A Veil of Vines by Tillie Cole
This isn’t so bad, I thought. In fact, this simple embracing of passions with a beautiful like-minded soul . . . it was like a dream come true.
So I intended to cherish every moment, for as long as I could.
With Rosa, Nico and Achille, and the scent of sweet freedom in the air.
Chapter Six
Achille
Nico’s ears were flicking in all directions as we passed through the entrance to the vineyard. His heavy hooves padded like distant thunder on the soil. But that wasn’t what was soothing my ever-present grief right then. That was down to a secondary set of hooves pressing into the same ground, and the other rider accompanying me on this ride.
I glanced behind me, and my breathing stuttered when I saw Caresa casting her big brown eyes over my land and the rolling hills of Umbria beyond. I allowed myself to look down to her body. She hadn’t been lying or even exaggerating. Even from this light trot out, I could see that she could ride, exceptionally well, I would guess. Her seat was solid and her legs at the perfect angle, her heels pressing low in the stirrups. Her back was straight, and her hands held the reins in a way that only came with years of practice.
And it was even more obvious that she was proficient in dressage. Her entire posture was elegant in a delicate way. Even Rosa, who had not been ridden for more than a year—and even then it was simply around the paddock—was calm. She had submitted naturally to Caresa’s control, trusting the rider to keep her in check.
Caresa must have felt the heavy weight of my stare, as her wandering eyes snapped back to clash with mine. I needed to say something. I needed to speak, so I simply asked, “Good?”
Caresa’s responding smile was as bright at the afternoon sun. “More than good,” she replied. I measured her height to Rosa’s build and frame. They were a perfect match. Rosa was a good size, fifteen-three hands, strong but not too heavy. And I’d guess that Caresa was five foot five to five foot six, slim and athletic, perfectly proportioned to her Italian curves. My skin prickled as I allowed myself to notice that about her.
I steered Nico right at the end of the first row. A wider track stretched out over acres and acres before us. It was the main road of my land. Nico’s hooves padded harder, wanting the chance to stretch his legs on the open field.
Caresa trotted beside me; her rising trot was impressive. Excitement flared in her eyes. She looked at the field ahead and the level track, which was straight and well worn. A knowing smirk tugged on her mouth. “So, Achille?” she said, an air of levity to her soft voice. “How good a rider are you?” My eyes narrowed as she tipped her head to the side, awaiting my answer.
“Good,” I said, feeling the infectious allure of her playfulness seep into my bones. “Very good.”
She nodded slowly and pursed her lips. She tightened the grip on her reins. “Then let’s see if you can keep up.”
The final word of her sentence had barely left her mouth before her legs squeezed Rosa, and my eager Andalusian leaped into a quick trot, immediately followed by a canter. It took me a moment to give chase, but all I needed to do was allow Nico his head to set a good pace. Seeing Rosa now at a full gallop was all the encouragement he needed.
I dug in my heels and leaned forward, embracing the blood surging faster and faster through my veins. Nico was well-ridden and fit, so it took us no time to shorten Caresa’s lead. She glanced over her shoulder and grinned. In that moment, the beauty of her face caused an uncharacteristic swaying in my always-perfect seat. Caresa laughed loudly as I wobbled. Now facing north, I leaned further forward, urging Nico to gather speed.
The echo of her joy darted past me, the high-pitched notes sailing back toward the barn. The challenge was set. Raising my reins further up Nico’s neck, I pushed him to his maximum speed, seeing the end of the track up ahead. Caresa verbally spurred Rosa on; I did the same with Nico.
It wasn’t long before Nico’s fitness and longer stride pulled us alongside Caresa and Rosa. Caresa looked at me, a mask of competitive determination etched on her face. We hit the end of the track at the same time, Caresa pulling Rosa to a slow canter to the left, and me pulling Nico to the right. I wound Nico down to a canter, then a steady trot, before bringing him to a walk. He was breathing heavily, but his ears were pointing forward, his spirits raised by the hard exercise.
I steered him around. Caresa was bringing Rosa toward us in a slow trot. When she reached us, her giggle was loud and light. “Achille Marchesi, that was the most fun I’ve had in a long time!”
We continued on next to each other in a slow walk, allowing the horses to gather their breath. A light sheen of sweat blanketed Rosa’s coat. Caresa must have seen what I was looking at because she said, “When was the last time she was ridden?”
“Over a year ago, but it was just on a lead rein. Her last real ride that pushed her was over two years ago. I tried to take her out myself, but she struggled under my weight. I lunge her out in the paddock, but you’ll know that’s never the same as having a rider schooling her.”
Caresa reached down to pat Rosa’s neck. When she straightened, she assessed me with narrowed eyes. “You’re a very good rider, Achille. Excellent, in fact.”
“You are too.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” I replied, seeing Caresa’s lips hook up at the corners.
I pointed to the farthest set of vines. “We can start there. I planted these vines at a later date than the ones we have been harvesting. I do it days apart or in accordance to the soil’s pH, quality and amount of sun exposure the area gets. I must time it perfectly so that when I harvest I can collect the grapes when they are at their perfect ripeness.” I shrugged. “It’s not always an exact science, so if I finish the picking early some days, I ride out and make sure none of the rows need any extra attention. Or if I need to change my schedule and harvest these first.” I studied a few bunches of grapes, judging by their coloring and size that my estimation of their readiness was on track.
“I never knew so much attention to detail was involved. I knew the traditional method was much more intensive, of course, but I think I have been spoiled by seeing only mechanical tools used in the fields.” She shook her head. “Your way is so much more inspiring, Achille. Truly.”
“Thank you.”
Minutes of companionable silence passed. Caresa allowed me to check the row uninterrupted. As we made our way to the next, she said, “That’s why you ride then?” She pointed to the soil. “So everything stays as pure as possible?”
“Yes,” I replied, reaching down to run my fingers through Nico’s mane. “A winemaker is not a good winemaker unless he respects the soil that yields his fruit. Tractors can cause too much compaction of the soil. With horses, there are no chemicals seeping into the ground or clogging the air. The Bella Collina soil is impressive, probably because of its distance from any sources of pollution.” I took in a breath of the clean fresh air I was talking about. “But this path, this small acreage of mine, there is something even more special here. The soil is different somehow. It’s incomparable to anything nearby. It is sacred, and, as such, deserving of a winemaker who nurtures and cherishes the gift it gives. It would be sacrilegious to reward it with the introduction of gas and oil. A horse’s hoof is gentle and kind. It doesn’t punish, it . . . understands.”
I didn’t realize Caresa had drawn to a stop until I noticed that the rhythmic sound of Rosa’s hooves on the ground had faded to silence. “Caresa?” I called, concerned. I found her motionless, staring at me with an intense expression on her face. I pulled on Nico’s reins and walked carefully to where she sat. “Caresa? Are you well?”
“You care so much,” she whispered, so quietly I almost didn’t catch her words. She blinked twice. “All of this, what you have created, what you achieve each season . . . it’s . . . breathtaking. More than inspiring, your grace and devotion is . . . majestic.” She shook her head as if she was searching for the right words. She finally settled on, “Y
I was glad the wind chose that moment to swirl around us, because then I could blame the sudden wetness on my lashes on the breeze. I could blame the blurring of my vision on the cool waves of wind washing over my face.
“I just had to say that to you,” Caresa said. My head was turned to the side, evading her watchful gaze. I kept my focus on the smudge of dirt on the back of my hand as I gripped the reins tightly.
She spoke again. “My papa always told me that when someone deserved praise, they should be given it. That when something floored you so incredibly, you should explain why.” She held her breath for a moment. “And you deserved to hear that, Achille. That and much, much more. I couldn’t let another second go by without saying it aloud.”
I didn’t know how badly I had needed to hear such a sentiment until that moment. Hadn’t realized how devoid of kindness or affection my life had been until her compliment burrowed its way deeply into my heart.
Hadn’t realized how lonely I was until I had someone walking beside me, laughing with me under the sun.
Seconds passed before I breathed easily again. Until I could meet her eyes. Caresa gave me a small smile. I turned Nico and said, “We must check the rest of the vines.”
We walked slower this time, as though the sun was not beginning to lower in the sky. I tipped my head up, noticing gray clouds moving in. The air smelled fresher, the wind blew colder. No doubt a downpour would hit within the next few hours.
I didn’t mind. The rain always created better-flavored grapes.
Caresa brought Rosa beside us. We silently searched row after row. When we arrived back on the track to go to the next section, she asked, “Achille?”
“Yes?”
“Who was that woman in the framed picture in the tack room?” I tensed a little at her question. Growing up, there had only been my father and me. I had always been quiet, reserved, unused to talking much about myself. My father knew that, but never pushed me. He could talk enough for us both.
Caresa’s question made me see that, in my life, I had barely spoken to anyone outside of this land.
“My mother,” I answered, seeing her face from that picture so clearly in my mind.
Caresa sighed. “She is so beautiful.”
“Was.”
Caresa stopped breathing for a moment, then said, “Oh, Achille, I am so sorry.”
“I didn’t know her.” I looked at Caresa from the corner of my eye. She was watching me intently. “She died at my birth. She hemorrhaged. It was a home birth here on this estate, so the paramedics couldn’t get to her in time to save her.”
“That is so sad,” Caresa said. The sound of a tractor intruded from the near distance. The other winemakers of the mass-produced Savona wines used mechanics in their harvest. As far as I knew, it was only me who did not.
“He must have missed her terribly,” Caresa said, muting the tractor in my ears. I turned to face her. “Your father,” she explained. “He kept all of her rosettes and newspaper write-ups in the tack room.” Her expressive brown eyes had drifted from bright to sad. “He must have loved her a great deal.”
I pictured my father every night before his death. For the last few weeks, when we knew his time was near, he held my mother’s picture in his arms as he lay in bed. With each passing day, he clutched it tighter; he knew the time to meet her once again was nigh.
My father had held no fear of death. Because . . . “He would be whole again,” I verbalized, not meaning to finish my thought aloud.
My cheeks blazed as Caresa studied me. “What?”
I shook my head, wanting to forget it, but Caresa surprised me by reaching across and laying her hand on my forearm. The moment her fingers touched my bare skin, warmth rose up my arm. Her fingers were small and slim, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her nails. They were perfectly shaped and painted a light lavender color.
I looked up; when I did, I felt Caresa’s thumb brush back and forth on my arm. It was only the once, and it was as light as a feather, but I liked this soft caress.
She stilled. It had been an absent-minded action, but one that caused my skin to bump in the wake of her touch.
Caresa took back her hand. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Please continue. I would like to hear about your father. About whatever it was you were going to say. You said something about him being whole again?”
Browning leaves from a low-hanging branch brushed my cheek as we passed. I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Caresa waited patiently for me to continue. I shifted nervously on my saddle. Nico must have felt it; his head flicked up and he huffed out a long breath. Caresa laughed gently at my gelding’s quick-changing mood.
I couldn’t help but smile in reply.
“You don’t have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable,” Caresa said. “You’ve only just met me. I shouldn’t be prying.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s not it. It’s just . . .” I paused, trying to phrase my words correctly.
“What?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s almost silly, I guess. My father . . . he was a hopeless romantic. Yet he only ever truly loved my mother. He never remarried, never looked at another woman in all the years he lived after her death.” I glanced out across the fields of green. “He had unique beliefs about love and matters of the heart. Maybe unrealistic. And I don’t . . . I couldn’t bear . . .”
“To have his memory ridiculed?” she completed when I couldn’t finish my sentence.
I nodded. “He was my father. He . . . he was everything I ever had.”
“I would never ridicule him, Achille. It would be the last thing I would ever consider.”
I searched her eyes then. Actually peered into their darkest depths. And all I saw was the truth shining back at me. Acceptance and understanding.
And maybe . . . affection?
I steered us right, around the perimeter track. I could see my cottage in the distance, the autumn colors creating a masterpiece of my home—my father’s home. “Have you heard of Plato?” I said.
“The Greek philosopher?”
“Yes.”
Caresa looked confused, but she didn’t push me. My stomach lightened. She wasn’t what I thought she’d be. Well, I had never given her much thought before she turned up at my vineyard, but I had assumed she’d be like the prince. Arrogant and rude to anyone but those on his level of social standing.
She was not like that at all.
“My father liked to read,” I went on, feeling my lips turn up at the memories circling my mind. “He read all the time, anything he could get his hands on. He used to read me Tolkien as a child. That was my favorite.” Caresa absently reached down to pat Rosa’s neck. “He liked pretty much everything, but his favorite by far was philosophy.” I released a nervous laugh. “Strange for a simple winemaker, I know.”
“Not at all,” Caresa said vehemently. Her strong response surprised me. “I see every reason to believe why he would embrace philosophy. Philosophy contemplates the world in every facet—its creation, its beauty, its flaws, its meaning. A winemaker takes the seeds from a simple fruit, uses the earth to nurture it, then gives it new life in the most beautiful way. I can see exactly why your father loved philosophy. He lived it, as do you. I don’t think many people can say that about their life’s work.”
I stared at Caresa. I couldn’t look away. Her words were a balm to a wound I never knew I had. She didn’t regard what we did here on this land as lowly, like some. She saw its value.
She saw mine.
“My father was obsessed with Aristotle. But his favorite was Plato. He read Plato’s Symposium to me as a child.” My throat grew thick at the memory. “He . . . he would especially read me the parts about love.” My fa
“Love?” Caresa asked. “What does Plato say about love? I’m afraid my recollections of philosophy are limited.”
I loosened Nico’s reins, allowing his head more freedom as we strolled down the long, lazy track. “My father liked Plato so much because he proposed the theory of ‘split-aparts’. It’s how he saw my mother and himself, their life together. It’s why he loved so hard for so long, even long after she was dead. She made him whole.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand. What is the theory of ‘split-aparts’?”
“This is where it becomes fantasy, I think. Plato wrote that once upon a time—according to Greek mythology—humans were created as one whole being with four arms, four legs, and a shared head with two faces. It was written that they began to challenge the gods, who feared that humans may one day become successful and overthrow them. Zeus sent down a thunderbolt, splitting them into two parts—two parts of one whole. The two parts were sent to different areas of the world.”
I glanced at Caresa to check if she was still listening. Her eyes were locked on me, her pupils wide. “Then what?” she asked softly. “What happened to them?” I thought, in that moment, she seemed as taken by the concept of the split-aparts as my father had been.
“They were broken, in pain, never feeling complete without their other half. Zeus, in an attempt to keep power, had condemned the split-aparts to spend their lives searching for their counterparts. They could not challenge his power when they had only half a soul.”
“And your father . . .” Caresa trailed off.
“He believed that the story was really just fiction, for the sake of ancient myths, but the theory was not. He said that when we’re born, we also have the other half of us, our split-apart, waiting for us out there in the world. Not everyone will find theirs. Finding them can also go very badly. Some who do find their missing half become so consumed by the other person, so addicted to them, that the blessing becomes their curse—their love is too consuming, obsessive, unhealthy. But for others, it is pure destiny. It is meant to be. It is perfect and benevolent. He said that it explained the circumstance of instant love. And of the loves that defy the odds and last a lifetime.”