A Veil of Vines by Tillie Cole
I stormed back toward my rooms, my anger chasing my hunger away. Because I was seething. I was so angry at how Zeno had been allowed to live his playboy lifestyle when Achille had worked his whole life, his lifeblood growing in this earth. And he could lose it because of Zeno’s lack of responsibility.
I thought back to Achille this morning, to the devastation on his face at the thought of losing his small vineyard, his home and land.
So I had admonished Zeno for him. Because Achille’s happiness was now my own, and his vineyard was the key. I couldn’t imagine him taken from his land, no longer listening to his opera music in the fields as he hand-harvested the grapes.
Before Achille, I never knew there could be such beauty in the simple act of picking grape from vine. It was art in living color, grace so pure and true. Through him, I saw such flawless divinity in the most understated acts—the way his hand lay so softly on mine, causing my heart to stop in my chest. His lips brushing a kiss against my lips, stealing every last drop of air from my lungs. And the way his warm breath ghosted across my skin in reverence, lighting my body like embers in a fire. Achille thought himself inferior to the likes of Zeno, but I knew differently.
He was a better man. Period.
I closed the door to my rooms and slumped on my bed. I had no idea what to do. Achille wanted me to wait to call off this engagement. And now the business was failing, Zeno crumbling, falling apart.
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 coffe
“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.”
“The workers will appreciate you taking an interest.”
Zeno nodded, then got to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it.” He walked out of the barn, and I followed behind. As Zeno walked past the paddock, Nico and Rosa trotted over. He went to them. Nico gave Zeno his attention for about a minute before walking off, but Rosa stayed close.
Zeno patted her neck, then moved toward the gate. Just as he reached my garden, he stopped in his tracks. He glanced at me over his shoulder with a strange expression on his face. “That gray horse? Is she an Andalusian?”
“Yes,” I replied, wondering why he seemed so curious about her breed. I had never known Zeno to care about horses in his youth.
An unreadable look flashed across his face. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
Zeno’s eyes tightened, his shoulders tense, but he placed a smile on his lips and shook his head. “No, I just remembered something that’s all. Something particularly interesting.”
With that Zeno walked away, but I didn’t move. I didn’t like that strange look in his eye as he left.
Feeling the rain beginning to fall, I finished as much of my work as I could before the heavens opened. By the time I had arrived back home, a storm raged outside. I knew if it held up, Caresa wouldn’t be able to come here. She was out today until late, and I didn’t want her to have to walk to me in the rain.
I lit my fire, made myself something to eat and then walked into my bedroom. I sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the nightstand. My reading was better now. The things Caresa had taught me had helped me more than anything had in my life. I still struggled; I knew that. Writing was still hard. The pen in my hand never felt right, but I practiced every day. It was . . . improving, but not great. I would never dare write anything to her yet. But maybe one day.
I opened the drawer and saw my father’s letter inside. I took it out and laid it on my lap. My hands were damp, and my heart fired a canon in my chest when I looked down at the envelope, and after focusing on it for a while, saw my father’s writing.
I saw and read my father’s writing.
I choked on a sob when, for the first time, I understood what these once-jumbled letters said. They spelled my name. On my lap, before me, was my father’s writing, spelling my name.
“Papa,” I whispered, running the tip of my finger over the cursive lettering. “I read my name,” I added, as though he could hear me. “I’ve . . . I’ve met someone, Papa.” I smiled through the tears that filled my eyes as I brought up Caresa’s face in my mind. “She taught me that I wasn’t slow after all. My brain just works differently to most. And she’s helping me, Papa. I can read some now. It’s slow going, and at times I get frustrated, but I can see the words better. Caresa has helped me learn to read.”
I brushed the falling tears from my cheeks, and the letter in my hand shook. I wanted to read it, I wanted to finally know what was inside, but . . . I took a deep breath. I wasn’t ready yet. I knew that. The letter was long, and my reading wasn’t perfect yet. When I read my father’s last words to me, I wanted to be able to read them without having to concentrate on each and every word.
And if I was being honest, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. This letter was the final thing my father would ever say to me. Even though he’d been gone for all of these months, I treasured this letter. Because after this . . . there would be no more him. He would be truly gone.
Visions of his last few hours filled my head, and I couldn’t breathe . . .
I walked to his bed and sat on the edge. The cancer had ravaged his body. He had always been small, but now his slight frame was withered and weak. His dark eyes that had always been so bright were dull and tired. He could barely lift his hand to hold onto mine.
His breathing was slow and labored, and the doctor had told me it would be soon. My father hadn’t wanted to die in hospital. He had wanted to come home and pass on to the next life on his land. This land was everything to him.
He was everything to me.
His hand trembled in mine as I held it tightly.
He coughed. “How did . . . the work go today? Is . . . everything almost . . . ready for the planting in the . . . spring?”
“Yes, Papa,” I replied, reaching out to prop his pillows higher under his back when he began to cough and struggle to breathe. “Everything will be good. I have planned everything just as you taught me. We will bring in a good harvest this year.”
My father’s eyes seemed to glaze with sorrow. “You will bring in a good harvest, Achille. This year it is all down to you.”
A pit carved in my stomach and a hole burrowed in my heart. I nodded my head when my words failed me. I didn’t want to lose him, I didn’t want to say goodbye, but he was too sick. I didn’t want him suffering anymore.
I looked at the picture my father held in his other hand, tucked safely against his side. My mother. My mother smiling to the camera as she stood next to her horse. She had just won a dressage championship, and anyone could see in her face that she was happy.
“She will be the one to greet me,” my father said, clearly seeing me staring at the picture of the woman I never knew. “There is no one else who I would have welcoming me home but her.” My father smiled, tears filling his eyes. “I imagine heaven to be much like our small vineyard at Bella Collina. A place where I can still tend the vines as your mother rides in the paddock behind me, dancing her horse to the sound of Verdi.”
I squeezed his hand; my sorrow was too much of a barrier for my words. My father tuned his face to me. “And I will tell her of her son. I will tell her of the man he became and how proud she should be of him. How proud I am of him. A good man who has a big heart. A man who is kind and caring, and the best winemaker I ever knew.”
“Papa,” I whispered sadly.
“It is true, Achille. You have surpassed anything I could have taught you. You are more talented and natural at this life than any man I’ve ever known.” My father shifted and gripped my hand as tightly as he could—his touch was nothing, proving how weak he truly was.
“Achille, when I am gone, you must go out more. You are tied to this land just as surely as I am, but I also had your mother and you. This life is hard at times
“I promise.”
“And learn to read and write. Challenge yourself to learn. You love literature. You love books. And I think . . . I think I have sheltered you too much. I should have insisted you got the help you needed. I should have insisted the king came through on his word.”
My father coughed again, but this time, true fear ran through me. It was worse than before, and I could see him fighting to stay conscious. But he never let go of my hand. Even as his eyes rolled, fighting sleep, he said, “You live a lonely life, Achille. And that is no way to be. When . . . when you find her, be sure you fight for her. Promise me . . . promise me . . .”
“I promise,” I choked out, and that answer brought a smile to my father’s face. As his eyes closed, for what would be the final time, he whispered, “Your mother will smile when I tell her that, son . . . your mother will smile . . .”
As I came back to the present, tears were streaming down my face. A few hours later, with me sitting by his side, my father had taken his last breath and joined my mother, his missing half.
I had sat with him awhile after that, unable to move from his side. I knew when I moved that it would mean he was truly gone. And I wasn’t sure I could face the world without him in it. I wasn’t sure what our small cottage would feel like without his music, his coffee, his voice reading aloud from his precious books.
Then, weeks later, my father’s attorney brought me a small inheritance check from a pension I didn’t even know he had, and a single handwritten letter.
The letter I was still too scared to read.
Taking a deep breath, I stared out at the torrential rain beyond the window. I placed the letter back in its drawer to read another day. I stood from the bed, my father’s passing still so clear in my mind, and hated the silence that filled my empty cottage. Every day, for the last five days, I would work, then Caresa would come to me at night.