A Veil of Vines by Tillie Cole
We reached the top of the stairs; Zeno was waiting below. He had changed into a fresh but similar blue suit. He looked every inch a Mediterranean prince. Maria smiled as he moved to the bottom of the staircase.
Before we descended, Maria placed her hand on my arm. “Make sure you smile a lot today. Listen attentively to anyone who speaks. This is the prince’s and your first public outing. We want the attending media and your guests to see you as a strong couple.” She leaned in even closer. “It will also help ease the buyers’ worries to see an Acardi on Zeno’s arm. Believe me, we need all the help we can get right now.”
I frowned, about to ask her what she meant, but Maria had pulled back and greeted Zeno before I could.
Was that why Zeno was so forlorn? So down? Were things even worse than before?
As I reached the bottom step, Zeno offered me his arm. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I replied. We walked through the large house until we reached the exit to the courtyard. I could hear the sea of voices coming from outside. Music from a live band was playing, and I could smell the heady scents of succulent roasting meats, garlic and herbs floating in the air.
Zeno gave me one last look. He inhaled deeply, plastered a smile on his face and pushed through the doors. The minute we entered the courtyard, I felt as though we had been transported back a hundred years to before the royal family’s abolishment. Everyone turned to watch us enter. My hand tightened on Zeno’s arm as my legs suddenly felt a little unsteady.
I was used to fancy events, but I wasn’t used to being so under the microscope. Avoiding the stares, I looked around at the courtyard. Green shrubbery and vibrant fall flowers climbed the stone walls. The rich smell of autumn trees filled the air, and the sun shone down on the cobbled floor like a golden spotlight.
As Maria led the way to a small stage at the north side of the courtyard, I scanned the crowd. I saw lots of smiling guests who had turned out—some in fancy dress and some in team t-shirts—for the contest. The aristocrats were even easier to pick out. They stood away from the locals and tourists, watching on with amused expressions. A few faces I recognized from the luncheon. I wasn’t surprised to see Baronessa Russo here, but a genuine smile formed on my lips when Pia waved at me from her place to the left. Her sister, Alice, was with her, as was Gianmarco, her nephew.
I waved at the young boy, and he gave me a small wave back. I had worked with him several times over the past couple of weeks. Pia had brought him to the estate rather than have me go to Florence. As predicted, he suffered from dyslexia, but he was already making progress. He was a sweet, shy boy, who had simply needed a little help.
As my eyes stayed locked on his timid face, my heart clenched. I wondered if this was what Achille was like as a child. A small boy hiding behind his father’s legs because the world outside the comfort of his vineyard was just too overwhelming and daunting.
Gianmarco was struggling being in such a big crowd; I could see it. But he would be okay. I wondered whether, had Achille been given the help he needed at this age, he too would have been brave enough to come to festivals such as this, rather than hiding away from the world, starving people of both his beautiful personality and looks.
A gentle squeeze on my hand forced me away from thinking of Achille again. I realized that I did that too often. He was never far from my mind. Or my heart.
I met Zeno’s eyes, and he raised an eyebrow in question. I smiled to let him know I was okay. I heard some of the women at the front commenting on how I looked at him so lovingly. So adoringly.
If only they knew.
Zeno walked to the microphone at the front of the stage. The guests quieted.
“My friends, my fiancée and I would like to thank you all for attending the annual Bella Collina Grape-Crushing Festival.” The guests cheered. Clearly used to years of this kind of attention, Zeno smiled a regal smile and nodded his head at the cheers and shouts. When the noise died down, he said, “Today is not only about the prize money of one thousand euro, but about celebrating this region’s exceptional wine and all of the work that goes into making it the best there is!” Zeno waited for the crowd to calm from their newest cheer. His smile fell a little, and his voice became strained and somber. “My father . . . my father loved this estate. He chose to spend his time here over our palazzo in Florence. And he loved this festival. Loved seeing his treasured land filled with such an outpouring of love from his guests.” Zeno paused, then said in a rough voice, “And I am no different.” He gestured to me, waiting behind him. “My fiancée adores this land and has spent every day since her arrival exploring its beauty. We both welcome you here today. So let’s get this contest started!”
Zeno stood back from the microphone as the infectious excitement began sweeping through the courtyard. Zeno held out his arm again, and I threaded my arm through his. He led me to the opening of a field of vines. The organizers of the event rushed to place the contestants at their rows. They had eight buckets to fill full of grapes, and the quickest team of two would win the money and a crate each of Savona wines. After the competition, the crowd was invited to stomp the grapes to celebrate the harvest. The wine produced from this would then be gifted to the church in Orvieto.
Maria led us to a central spot and handed Zeno a flag adorned with the Savona crest. But Zeno passed the flag to me and said, “Why don’t you do the honors, Caresa?”
I felt every pair of eyes on me as I nodded and walked to the spot Maria had marked out on the grass. I lifted the flag, holding it high in the air, and then dropped it. The contestants rushed to their buckets and scrambled down the rows of vines.
I laughed at the hectic melee before backing away to a corner to watch the contestants competitively harvesting the grapes. Zeno came to stand beside me. “You did well,” he said, clapping his hands as a nearby group were the first to drop two full buckets at their starting marks.
“This is good.” I gestured to the many people cheering and watching the contestants. “You should encourage this type of event more. Bella Collina is loved. Of course you should protect the more private sections of the vineyards, but this, involving both the local and world’s wine communities in what we do here, would only make them more dedicated to you.”
“You think?” Zeno said. At first I thought he was being dry and rejecting my idea, but when I looked at his face I could see his expression was contemplative.
“You know, the monarchs of old were disliked for a good reason,” I continued. “They were not one with the people. They kept themselves at bay. Maybe that is why the abolishment happened, because their great estates were national treasures, yet kept away from the public eye.”
Zeno flickered his gaze to me, then away again without saying a word. I wasn’t sure if I had crossed some arbitrary line by suggesting that, but it was true. Plus, what Maria had said to me earlier played heavily on my mind. I knew the situation with Zeno and the buyers was tense—this rushed wedding was the result of that—but I wondered how dire things had truly become.
Zeno wandered off to talk to some of the dukes and barons that had just arrived for the banquet this evening. Somebody moved beside me, and I was relieved when I saw it was Pia and Gianmarco. I kissed Pia’s cheeks and smoothed back Gianmarco’s hair. I bent down, melting when the timid dark-haired boy gripped tightly to Pia’s legs. “Hello, Gianmarco,” I said softly.
“Hello, Duchessa,” he replied, his little voice strong and brave. He looked up at Pia.
“Go on, give it to her,” she said.
Gianmarco reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. I looked down at the messy two-word message written in blue crayon: Thank you.
Tears rushed to my eyes when they ran over the messy scrawl. Gianmarco was watching me with huge eyes. “You did this?” I said softly. He nodded his head. “Then I’ll treasure it always,” I whispered through a thick throat.
Gianmarco’s mother came over to take him back to the courtyard for gelato. As he l
“You’re welcome,” I said, my voice finally clearing of emotion.
Pia released my arm and cast her gaze to Zeno, who was talking with a tall blond gentleman. “So, he’s returned?”
I sighed. “He arrived back this morning for the festival and banquet, but I’m sure that he will leave again shortly after. This place makes him uneasy for some reason.”
“At this rate, Caresa, you might have only spent a few days in your husband’s company by the time you marry.”
“I know,” I replied. I felt numb.
“How is the horse you’ve been riding?” Pia asked out of the blue. My head snapped up at her words, and my heart began to race. I had told Pia in confidence about Achille’s vineyard and Rosa. I had not told her about Achille . . . anything about us . . . about what had happened.
“She’s good,” I replied evasively.
Pia’s eyes narrowed. “And the winemaker?”
I knew my face must have blanched. I could feel the warm blood draining from my cheeks. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure . . .” I stumbled over my words. My strange response seemed to be all the confirmation Pia needed. Her eyes softened and she nodded knowingly.
“Will he be coming here today?”
I should have kept it from her. I should have denied everything, all her suspicions, but something within my heart wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t deny Achille. It pained me to do so. He had been pushed aside his entire life; I didn’t have it within me to add to that rejection.
I shook my head. “I don’t know how it happened,” I whispered. “But he somehow became embedded in my heart and connected to my soul. It . . . I don’t know how it happened . . .”
“Oh, Caresa,” Pia said softly. “You love him?” I froze, completely froze, opening my mouth to most certainly deny that claim.
But my mouth and my heart appeared to be in agreement that I would not deny this either.
Because . . . I . . . I loved him.
Mio Dio, I loved Achille . . .
“I don’t think you realized it, but every time I came here with Gianmarco, you always talked about the horse you were schooling in dressage, but more, the winemaker. You said nothing obvious. I’m sure no one else suspects a thing. But I heard something different in your voice when you spoke of how he taught you about his wine. About how you would ride and talk for hours. The tone in your voice and the happiness in your eyes gave your affection for him away.”
“You can’t say anything,” I said sternly. “I ended it. It happened one time, and we knew that was all we could be. We both agreed we had to leave that one night as a single moment in time.”
“I wouldn’t ever say a thing,” Pia said, just as vehemently. She sighed and, taking me by the elbow, pulled me out of sight behind a wall. I was flustered, my body consumed by an overwhelming need to protect Achille. He had no one looking out for him. I was all he had. I couldn’t let society gossip hurt him.
“First,” Pia said firmly, “I consider you a friend. I may have only known you a little while, but I like you. We share the same views about certain things and, in our world, that is something I cherish—people like you are few and far between.” I relaxed a little, my hands shaking just a little less than before. “And secondly, I feel for you. You have found someone your heart calls for, yet you are stuck in this farce of an engagement. That is heartbreaking by anyone’s standards.”
“I have no choice.” I dropped my head in defeat. “I think . . . I think that Savona Wines is in worse condition than I knew. It is our family’s livelihood. This marriage needs to happen.”
“If the business is worse than you thought, then I am not so sure your marriage will be the remedy. Zeno is at the head of Savona Wines now. It is up to him to keep that position or give it to someone who actually wants to do it. Who knows this industry and knows about the wine it produces. It would not surprise me if Zeno didn’t know his Shiraz from his Chianti, even if it were poured over whichever new gold digger was vying for his attention that week. Your marriage is not the fix; he needs to be.”
I blinked at hearing her fight so hard for me and Achille. She looked me in the eye. “I fell for a teacher two years ago, Caresa. I was on the Amalfi coast for the summer, and so was he.” She dropped her gaze, but not before I saw the pain in her eyes. “I fell for him hard, so much so that my heart breaks now even thinking of him. Like there is something missing in my soul.”
“Split-aparts,” I whispered.
Pia furrowed her brow at my cryptic remark, but carried on. “When I told my father I wanted to be with Mario, to move to his home in Modena to be with him, I was forbidden. I was told that if I married so far below my station, I would be cast from our family.” She met my eyes. “I adore my family, Caresa. My sister, little Gianmarco. So in the end I chose them. I lost him and chose them.”
“Pia,” I murmured, reaching down to hold her hand.
“As much as I love my family, if I had to do it again, I would have left. I would have been with him. I would have chosen not to live with this pain in my chest as I do now. Breathing, existing, but not living. Attending these ridiculous ceremonies and luncheons as if any of it even matters.”
“Then find him,” I said. “Go and find him. Be with him.”
“He has someone else now,” she said, her voice cracking. “He moved on.” A tear fell down her cheek. “I broke his heart so badly. I killed the possibility of us when I let this pathetic title of mine stand in the way of our happiness. Now someone else is making him happy, repairing the hole in his heart that I caused.”
I squeezed her hand as she looked away into the distance and dried her face of tears. “People think they understand our world, Caresa. They see the titles, the money and the family histories and think we have it easy. I am not a spoiled little rich girl crying because she didn’t get her way. I know people have it harder in life than we do—it would be silly to try and say otherwise. But these titles are a leash, a tight leash to our happiness. Look at the late king. He was miserable most of his life, his wife taking refuge in Austria, living like a hermit so she wouldn’t be judged for wanting another life. Zeno looks as though he wants to bolt from this festival, and has done from the minute you entered the courtyard. And you, you stand so rigidly next to Zeno, a false smile on your face because he is not who your heart wants.”
Her words were a dagger to my heart.
“Tell me,” Pia said and moved right before me. “Are your parents happy? I assume they were arranged. Does your mother look at your father with nothing but adoration? Does your father dote on your mother?”
I pictured my parents and immediately knew the answer. “No.” I stilled. “They love each other, respect each other, and love me. But they are not in love. They don’t even sleep in the same room. They haven’t done since I was a child.”
Pia leaned back against the wall of the courtyard. “What a tangled web.”
I was silent for a moment
“Are you staying for the dinner tonight?” I asked eventually. Pia looked at me, and I saw the disappointment in her face. I could see I had let her down by not entertaining this topic any further.
She released my hand. “Of course. Can’t miss the new king being officially crowned, can we?”
I stepped forward to say something to her, to tell her that my mind was a jumbled mess, torn between love and duty and panic and worry. But just as I did, a horn sounded, announcing there was a contest winner.
“Caresa?” Maria came scurrying around the corner, in the constant fluster she always seemed to be in. “We must get to the main stage
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.