by Bella Donnis
Copyright Information Page
Copyright © 2013 Bella Donnis. All rights reserved worldwide.
No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance the characters may have to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Bella Donnis
UK
Warning: This book contains graphic language and sexual content.
Table of Contents
Chianti
Solitude
Alessia
Firenze
Discovery
Epilogue
Also by Bella Donnis
Chianti
I arrived at the entrance to the Villa di Giordano. Peering through the gaps in the huge metal gate, neat rows of grapevines ran down into a small valley before re-emerging on the hill beyond.
I was about to push the button marked ‘Parla’ when the gates began to open outwards slowly from the centre. I grabbed my suitcase and made my way up the long dusty track towards the villa at the far end.
It was now evident just how neatly arranged the grapevines were, in perfect straight rows that stretched onwards, only to disappear from sight due to the lay of the land. Several men pottered through the vines, cutting off stalks and placing bunches of grapes in containers. It looked like fun and doubtless I’d soon be joining these men in harvesting grapes.
I was in Italy, Tuscany to be more precise, or Chianti to be exact, for work experience as part of my Italian language degree. My three year course included a summer working in Italy and I chose to work in a vineyard simply because it beat working in a factory. I’d met many Italians in England during their work experiences and some of the jobs they were required to do, for the love of the country they were studying, were gut wrenching. I was a petite, inexperienced twenty year old who’d grown up in a small village with few friends and the thought of cleaning wheelie bins, like my new Italian friends back home had been required to do made me queasy. I very much fancied the task of manual labour for a summer, just so long as I didn’t have to spray down industrial sized waste disposal units. Let’s face it – I needed toughening up. What attracted me the most to this particular vineyard was that they still utilised traditional methods of wine making, the kind of techniques Italians had used before machinery took the romance away from the art. There was a sort of innocence to it, a beauty, and I’d be learning a valuable new skill in the meantime - That’s if I ever fancied growing my own grapes and making wine from them when I returned to England, which would be doubtful.
The sun baked down on my pale skin as I walked along the path toward the villa where a middle-aged man now emerged from the door. He stood bolt upright, his hands clasped in front of his stomach. Even from this distance, the warm greeting from his smile was more than visible. The wheels from my suitcase threw up small dust clouds in my wake as I continued my slow trundle toward the man who I guessed was the owner of this small, family run vineyard.
“Dayna?” He finally asked approaching me to assist with the last few meters. He held out a hand which I took and shook, “I’m Alberto. You found us.” He said in English.
“It’s such a wonderful place you have here, I can’t wait to have a proper look around.” I said, switching to Italian, the look of relief washing over Alberto’s face.
“Ah, you speak very good Italian. This will make it easier for us to become great friends.” Alberto, I guessed was in his early fifties. Floppy grey hair encased his features which seemed to naturally sway backward behind his ears. He wore heavy stubble which covered most of his face. His friendly nature would have made him an attractive man, if only he’d scrub up a little.
“Thank you, I’ve always had a bit of an obsession with this country.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Come on inside, I’ll show you to where you’ll be staying.” He led the way inside the villa. “You must be tired after your flight. But you can rest once you’ve taken the tour.” Alberto was as keen to show me around as I was to see it.
The villa was built in the classic Tuscan style with three floors. Great wooden beams supported much of the structure while adding a beautiful aesthetic appeal. The floors were all stone tiled, even the upstairs which gave it a timeless quality. “This villa has been in my family for four hundred years and we’ve been making wine throughout that entire time.” The pride in his voice shone through as we walked past family portraits hanging from the wall, which at about the halfway point changed from oil paintings to photographs. I paid extra attention to the large framed portrait positioned at the end, which showed a more youthful Alberto with whom I took to be his wife and young daughter. The happy young family wore vintage Italian clothing, perhaps in an effort to appear more like their ancestors.
“My beautiful family - You’ll be meeting my wife when she returns from her errands.”
I was about to enquire upon the pretty little girl, who looked to be in her early teens when Alberto motioned me up to the next floor.
Arriving upstairs, we stopped by the door that had a plate that read ‘Ospiti.’ Alberto pushed the door open to reveal the guest bedroom. The room, like much of the villa was modestly decorated, which again harked back to times gone by. This was what I wanted, and I’d received it.
“It’s wonderful, Alberto.” I wheeled my luggage in the direction of the bed. A large upright mirror stood and dominated one corner and the door to an en suite bathroom lay in the other. The window overlooked the vineyard to a point where the ends of the grapevines were now visible, far off into the distance. Curiosity inclined me to scan the vista for the daughter – She would after all make nice company for the next three months and I’d enjoy practicing my Italian on a girl closer my own age. There were plenty of rugged looking men brushing and snipping away at branches, some pushing carts along the earth, but there was no sign of any women doing the labour. Perhaps she had another job around the vineyard and was not required to carry out the harvesting. I turned back to Alberto, who stood in the threshold. “There was a young girl in your family portrait. Does she also work here?”
Alberto continued to smile, “That would be Alessia, my daughter.” He brought out a photo from his wallet and held it towards me.
I walked over from the window and took the photo. My first impression was how beautiful she was. Perfect symmetrical features and tanned brown skin that was so natural to many Italian girls. Long brown hair flowed down the sides of her face to run off the bottom edge of the photo. Her green eyes sparkled as her smile gave the still image life. If the photo was recent, I’d have put her at the same age as my twenty years.
Returning the photo, just one question burned on my mind. “Where is Alessia now?”
Alberto took the photo and placed it back in his wallet, wavering for a few seconds, “She is pursuing a fashion degree in Milano after deciding against working in the family business.” He pursed his lips, momentarily looking at the floor. “As long as she’s happy, that’s all that matters - The apple of my eye.” It always amazed me how the same sayings we used in English translated directly into Italian, doubtless because they came straight from Shakespeare.
It was a pity Alessia would not be around for me to get to know. I would miss the girly chats with my Italian friends back home all the more. Though doubtless the time would pass swiftly as I’d be performing manual labour in the meantime, five days a week. During my days off, I fully intended on visiting a host of sites including Firenze, the European renaissance capital, though since there were no females my own age to hang out with, I’d be going solo. Oh well – I was in Italy and I intended on enjoying my time here no matter
what.
“There will be an aperitif downstairs in an hour where you can meet my wife Maria. I’ll leave you to it.” Alberto closed the door behind him.
I looked at the bed and wanted so badly to collapse onto it. Throughout the day I’d endured rides on a train, plane, another train and a bus in order to arrive in the Chianti countryside. My body was sticky from the day’s endurance. The shower needed to be paid a visit before doing anything else.
Facing the large upright mirror, I peeled off the blouse I wore, which having put on in England was now perhaps a little too thick for the Italian climate. Next I kicked off my trainers and jeans, throwing them on the bed.
Turning back to face the mirror momentarily, I was taken by my reflection. I did not consider myself a vain girl by any means, but there was something about staring at yourself in such a large and beautiful mirror. Added to that the natural Tuscan sunlight which poured into the room and together my skin had an ethereal quality to it – Or perhaps that was the grime from the days travelling. I had a great figure, I knew that much because of the compliments I received almost every day. I had a lifetime of playing on the fencing team for my county to thank for that. Fencing involved prolonged periods of time standing in semi-crouched positions which over the years had gifted me with sculpted legs and a butt to go with them. The need to hold heavy fencing blades out in front for those same prolonged periods had also gifted me with a toned upper body, a quality that gave me extra perky breasts. I watched them barely move as I took off my C cup bra, throwing it over my shoulder toward the bed behind. My blonde hair ran down and over my shoulders to rest somewhere on my exposed back. Being blonde, I’d need to pay extra care not to get sunburned, then I saw how my forearms had already endured perhaps a little too much sun having been directly exposed for only a matter of minutes. My suitcase contained a couple bottles of factor 30, which I didn’t think would last very long.
The bathtub doubled as a shower and I stepped in, closed the curtains and pulled the lever. The cold water rained down from above, causing a small shock to my system. The day’s grime slowly washed from my body, leaving in its wake goose bumps caused by the chill. I ran both hands over my body in an attempt to generate warmth, feeling my skin’s texture with my fingertips. My exposed breasts took the brunt of the cold as the water landed directly on them and I felt my nipples hardening to a point. I cupped my breasts, the large globes more than filling my hands as I took extra care to wash the stickiness from beneath.
When I finished, I leapt from the tub and towel dried myself, though the warm air coming in through the open windows could have carried out that task with ease.
The aperitif would be in around forty minutes, so I figured I’d have more than enough time to dress in something a little more suitable for the new climate. Then I remembered I’d promised to email my parents and Patrick to inform them I’d arrived safe at my destination.
Patrick was my boyfriend of one year. We’d met at university after I wandered into the free weights area of the gym in search of the fencing studio. I’d asked for directions to the studio but instead Patrick took me there himself. Later I caught him looking through the studio window and after my fencing session, he was still waiting for me to exit. He asked me out there and then. Within a few weeks we were a couple.
Although I cared deeply for Patrick, I wasn’t in love with him. One thing that set us apart from all our friends who were in relationships was that we hadn’t yet had sex. It hadn’t yet felt right. I wanted my first time to be perfect, and so far, Patrick hadn’t created that perfect moment. Some of my friends fell in love with their boyfriends after first having sex with them, but for me that felt presumptuous and tacky. What if I ended up giving it away to Patrick and then after everything, I still never fell for him? No – My first time would not only have to be during a perfect moment, but it also had to be with that perfect person.
I took out my cell phone and sent a bulk email to my mum, dad and Patrick. ‘Hi guys, I’ve arrived safely. I’ll be in touch soon with news and updates.’
Solitude
The aperitif was tasty and presented an intimate opportunity for myself and the Giordano’s to become acquainted. After sitting down, Maria Giordano brought in several plates filled with finger foods. Thick sliced bread and olive oil was a staple in Italy and I’d missed it since my last trip. There were also bits of cheese, Parma ham, bowls of olives and sliced tomato with yet more cheese on top. Tomato always tasted fresher out here.
Maria Giordano I guessed to be a few years younger than Alberto. She moved about the living room with a fine lady like grace. It struck me just how much like her daughter she appeared. Not that I had met Alessia in person and it didn’t look like I ever would, but still, my imagination had conjured up an image of the girl. Maria was a beautiful woman and age had not had any negative affect on her looks. She wore closely cropped hair, a similar light brown to her skin tone and even though her daughter had longer hair, their faces looked similar. Her big eyes emitted a warmness I knew would be in sharp contrast to the renowned fiery temper of most Italian women. She wore a summer dress that flowed from her shoulders, yet still clung to her curves as though it was short on material.
Maria poured white wine into a large glass carafe, having already set down three small glasses on the table. The aroma drifted in my direction, filling my world with a pleasant sweet smell. This would be my first taste of the famed Vino di Giordano.
“We are one of the last remaining traditional wine makers in Tuscany.” Alberto boasted while pouring from the carafe.
“Everything here is done just how it was four hundred years ago when Alberto’s ancestors first began with only a few vines.” Maria took the carafe and poured the nectar into her own glass. “We’re a specialist operation here. We produce less, but we’re able to charge more. We sell our wines around the world.” She passed the carafe to me.
“I’ve been looking forward to trying this.” As I poured the wine, the rich aroma magnified several times. I tipped the glass to my mouth and swilled the wine around inside, allowing it to wash over my taste buds. The dry fruity taste lit up my senses. “It’s delicious.”
“You should alternate it with some cheese – It contrasts the tastes.” Alberto said as he placed a small knob of cheese in his mouth.
It occurred to me that these two lovely people had nobody to pass the winery down to. At least there were no other children. And with Alessia not wanting to have anything to do with the vineyard, I wondered just what would become of this wonderful place. What turmoil lived with the Giordano’s for not being able to pass down their legacy? Anyway, it was none of my business and I knew not to ask such questions while we were only beginning our acquaintance.
Alberto suggested that I used the rest of the day to explore the vineyard, as apparently there were lots to see that I wouldn’t expect on a typical Tuscan estate.
When I left the villa and made my way down the path and along the vines, it was four in the afternoon. The aperitif had served to re-energise myself and I no longer felt like I needed to collapse on the bed. On the contrary, it was my first day in Chianti and I had the freedom of a world class and fully operational wine making establishment.
Men worked in small teams, snipping at small bunches of grapes before placing them in tubs which were then packed onto carts. I smiled at them as I walked past and one or two of them tipped their hats toward me. It looked like it wasn’t only the vineyard that was traditional, but the people as well. This trip would be an experience - That much was proving to be certain.
Where the vines led into a small valley, a small stream meandered all the way through the vineyard. I guessed this would have been the reason why this particular area was chosen for the vineyard four hundred years ago in order to provide easily accessible water for the vines. It also created an impossibly beautiful vista for the people who lived and worked here.
I took a seat on the stream’s edge and peered into the water as it f
lowed by. I took off my sandals and dipped my feet in the cool water. Fish startled by my presence soon relaxed and swam within a short distance of my toes, trusting that I wouldn’t hurt them. While looking around from the crystal clear stream at the Tuscan mountains in the distance, I realised just how special this particular place was. In that moment, I thought I could stay here forever.
*
Four weeks after arriving at the Villa di Giordano, I’d become accustomed to life harvesting grapes. My primary task was searching for ripe bunches on the vines, cutting them from the branch and placing them in the tub. When the tub was filled, I carried it to the cart. When the cart was filled, I wheeled it with the help of one of the other workers, toward the winery.
I was keen to play a part in the rest of the process, but actually making the wine far surpassed my pay grade. For the most part, the days past fast even though they were monotonous. Lugging heavy containers around the place proved hard work and I could begin to feel the muscle tone in my arms further improving from the effort. My skin even became accustomed to the hot sun as throughout the course of the month I used less and less of my factor 30 until the time came when I didn’t need it at all. My skin was now a healthy gold colour.
But the truth was that I longed for some company. The guys I worked with were pleasant characters, but they were mainly in their fifties and sixties, which meant they were older than Alberto. In addition, the majority of them had migrated up from the south and spoke with a southern Italian dialect I was unfamiliar with. Alberto and Maria understood them perfectly, but for myself, who was studying generic Italian, I struggled to understand them just as they struggled to understand me.
At least, at first, the evenings were more tolerable as I got to know Maria a bit better. But her job involved long periods away from the vineyard, travelling north to find new buyers for the wine. She’d return at weekends, with new contracts from restaurants who’d agreed to stock Vino di Giordano, then the following Monday she’d be gone for the rest of the week.