yet the vines were fuller somehow, different; the soil was a deeper color.
I edged around the fence, trying to see if anyone was there. I could see that the majority of the vines were around the back of the stone cottage. Checking no one was near, I walked through the small wooden gate up the path of a pretty, well-kept garden. Though small, the garden was bursting with vibrant colors, browning from their summer hues into the golds and oranges of fall. A trickle of water flowed from an old water mill at the side of the old cottage.
By the time I arrived at the stable-style red door, I was mesmerized. The place was straight from a fairytale. I stilled, my eyes drinking in the garden and the small quaint building.
I gazed at the Alice-in-Wonderland view. “The painting,” I murmured. This place . . . this nook of heavenly peace was the painting from the main house. The one that graced the lobby.
“It was my father’s favorite painting . . .” Zeno had said.
I was standing right before it.
I knocked gently on the door, but there was no reply.
Following the garden path that led to the back of the house, I continued to be awed. The back of the house was no less enchanting than the front. An oak deck graced the rear. From there I could see the mansion in the background. And if I was not mistaken, the view looked onto my rooms. It was far away, little detail could be made out, but I was sure that’s what it faced.
Even though I now knew the direction of the main house, my feet kept moving. An imposing barn-type structure sat just beyond a sprinkling of tall trees. I narrowed my eyes but was unable to see exactly what it was, so I kept going.
Next to the barn was a fenced paddock with two wooden stables at its edge. A smile tugged on my lips when I spotted two horses grazing. If there was one thing I loved as much as the wine industry and psychology, it was horses. I had competed for years in show jumping and dressage competitions. In fact, I was the Hampton’s dressage champion for five years running.
One complaint I’d had over the past few years at college was not being able to ride as much as I’d have liked. When I reached the fence, I clucked my tongue in my mouth, trying to coax the horses to join me. The one closest to me raised his head. The black gelding looked at me, his ears flicking back and forth as he tried to figure me out. “Come here, baby,” I called, leaning forward when he carefully began to approach. He was at least seventeen hands, with long white feathers cascading down to his large round hooves. He had a thick neck and solid, heavy legs. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked to be a mixture of Shire and what could be Friesian. He was absolutely beautiful. His mane was long, a deep glossy black. It had a slight wave to the strands, as did his tail. When he stood before me, I held out an open hand, allowing him to huff and sniff my skin. After a few seconds, he ducked his head and gave me permission to pat his neck and rub the center of his head.
I laughed as he nuzzled my hand. The dull sound of a second set of hooves drew my attention. A slightly smaller, leaner horse drew up at the fence. My heart soared. She was an Andalusian—my favorite breed of horse. Better still, she was dapple gray. I had never seen a dapple-gray Andalusian in the flesh. Years ago I had a black Andalusian, Galileo. As a young girl, he had been my life. I had had him until he died just a few short years ago. I had been with him as the vet put him down, stroking his neck and laying kisses on his face when he had failed to stand up for the last time.
To many he was just a horse, but losing him had broken my heart.
This Andalusian mare was bigger than Galileo, perhaps fifteen-three hands, with a stronger, more robust frame. But she was no less beautiful than Galileo had been. Looking at her brought tears to my eyes.
It was funny how memories could sneak up on you and bring the most hidden, dormant emotions to life.
“Hello, little lady,” I said as the mare allowed me to run my hand over her nose. “You’re so beautiful. You remind me of someone I used to love very much.” Her platinum mane and tail shone like molten silver in the bright sunlight. The long waves hung down to the top of her flanks. “What’s your name?” I asked. Her nose searched for food in my hand. There was a stone bench beside me. On it were some already-sliced carrots. I took a few in my hand and fed each of the horses with my palms stretched flat.
The black gelding came further forward. I had earned his trust. I kissed him on the nose and asked, “What is this place, huh?” Realizing I had no more food to give them, the mare and gelding sauntered back to the center of the paddock to graze. I watched them for a while, then I noticed a small but full tack room to the left of the stables. So someone rides them, I thought. These two horses were exceptional breeds, expensive too. For them not to be ridden would be a travesty.
I glanced around, searching for any other kind of life, but none was present. I left the paddock to recommence my investigation, ducking under the low-hanging branches of the surrounding trees until my view of the rest of the land was unobstructed.
I gasped. Rows and rows of full-to-bursting vines were spread out before me, just like the ones at the front of the villa. There were only a handful of acres—maybe eight or nine—but the ripe grapes gave off an incredibly strong, heady, addictive musk. The fragrance of the fruit in this particular corner of the estate was much more potent than elsewhere.
It was quite simply the most beautiful sight I had ever laid eyes on—a landscape worthy of the finest oil paints and canvas. I could see why the old king had been so taken by this vista—a piece of heaven tucked away from prying eyes.
Pressing on, I walked along a small man-made path beside the high wall of the barn until I reached the main doors. They were locked. I exhaled, disappointed.
Just as I was about to walk away, I suddenly heard the distant melody of familiar notes drifting on the gentle breeze. I turned, following the lively sound of a chorus. I was three rows deep into the private, cornered-off vineyard before I recognized the music that seemed to be coming from the center of the field—Verdi.
I inhaled deeply as the Dies Irae from Verdi’s Messa da Requiem filtered through the surrounding leaves. My heart beat faster. Being from Parma, Giuseppe Verdi’s masterpieces sang in my blood. Some of my favorite memories were of me, as a child, in the Piazza Garibaldi in the center of Parma, attending the opera with my family.
I followed the music until it led me to an old silver cassette player sitting alone in the middle of a row. The music was straining from the dirty, scratched speakers. I frowned in confusion as I stood beside it. Who even owned a cassette player anymore, let alone cassette tapes?
Then, through the thick foliage, I saw a flicker of movement from a few rows over. Someone was moving, presumably a worker bringing in the harvest on this comparatively small plot of land. The breeze around me chose that moment to pick up, and it grew colder, the fall chill beginning to close in. I wrapped my arms around my waist, trying to fight off the cold. I passed one row of vines, then two . . . and when I reached the third, I completely froze in my tracks.
A man stood about twenty feet away. He was facing away from me, but I could see that he was tall with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He had messy black hair and deep olive skin. He wore heavy brown work boots, and a pair of worn jeans on his long, muscular legs. I stood, mesmerized, as he reached up to a high vine to his left.