by Vivien Vale
“Hey, you speak the language! Sort of.”
“What does ‘sort of’ mean?” Nicole asks half-angrily as the chauffeur opens the rear door. She slips out onto the gravel before I can answer.
Obviously, I answer anyway.
“Usually, they’re just called oak barrels—but, I like ‘maturation barrels’ better.”
“Mm, I bet you do.”
Nicole’s getting way ahead of me already, not even bothering to look back. Maybe she really is annoyed, or maybe she can’t resist the allure of that sweet, light, deceptively simple—or is it deceptively complex?—blend of citrusy, almost tropical flavors straight from the maturity barrels, as she delightfully calls them.
I jog a few feet along the gravel to catch up with her.
“You’re as excited for the tour as I am, it would seem,” Nicole comments, popping the moment’s little balloon of tension with her pinprick of a joke.
“I knew it! You’re really in Italy for the wine. Admit it.”
“You’ve got me, Dante. It’s too bad I didn’t learn what a liquor store is until my plane ride over. My face was red, I can tell you.”
“This’ll be better than what you can get in any liquor…Hey, Giorgio!”
The owner of the winery is a bit of a legend with anyone who’s traveled to this area more than a couple of times, for nothing more than being such an abnormally fucking warm and friendly presence.
Like now, Giorgio comes out to greet us well before we arrive at the reception area or inside at all.
“Ah, Signore Walsh! I had a feeling when I heard a party of two...well, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy the tour! It’s as private as can be.”
There are certain things that you witness only once in a lifetime. Things that logically seem like they must be outright fucking impossible.
But when you do see them—during that once-in-a-lifetime moment—it seems so real that you won’t even fucking dare question it.
Even as the days go by and you remember that one crazy moment, you ask yourself if it was real at all, and you try to tell yourself that you must’ve imagined it—maybe because you’re in another part of the world and still a bit jet lagged or at least feeling sort of swampy— but you know that’s bullshit because you feel fucking great, and you still saw it with your own eyes.
This must be the place for one of these moments now, because I swear on all the Prosecco in northeast Italy that Giorgio just waved at us before simply vanishing in front of our eyes.
It’s even more real because I have a witness with me—my wife, technically—and who better than her to corroborate what I just saw?
“That was Giorgio, but he just vanished. You saw that, right?”
“He just walked back into that little house down there. He was quick, though.”
“Oh. Because, I swear...”
“We’re still getting a tour, right? Or at least some wine?”
“I can provide both—I guess that’s what Giorgio meant by ‘private.’”
“Che bello! I learned that one on the plane for real. Come on, less talking, more heading down to where the wine and grapes and stuff are.”
I had no plans to be a tour guide today, or ever, but I’m suddenly so enlivened by the idea of showing Nicole around I start walking fast toward the vineyard before I even realize what I’m doing.
“If it’s grapes you want, they’re all around here. Beautiful Glera grapes as far as the eye can see.”
This time, Nicole actually runs a few feet to catch up with me.
“Alright, alright. I’ll look at some grapes already—but I don’t want to consume any until they’ve been properly fermented.”
“In maturation barrels.”
The side of Nicole’s hand whacks my forearm with some force. I still barely feel it through my shirt, but I grab my forearm dramatically.
“Hey! Ow! Don’t you realize that I love that you call them that?”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever realize that.”
“Oof. This might be a long marriage—not that I’m complaining.”
“Signor Walsh!”
Like an expert illusionist, Giorgio is now standing behind a wooden table at the side of the path—with an open bottle and a couple glasses already poured.
“Giorgio! I thought you vanished.”
“Never, signor. I just do not believe in keeping my clients waiting.”
“We don’t mind waiting a little, just so you know,” Nicole says with a smile. “You ran back to that house like you had to put out a fire or something.”
“I do believe in providing as much privacy as I can, signora. Especially in these most romantic and bella of surroundings.”
Nicole’s eyes fall slightly to the gravel, and an obvious blush fills her cheeks.
“That’s not a problem for us, uh, Giorgio, and besides, we’re in public.”
“Please forgive Giorgio’s florid language, Nic.”
“Oh, please pardon me, signora. I still get carried away in these most auspicious of environs.”
“First of all, Giorgio,” Nicole begins, already picking up a glass as she speaks, “your English skills beat the crap out of many native speakers I know back home. Second of all…”
Nicole’s speech is interrupted by a charmingly large swig of wine, worthy of a long-distance bicyclist hydrating from a water bottle.
“Slow down, Nic. You need to appreciate the subtle flavors, the undertones, the mouthfeel…”
“With all due respect, Signor Walsh,” Giorgio interrupts, “I believe that is a load of, how should I say, absolute horse shit.”
Nicole comes close to spitting out her next swig when she hears this.
“So, you don’t want people to appreciate all your hard work, Giorgio?” I ask. “I mean, the painstaking, endless process that goes into each bottle…”
“I think the young lady is appreciating the wine as much as anyone I’ve ever seen. Those people who swish the wine around, analyzing it, only to spit it out afterwards, those are the people who turn my hard work into a waste. Now, what was that second thing you were about to say, signora?”
“Oh, I was just saying that I’ve never toured a winery before, and I’d never imagined it would be like this, I guess. But I’m loving it. So, if we could try a couple more glasses for the road, you are forgiven for whatever the hell you all thought I was mad about.”
Nicole starts on the remains of her glass, and I think Giorgio tries to offer me one, but I’m too beguiled by this incredible woman to even fucking notice.
What I do notice, however, is a sudden sadness that seems to take over Nicole after she finishes the last sip.
“Do not despair, signora. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“I’ll buy you all the fucking Prosecco in Italy if you want, Nicole.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t know. Maybe I’m ready to head back into town now. Thanks a million, Giorgio.”
Nicole places the glass gently back on the table.
“Whatever you want, Nic,” I say.
She sighs deeply. I don’t know why her mood just seemed to drop like a fucking bowling ball from a balcony, but as we walk back towards the limo, all I want to do is lift her spirits back up.
If only I knew how.
Such things used to come so naturally to me, but they suddenly start getting harder when I start caring this much.
Nicole
I’m beginning to see what they mean about the honeymoon period. Of course, it certainly helps that this is also our literal honeymoon.
If there was ever a city to bask in the glow of new romance, it’s Venice. From the balcony of the Aman Canal Grande, I can watch the sun set with a glass of wine and bask in the twilight as Luciano coos right beside me.
The last rays of sun kiss my skin, and I watch as the canals sparkle like rivers of diamonds. The gondoliers smile up at me, and I can’t help myself as my face splits into a beaming grin right back. It takes every
thing I have not to wave.
How could anyone not love Venice?
I was so excited to come to Italy for spring break, and then when Ryan asked to marry me whilst we were in the city, it was a dream come true…
Almost too good to be true.
No, it was too good to be true.
I wonder now why I didn’t spot Ryan’s flaws sooner. Allison did. But I did what I always do, and I got lost in his eyes and his honeyed words, his sweet talk about living happily ever after.
I wanted to believe his promises. When Ryan said he could take me away from the world of beauty pageants, I was beside myself. He was going to give me the freedom to eat what I want, wear whatever I liked, allow me to be the girl I wanted to be, rather than the girl who was going to win the crown.
Or so I thought. Turns out, he just wanted to make me into the girl he wanted me to be. But he said he’d take care of me, and I wanted someone to rely on.
I guess he was only taking care of himself.
Now, I’m beside myself again. I’m in pieces because of what he did to me. And it’s so frustrating how torn up I am over him, how much my heart still aches at the thought of his face and how I want to cry every time I remember what he’s done.
Even with Dante right beside me, I’m on the verge of tears.
Everything in my mind tells me that Ryan was no good for me, that this betrayal was inevitable. That it was better I experienced it now rather than after I’d signed a pre-nup or something. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less confusing.
My mind’s a jumble of thoughts, like spaghetti on a plate.
Annoyingly, he tampered with my heart, and all I had from his was a place in the trophy cabinet.
I suppose it looks good to have a wife who was a beauty queen who retired from the pageant circuit whilst she was the top of her game, rather than her crown being snatched whilst she was still a competitor. Then he’d never have to worry about having someone prettier and younger coming along and publicly making me look bad.
If someone prettier and younger and perkier did come along, I suppose he’d just screw her, too, and if she were dumber than I was, he might actually succeed in marrying her.
And if they are dumber than me, Ryan’s next trophy girlfriend won’t mind when he tells them what to do.
Where to go. What to eat. What to wear.
How to act.
When I wear the clothes that Dante got me and I tie my hair back in something as simple as a ponytail, I feel more like myself than I have done in years.
When I get dressed in the morning, I’m not questioning in the back of my mind whether or not Dante will spend the whole day looking down my dress. Though he might be staring at my tits, he’s also staring at the rest of me, too.
He’s not just staring, he’s admiring, and he’s thinking about me. I’m a real person to Dante, not just a life-sized Barbie doll which he can show off to his friends. Outside of Ryan, I haven’t even met any of Dante’s friends.
But how did a guy like Dante ever end up being friends with Ryan?
Unless…
No. I don’t want to go down that line of thought.
I shouldn’t listen to that part of my mind—the voice in the back of my head which sounds suspiciously like Allison—that tells me that this is all going to end soon. That like Ryan, Dante is definitely too good to be true. That it’s only a matter of time before Dante shows me his true colours.
I don’t want to believe it, but I can already begin to see the similarities between the ex-groom and his best man. Dante is the one, after all, who decided what monuments we visit, what clubs we go to, and what costume shop to get my wedding dress from.
He controls all of our moments here in Italy and tells me not go out by myself.
Even Alison isn’t good enough company. It’s his way or no way…
Maybe next time the gondola tips, I’ll just drown as Dante rescues some other damsel in distress.
Because if a man can lie to you on your wedding day, who’s to say he won’t lie to you every other day of the year?
Dante let me believe that he was Ryan for the entire ceremony, and the whole night, too. I mean, I love Dante so much, but he didn’t give me the chance to say yes to him. I thought I was saying ‘I do’ to Ryan.
Nothing screams ‘controlling’ like not even having the option to say, ‘I don’t.’
Not that I would have said ‘no’ to Dante.
But it wasn’t fair. He tells me that he’s so different from Ryan—and I believe him, I really believe that he’s different. That he’s better.
He treats me like I’m a goddess, like I’m Venus, and he’s Mars, and sometimes, it really does feel like our love could inspire poets and artists for all eternity. But Mars was a god of conquest, and I made Dante conquer me in the gondola.
I wonder how long it’ll be until his next trophy does the same thing.
I wonder if we’ll even make it out of the honeymoon period.
What am I saying?
Of course, we will. Dante is different from Ryan.
Those vows were so heartfelt—Ryan could never even dream of being half as romantic as Dante. And when it came for me to read my vows, I realised that I couldn’t recite my speech, because none of it was really true—I wasn’t thinking about Ryan, I was thinking about the day with Dante.
Because Dante loves the real me. He loves the Nicole who smiles until her face aches, and laughs until her sides hurt, who’s excited to be in Venice, and who falls in love with poor little pigeons far too quickly. He wants to know about the Nicole who’s passionate and animated about whatever interests her.
Dante supports my sketching, and he might just be the first person who wants me to have a career as an artist.
If my drawing of him and Luciano hadn’t been blown away, I bet he’s the kind of guy who would’ve treasured that scrap of paper until the pencil began to fade and it resembled a stick man and his pet feathery splodge.
But the drawing flew away, and pencil fades, and usually, when something’s too good, it can never last.
I look over my shoulder to Dante as he reclines on the chaise lounge. For the brief seconds I stare at him, he doesn’t look up. He’s too lost in the book he’s reading, his mouth slightly agape as he flicks over the page.
It’s so cute, it reminds me of the way he looks at me when he thinks I can’t see him. The crisp paper cuts through the stillness of the evening air. He’s so peaceful, entranced with the novel in his hands and oblivious to my fears.
Maybe I should tell him?
No. I couldn’t.
I’d just scare him away. If I revealed all my insecurities, Dante would think I was no shallower than the legions of other women he’s dated in the past.
After Ryan, I feel the need to prove myself—to convince Dante that I’m not like anyone else that he might have dated in the past.
I’m going to enjoy this honeymoon period for as long as I can.
Even if it means they have to drag me by the ankles out of the newlywed suite. I’ll scream and kick and claw at whoever tries to take this happiness from me.
The sun finally falls low enough in the sky to dip behind the buildings. The orange glow sets the glittering canals alight, as the air finally turns colder.
I sigh into the evening and turn back into the room towards Dante.
Luciano half flies, half hops behind me. The sound of his claws scratching on the tile flooring rouses Dante’s attention, and he smiles as he sees me. I smile back and eagerly nestle into his arms as he continues to read his novel.
I’m still sore from the Gondola, but I wouldn’t mind if once Dante’s fingers finish flicking pages, he decides to use them on me instead.
Dante
The sun’s glow radiating from the leaves and flowers all through the vineyard isn’t even comparable to the gorgeous creature next to me. From the way light hits her cheekbones to how her smile somehow makes the day brighter, Nicole is the most beautiful
woman I’ve ever known.
As we walk to our scooter I’ve rented, our arms sway together in a gentle motion as our hands are locked together between us.
“Where are we off to now?” Nicole asks eagerly.
“The Piazza San Marco,” I answer.
She has a puzzled look on her face that tells me this wasn’t part of her research when she decided she’d be coming to Venice.
“St. Mark’s Square. It’s a really beautiful place. You won’t even believe your eyes,” I continue.
“Well, I can’t wait to see it,” she replies sincerely.
We hop onto the scooter, and her arms immediately wrap around my waist. I start the vehicle, and we zip through the beautiful streets of Venice, taking in each gorgeous sight as we pass it.
When we arrive at the Piazza San Marco, I hear Nicole gasping behind me. She quickly climbs from the back of the scooter and stands at the edge of the plaza, her feet planted together, just taking it all in.
I walk up to her, placing my arm around her hip and pulling her tightly against me.
“Are you ready for a closer look?” I suggest, eager to tour the plaza.
I slide my hand across her back and lace my fingers with hers as we walk through the intense architecture and admire the structures around us as we find our way over to St. Mark’s Basilica.
We’re surrounded by crowds of other tourists, as well as many locals, talking amongst themselves, remarking on the beauty of the building.
“Wow. A place this gorgeous from the outside has to be just as pretty on the inside, don’t you think? We’re going in, right?” Nicole remarks.
“Of course we are!” I exclaim as we start walking towards the entrance to the cathedral.
As soon as we set foot into the building, Nicole gasps again, and her mouth is covered by her free hand.
I study her face as we stand in the doorway, practically blocking those behind us, just frozen, staring at the perfection. She’s staring at the mosaics. I’m staring at her.
I keep retracing my steps in my head, figuring out how I ended up getting to experience this moment with this most amazing girl. I understand it all, but I still can’t believe it.