A Veil of Vines by Tillie Cole
A poetic, revered existence, in my book.
A chair leg scraped on the stone floor behind me. I looked over my shoulder; Achille had dragged a rickety chair from a curtained-off corner of the room. He placed it before a small wood burner then took a rag and began brushing off the thick dust that had gathered on the seat.
When he had finished, Achille motioned for me to sit. He took two dishes from a wooden countertop at the side of the room, and placed them on the table beside us. My stomach groaned. “Arancini,” I exclaimed. “They’re my favorite.”
Achille brought over two glasses of wine. One look at the deep red color, one sniff of the oaky scent, and I knew instantly what we were about to savor. “Your wine,” I murmured and tentatively took a sip. My eyes closed as the heavenly taste burst in my mouth.
When I opened them again, Achille was watching intently. His hand was rigidly gripping the stem of his wine glass. I licked my lips. “It doesn’t matter how much I drink it, I am still enraptured by its taste.”
Achille glanced away, taking a sip of his own drink.
“What year is this?”
“2011,” Achille replied, setting down his glass. He handed me a fork.
“Thank you.” I groaned as I took a bite of my arancini. Shaking my head, I declared, “Why does everything just taste so much better here in Italy?” I took another bite; it tasted even better than the first. “I swear my mamma is an amazing cook. My nonna was even better. When we moved to New York they cooked just as much as they ever did in Parma, but nothing, nothing, ever tasted like it does here.”
“It is Italy,” Achille replied. “The soil, the earth. There is just something in our land that makes everything taste superior.”
“Have you ever been out of Italy?”
“No, but I cannot imagine anywhere is more beautiful or magical than our home. You cannot improve on perfection.”
His words caused my heart to melt. “No,” I agreed. “I suppose you can’t. I have traveled to many countries and places, lived most of my life in America, but I’m beginning to realize that nothing compares to Italy. I have been homesick since I arrived, but it I think it’s more for my family and friends than Manhattan’s skyscrapers and ever-present noise.”
We ate the rest of our food in silence. Achille collected the dishes and took them to a small sink. He took two espresso cups from a high cupboard, and from his moka pot he poured two caffè. Just as he placed them on the table in between us, I saw a stack of newspapers on a workbench along the barn’s wall. My stomach lurched. Staring up from the top paper was . . . me.
I quickly rose from my seat and picked up the faded newspaper. Chippings of wood had settled over the top—the newspapers had obviously not been read. I blew off the debris and saw myself at last year’s New Year’s Eve ball in Manhattan. I had a tiara on my head and wore a silver beaded Valentino dress. It was a fairytale-themed costume ball. This cleverly taken picture had made me look every inch the aristocrat.
I read the headline: “A Princess for a Prince.”
I hadn’t realized I had groaned out loud until Achille coughed behind me. I turned and held up the paper. “Have you read this?”
Every muscle in Achille’s body seemed to tense before he silently shook his head. I checked the date—it was from last week. “Other winemakers would often bring newspapers here for us to read. My father used to read them every day when he was sick. We couldn’t get out much over the past year due to his illness. I think people keep bringing them now out of habit.”
I sighed and returned to my chair. Once I’d slumped down, I looked at Achille, held out the paper, and said, “Would you read it and tell me what it says? I hate reading anything about myself in the press. I avoid all articles about me or my family if at all possible. But I want to know what the Italian papers are saying. Whether it’s good or bad.”
I didn’t know why, but a sudden tension materialized between us until it became stifling. Achille’s bright blue eyes were huge, the whites stark in the low light of the windowless barn.
“Achille?” I asked, leaning forward. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, but his paling face made me think otherwise. I was about to push further when he shakily took the paper from my hands and sat on the edge of his seat. I watched, concerned, as his eyes flicked over the text. His eyebrows pulled down in concentration as he began reading the long piece. I drank my coffee and waited anxiously.
“It . . .” Achille eventually said through a thick throat. “It just talks about the prince, and how in the aristocratic circles he will now be seen as their king. It talked about how you were coming back to Italy and would be staying at this estate until the wedding.”
I frowned, wondering how a journalist from Florence knew that the prince had planned to bring me here, rather than the Palazzo Savona in Florence as predicted. Achille stood up abruptly, throwing the paper in a large trash can. He headed for the doors of the barn.
He stopped dead, hands clenched at his sides. “I have completed my three rows of vines for today. I will not be crushing the grapes until tonight.” All of a sudden, he was acting strangely distant. He looked at me still sitting on the chair and curtly dipped his head. “Thank you for your help today, Duchessa. I hope I’ve answered all of your questions about the wine, but I have much to do this afternoon and cannot be delayed any further.”
With that, he swiftly left the barn, leaving me alone and speechless. Duchessa, I thought, hearing the faint sounds of the horses moving outside and a gate being opened and closed. He had called me Duchessa. He had addressed me as Caresa all morning . . . until just now.
What just happened? My stomach caved slightly as I replayed his words. They were a dismissal. He wanted me gone.
I got to my feet, hurt by Achille’s unexplained behavior, and left the barn. I couldn’t see him at first. But as I made my way past the paddock, I saw him saddling up Nico as Rosa looked on.
Feeling a little numb, I headed for the gate of his cottage to return home, when guilt assailed me. I must have hurt him somehow. Maybe he thought I was throwing my wealth and status in his face? Maybe I had bothered him this morning with too many questions?
I thought back to our time collecting the grapes. I could remember nothing but patient guidance and encouraging smiles. At no point did he seem frustrated or annoyed by my presence. Shy and timid, yes, but not inconvenienced or angry.
It was clear I had hurt him just now. I needed to apologize. I didn’t know what for, but he had been kindness itself to me today and yesterday. For some reason—one I didn’t let myself dwell on—I couldn’t stand my assumption that Achille now thought ill of me.
Before I had time to change my mind, I hurried back to the paddock just as Achille was leading Nico from the gate. His shoulders slumped when he saw I had come back. It cut me, slayed me.
He . . . he truly didn’t want me near him.
A lump clogged up my throat at his sudden coldness, and my hands fidgeted at my front. I blinked away the light sheen of tears that had built across my eyes. “I am sorry if I have hurt you somehow. That was not my attention, Achille. You have been gracious and kind to me, indulging my curiosity about your wine, giving me your time and lunch.” I chased back the lump and forced my weakened voice to add, “But I’m sorry for invading your space. Nothing malicious was meant. I just . . .” I sighed and let my stupid mouth say, “I am lonely here. I don’t know anyone. Zeno is away. Then, by chance, I found out about you, about this place, and I let my excitement run away with me.” I winced in embarrassment at my emotional outpouring.
I ran my hand down my face. “Please accept my apology for whatever I did wrong. I won’t bother you again.” I gave him a tight smile. “I wish you well with this year’s harvest. Though I know you don’t need it. It will be faultless, as always.”
Ducking my head, I spun around and hurried away. I had almost reached the idyllic cottage’s gray stone path when I heard Achille call nervously, “C–Ca
His husky, stuttered rasp made me stop. But what had me closing my eyes, a slither of happiness settling my distress, was my name rolling from his lips. Caresa, not Duchessa . . .
Caresa.
I drew in three breaths, then looked over my shoulder. Achille was gripping the end of Nico’s reins. His dark hair was tousled from this morning’s work. And his eyes, his beautiful, stunningly blue eyes, zeroed in on me—so open and honest, so raw and exposed.
I could barely breathe at the sight.
“Yes?” I whispered, the cool wind wrapping around my damp lashes.
Achille ran his hand along Nico’s neck to calm him, then looked back at Rosa in the paddock. The Andalusian mare had her head propped over the fence, her black eyes focused on her master as he led her companion away.
If it was possible, she appeared . . . sad.
Achille exhaled heavily. “Would . . . would you like to join me on a ride?” His broad shoulders were angled slightly toward Nico, as though shielding himself from my expected refusal. “I have to check the rest of the vines. I . . . I thought that you might want to come. I know you love to ride, and you have already learned so much about the harvesting process.”
Shock rendered me speechless; my heart beat like a whirring fan. It was the last thing I thought he might say. I looked at my jogging leggings, sneakers and long-sleeved shirt. I wanted to scream yes, and accept his offer. Instead I blurted, “I have no jodhpurs or riding boots to wear.” I closed my eyes for a second after I had spoken. What are you blithering about?
But to my amazement, when I brought my gaze back to Achille, an unexpected smile had formed on his lips. And it wasn’t a crooked smirk, or a gentle tugging of the mouth. This smile was wide, free and true. Teeth bare and eyes bright.
And there was a suggestion of a laugh.
A single throaty chuckle of abandoned delight. A morsel of uncensored happiness that I felt all the way into the marrow of my bones.
Achille was amused by me. His shyness was momentarily forgotten, and he was . . .
. . . divine.
Achille’s laugh flew away like the brief passing of a falling leaf, yet with happiness still etched on his striking Latin features, he murmured, “It is only a short ride through the fields. I am sure you will be fine.”
There was a hint of a tease in his words. Unable to take offense at his dry wit, I laughed in return, lowering my head in defeat. I peeked up at him through my lashes. “On a scale of one to ten, how pretentious did I just sound?”
I did not expect him to play or respond. So I nearly fell over from shock when he scrunched up his nose, then guessed, “Mmm . . . about a hundred?”
My mouth fell open at the mock-insult. But our mutual levity broke the tension that had plagued us during the past fifteen minutes. The rediscovery of our calming peace allowed my legs to function and follow Achille through to the paddock. He tied Nico’s reins to a fence post and took a halter off the tack room’s outside hook to catch Rosa. While he did so, I ducked into the tack room and removed the remaining saddle from its saddle mount, and the bridle hanging beside it.
I was about to leave the tack room when I noticed a plethora of show rosettes pinned on a wooden wall. On closer inspection, I could see the titles. First place in some of Italy’s biggest dressage competitions. Some were for show jumping. All were dated around thirty years ago. The latest I could find was won twenty-five years ago. First place in the national dressage and show jumping Classic in Milan.
I was more than impressed. They were highly competitive events with prestigious titles. I scanned the several newspaper clippings that were pinned to the wall; one was framed, showcasing a small black-and-white picture of a beautiful woman dressed in a smart show jacket and white jodhpurs. The camera captured her mid-jump at the Roma Regional Championships. The write-up was short, but talked of her triumphant win. Abrielle Bandini. That was her name. And she looked young, maybe no older than me.
It was dated August, twenty-five years ago.
Movement in the doorway caught my attention. Achille was watching me scan this impressive wall of achievement. Whoever the woman was, she was very much loved by whoever had made this display. A flash of something rushed across Achille’s face as he saw what I was looking at. Not wanting to upset him again, I held up the saddle in my arms and said, “I’m glad you ride English saddle. I’m useless on a Western.”
Achille’s shoulders must have been tense; on hearing my jovial comment they dropped in relief. I followed him out of the tack room to Rosa, who was now tied up beside Nico. “My papa believed one should only ride in English saddle.” Achille’s lip curved at a fond memory. “He said that unless your legs felt the effects of your ride the next day, you didn’t do it properly.” His gaze drifted to stare at nothing. “He said that anything you did in life should be done correctly. Should be done with a full heart and pride. So we rode English saddle. It was a discipline I used to despise when I was younger and learning, but now, I could not ride any other way.”
“I like the sound of your father,” I said, every word the truth.
My comment seemed to summon Achille from inside of his mind. He stepped forward, arms stretched out to take the saddle and bridle from my hands. The faint lines around his eyes had relaxed at my compliment.
I hugged the saddle to my chest. “I may be a spoiled little rich duchessa, Achille, but I can saddle up a horse with the best of them.” I stepped around him and said, “Just watch.” I winked playfully and fought to hide my blush as Achille leaned against the wooden fence beside me, lazily watching me place the deep-purple numnah on Rosa’s freshly groomed back.
“You groomed her for me?” I asked.
“While you got the tack. You took a long time,” he said matter-of-factly, seeming to enjoy watching me fasten Rosa’s girth, put on her martingale and then move to her bridle. This bridle was simple, the bit gentle, indicating that she was not a difficult ride. Rosa took the bit with ease, her teeth chomping against the metal as she once again got used to it in her mouth.
“It’s been a while since she’s been ridden,” Achille explained. He stood straight and moved before Rosa. He ran his fingers down her nose. “She may be fresh at first, but she is well-schooled and responsive to the leg.”
I moved beside Achille, noticing the tanned skin on his arms twitch a little at my closeness to him. The sudden wave of happiness that came with that insight should have had me backing away.
I held still.
I pushed Rosa’s forelock from her eyes, untucking it from the simple leather headband of her bridle. She huffed out a breath, butting my arm with her nose. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, Rosa?” I said in a soothing voice. I smiled up at Achille. “I’m a good rider, Achille. I promise. She’s in safe hands.”
Achille stared at me for longer than normal. I wondered what was happening in that head of his when he saw me like this. When he searched so deeply into my eyes. He didn’t give much away. His actions were stiff. His responses were short and clipped. And his expressions worked hard to remain neutral. Yet I had never felt so comfortable around someone I just met as I did with Achille.
My papa always said that how a man was with his family said a lot about what made up their soul. And if they were good with animals, it proved patience and gentleness, and an understanding of what it was to be pure and kind. It was funny really. My father had always wanted me with someone who bore those traits.
I wondered if Zeno possessed them too. I wondered if my father even knew.
“Are you ready?” Achille asked.
I drew down Rosa’s stirrups and took her reins in my right hand. I brought my foot up to the stirrup and glanced back at Achille, who was standing silently behind me. “I might need a leg up today. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do this.”
Without saying a word, Achille cupped his hands together, bent down and hooked them around my foot. I used his strength to pull up on to the saddle and find my se
Achille mounted Nico effortlessly, and something stirred in my stomach as he readied his position for the ride. Nico was strong and robust, and Achille’s broad, muscled frame looked even more impressive atop the mixed-breed horse. Achille hadn’t even noticed me staring at him. And I was glad he could not detect the sudden spike in my pulse and the shaking of my breath.
They would be difficult to explain.
Achille backed Nico from the fence and looked over to me. “Ready?”
Impossibly, that already racing pulse increased in speed. I told myself it was the excitement of being back on a horse.
This self-deception was so very easy to conceal.
“Ready.”
The minute I felt Rosa push forward, it triggered a feeling of coming home. Of belonging. Of contentment.
Achille led the way, his back muscles bunching with the strain of working his reins. I knew I was smiling. My cheeks ached with just how much I was smiling. My lungs were taking in long deep breaths of air, yet my chest felt light. The breeze ruffled the loose strands of my hair and the sun kissed my skin.
I felt as if I were lost in the most beautiful of dreams as we bypassed the edge of his fairytale cottage, the fall shrubbery sprouting their flowers—burnt oranges and deep greens—and the trees hanging low. I steadied my seat and let Rosa sense my calmness.
It was hard to believe I had only been in Italy a few short days. I’d expected this courting period to be more hectic, the societal pressure on me much greater. And I wasn’t naïve. I knew the madness was yet to come. This brief reprieve was simply the prelude to my future married life, of my expected royal duty for the pretender crown. For now, I let this mysterious, fascinating winemaker lead me through his award-winning vines. Doing the thing I loved most, in the most serene of surroundings.