by Amy Patrick
And I might be able to think straight again.
Macy was different on the ride—quiet and standoffish—as if our pleasant dinner conversation, our shared laughter from last night had never happened. I tried a few times to get conversation going, but she gave me short answers and kept her gaze trained out the window at the passing Tuscan countryside. Something had changed overnight, and it bothered me.
Finally, as we neared the winery, she spoke. “Oh, we’re here. That sign said Chianti—I know that word. It’s wine, right?”
“It’s the name for this whole region, and yes, there are many vineyards and wineries here—including my family’s. Look.” I pointed to the chateau cresting the hill before us. “We are here.”
We took the narrow, winding drive up to the main house. It had once been another residence for my family but now was devoted exclusively to our winemaking business. The only people living here now were our vine master, Romigi, and his wife, Teodora.
He stepped out of the side door and onto the drive, lifting a hand in greeting. His smiling, wrinkled face carried with it my earliest memories from childhood. Unlike my father and mother, who were usually busy with affairs of the Court, Romigi had always found time for a curious young boy and his never-ending questions.
In summers when school was out, I had stayed here for months at a time, learning to make barrels out of oak and steel strips, “helping” Romigi check the grapes, and when the viniculture lessons became tedious and the outdoors beckoned, playing hide and seek among the vines. At the end of the day, Romigi had always been there with his glass of port and his history books, content to sit with me before the fire and tell me stories for hours about ancient Rome and medieval times.
“Is this the man you needed to see?“ Macy asked, staring at the stooped old gentleman. “Who is he? Your grandfather?” For the first time today, she smiled.
I blinked in surprise—at her smile but also at her question. Romigi was human. But of course, Macy didn’t know any better. When I thought of it, the old man was more like a grandfather to me than my own father’s father was. My real grandfather was a serious, rather forbidding man who lived in Rome, as busy with Dark Council business as he’d taught his own son to be. My mother’s parents lived on Corsica but preferred their mountain villa to the palace. They were extremely old and had never taken to court life. I didn’t see them often.
“We are not related. He’s just a dear old friend,” I said.
I got out of the car and went around to open Macy’s door for her. She’d already gotten out before I reached her, and I led her to my old mentor, who threw his arms around me, hugging me tight. For her sake, I introduced Macy in English.
“Romigi, this is my friend Macy. She’s American.”
“Ah! Belissima. Welcome, welcome. Nicolo never brings a girl to meet me before.” He tapped her cheek. “You must be special. Such bright eyes.”
“Oh, no,” Macy argued. “We’re not… together. We’ve got business in Florence, and Nic’s just helping me.”
Either not hearing or not believing, Romigi ignored her words and pulled her tiny hand into the crook of his arm, patting it. “Come with me, little bright eyes. We will get you a drink and some aperitivo. You must be hungry.”
I followed behind, smiling and shaking my head. Always the caretaker, Romigi hadn’t changed—internally anyway. On the outside he’d aged considerably since I’d last seen him. I wanted to kick myself for going so long without visiting. Between my duties for my father and my football career, it had been nearly two years since I’d been back here. And unlike me and my biological family members, Romigi’s time was limited.
“Would you like a tour, belissima? Romigi will show you where the best wine in the world is created.”
Macy beamed at him, instantly charmed. “I had some last night—at dinner. It was amazing. And Nic tells me you make a dessert wine, too?”
“Oh yes. We will open a bottle and have some cannoli or perhaps some biscotti.”
Macy laughed. “Oh, it’s a bit early in the day for me. Some water would be fine. Or tea if you have it.”
Romigi stopped and gestured toward the fields and vineyards spread out below us like a quilt in varying shades of green. “Luncheon without wine is like a day without sunshine. You will have some of Romigi’s wine, and you will see it is never too early. Or too late.”
He laughed the familiar, raspy laugh that had underscored some of the happiest memories of my life, but the laughter turned into a wracking cough. I stepped forward and patted him on the back.
“Are you well, my friend?”
He nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not to worry. I am old. And old men have weak lungs. Come inside, come inside, and we will see what there is for you to eat. Teodora will be overjoyed to see you and meet tua ragazza.”
Apparently Macy recognized the Italian word for girlfriend.
“Oh, but I’m not—”
I touched her arm and shook my head with a wink, whispering, “It’s okay. Once he gets an idea in his head, there is no dislodging it. Just go with it.”
Inside the kitchen I experienced another rush of memories. The scents of fresh-baked bread, briny olives, and lemons lingered in the air like friendly phantoms. Teodora stood with her back to us, slicing something on her ancient wooden cutting board. Hearing the door shut behind us, she turned, and her eyes flew open wide.
“Nicolino!” She dried her hands quickly on her apron and rushed toward me, pulling me into a soft, heavily padded embrace. She spoke to me in Italian, declaring over my size, my handsomeness, how wrong it was of me to stay away for so long and not call or write. Her eyes turned to Macy and took on a knowing gleam.
“Ah ha ha. You have been a busy boy. Who is this little flower?”
“This is Macy. She’s visiting from America, and she had an issue with her passport. I’m helping her. We’re on our way to Florence, but I wanted to stop here first and see you.”
“And a good thing for you, you did. Teo would never forgive you if she didn’t get the chance to see you and fatten you up a little.” She slapped at my stomach. “Too thin. Always with the running and the kicking of the ball. I watch you on the television, and I tell Romigi—he is too thin. He needs a big plate of pappardelle.”
I laughed, transported back in time ten years to when a younger version of Teodora shoveled pasta into my mouth every time I set foot in the house, claiming to need a taste-tester.
“Okay, okay. You know, I was thinking of taking Macy out to the grove on the hilltop for a picnic.”
“Bellisimo. That is perfect. She must see the view there. I will make a basket for you. Tell Romigi to get you a bottle of the—ah, there he is.”
Romigi walked into the kitchen with a wine bottle in one hand and three large glasses in the other. “Come and sit on the terrace. We will talk and catch up, and I can get to know this American.” He said the last word in a disparaging tone, but it was clear he was joking. His wizened smile made sure she realized it as well.
“If you don’t mind, could I use your powder room first?” Macy asked.
Romigi and Teodora’s blank looks were quickly replaced by understanding. “Ah, yes, of course. You wish to freshen up. Come with me. I show you,” the old woman said, heading for the hallway to the back of the house at a waddling slow pace.
“See you in a minute,” Macy said, giving me a shy smile and a little wave.
She certainly didn’t need any freshening up from my perspective. She was beautiful, and she hadn’t stopped smiling since we’d arrived at the winery. I was relieved to see her in better spirits. My gaze trailed her down the hall until she turned the corner and disappeared.
I followed Romigi out onto the terrace, which overlooked some of the vines. “How is it this year?”
“A good season so far. Your father should be pleased with the yield. So…” He leaned back in his chair and cut his faded eyes over at me. “This girl… she is importa
nt, no?”
I returned his glance but then shifted my attention to the dusty floor. “No, my friend. She is just passing through.”
It was true. She wanted to leave me as soon as possible. And she was human. And I was betrothed. Macy couldn’t be important in my life. I couldn’t allow it.
“She had the misfortune of running into someone who brought her to the castle and got her mixed up in my fan pod,” I explained. “I’m… helping her.”
He nodded and swirled the ruby colored liquid in his glass, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. “I see. And what does your father say about that?”
“He doesn’t know, of course.”
He nodded again. Sipped again. “I have always thought, there is no happenstance in life. You say she ‘ran into someone.’ I say—maybe she come there for a reason.” He gestured a large, wrinkled hand toward the vines in their neat rows. “The earth, it is there for a reason—not simply to be walked on but to produce. The rain—it falls to make things grow, and the sun—it gives us light and feeds the plants, keeps the air warm and good for growing. Everything has its purpose. You do. I do—mine is to grow the grapes and turn them into beautiful wine that makes people happy. This girl—she does, too. Maybe her purpose is to make you happy. Maybe she is the one who will set you free.”
“Set me free?” I shook my head at him, confused. Had his mind deteriorated along with his aging body?
He tapped a thick finger over his heart. “In here. You were always a responsible child. Always helping, always trying to please—your father, your mother—me. But some people you cannot please. And some responsibilities are best left uncarried.”
“What are you saying? That I should just walk away from my position and duty? And what does that have to do with Macy? How can she ‘set me free?’ She can’t even get herself free. That’s why I decided to help her. I’m taking her to Florence to get her a new passport, and then I’m going to give her some money, drive her to an airport, and watch as she gets on a plane back to America.”
“Okay, okay.” He lifted two hands and pressed down on the air in front of him. “I see I upset you. You don’t like to talk about it. But maybe you think about it, huh? I just wish for your happiness, that is all. You know Teo and I never have kids, so you are like our little boy. I’d like to know you are settled and content in this life before I leave it.”
I hated the thought of the world without Romigi in it, though I knew it would happen someday. My people were immortal—one of the many reasons we didn’t usually form close bonds with humans, who expired relatively quickly. It was why I’d eventually accepted what had happened with Mariana was for the best.
“That is a long way away my friend,” I said, banishing the troubling thought. But the expression on Romigi’s face caused me to double-take. “Wait? Is something going on?” I leaned forward in my chair, gripping his arm.
He placed a large, rough hand atop mine and patted. “No, no. Romigi is strong like an ox. You don’t worry about me.” At my tightened grip he patted again, his voice gravelly and reassuring. “But eventually I will have to leave you, my boy. No one knows when their time is up. A few years here, there—it is no difference. You are a man now. You have your own life. You will have your own family. I have taught you everything I know. You’re ready.” He paused. “I just hope you won’t be alone. I want for you what I have had with my Teo.”
I tried to smile for him, but it might have appeared more like a grimace. “I am betrothed, you know. She’s Italian.”
He nodded. “Yes, I know. But does she make your heart dance?”
I pulled my hand away and sat back in my chair. “No one can do that.”
“Someone did once. I am old but I still remember.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I scowled at the rolling countryside where Mariana and I used to play, and later, where we walked hand in hand.
“I was young and foolish then,” I said.
“And now you are wise because you no longer believe in love?” He reached up and stroked his grizzled chin. “That girl’s purpose in your life was to show you the opposite, to show you love does exist—even for your kind.”
“How much do you know about us?”
He nodded. “Enough. Your father has never discussed it with me, of course, but I see things.”
“Then you know Mariana wasn’t of my kind. And neither is Macy.”
He slid a mischievous glance over at me. “And your heart when you’re with her? Does it dance?”
The door opened, and Macy stepped out onto the terrace. Damn if my heart didn’t jump up and start tapping.
11
Nic
“Look what Teodora made for us,” Macy exclaimed, lifting a picnic basket nearly as large as herself. Teo followed close behind her.
I leapt from my chair to take the heavy basket. “Excellent. I’m starved. Shall we go?”
I didn’t want to answer any more of Romigi’s questions, and I definitely didn’t want to give him the chance to engage Macy in a discussion of love lives of the rich and Elven.
“But you haven’t even had a chance to visit yet,” Macy said.
“You will sit and tell us about what you’ve been doing with your life, or I will get a switch from the garden and take it to your backside and you will not be able to sit for a long time,” Teo threatened. “You are not so big,” she added.
I chuckled, remembering the sting of her switch on those rare occasions she’d used one on me. No doubt I’d deserved it much more often. “You’re right. We have some catching up to do.”
I sat back down, and Romigi gestured for Macy to take the chair next to him. He and Teo asked her about her home and family, her backpacking adventures. She was bright and open with them, making me realize how cautious she normally was around me. She still didn’t trust me.
Soon the topic of discussion turned to embarrassing stories of my childhood. After about an hour, I couldn’t stand any more. I was about ready to start making our excuses for departure, but Macy was still enrapt in the discussion.
“Nicolino was always underfoot, hoping for a cookie,” Teo informed her. “That was until he met Mariana—then we could never find him.”
I shot out of my chair as she laughed and Romigi joined her, nodding his head. Macy gave me a curious glance. Time to go.
“I’m afraid we really must get to Florence this afternoon,” I said. “Which means Macy and I should go ahead and eat before it gets too late. I’ll come back in a few days for a longer visit.”
“Make sure he gives you the tour of the historic district in Florence,” Romigi advised Macy on our way out. “No one knows more about the architecture of the city than Nicolo. Except for maybe me.” He chuckled.
“I’ll do that and have her thoroughly bored within an hour. Teo, thank you for this.” I lifted the basket, leaned down, and kissed the older woman’s plump cheek. “We will see you in a while, yes?”
She beamed. “No hurry. Lunch should be enjoyed, not hurried. We teach you this as a boy, but these days you do everything fast.”
I laughed. “Okay, we’ll eat slowly. I promise.”
Leading Macy from the house, I pointed out the barn, the wine cellar, and the stables.
“I like seeing you like this,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know—different. Happier. You seem lighter here, free or something.”
I took in a deep breath of air scented with freshly cut grass and caper flowers. “I do love this place. Good memories—mostly.”
“Who’s Mariana?” she asked, astute as ever.
“Nobody. Just one of the neighborhood children.”
She glanced around. “Where did Bardo and Piero go?”
“They are nearby, down in the village. They know we are safe here. I told them to take a break.”
“When? I didn’t see you talk to them.”
Ah. Something else I could not explain to her. One
more reason not to give in to the feelings that were starting to rear their inconvenient heads.
“It was a text,” I lied. My phone hadn’t left my pocket since we debarked the ferry, but she nodded and seemed satisfied with my answer.
Reaching the hilltop vista, I spread the quilt Teodora had provided over the grass and clover. Smiling, Macy sat down and stretched her legs out, kicking off her sandals and tugging the bottom of her dress down to cover her thighs. She gazed out over the valley, taking in the panorama of olive groves and grape vines planted in symmetrical patterns on the rolling hills.
“Wow. It is gorgeous here.”
“Yes. It is,” I said, not looking at the landscape but enjoying the view afforded by her short skirt instead. My heart did something that was very nearly a tarantella. Damn it. And damn Romigi, the meddling old goat.
I turned my attention to the basket. Hunger had been my excuse to get Macy away from the house but it hadn’t been a lie. My belly grumbled like thunder.
“Let’s see what we have here. Ah—you have to taste this bread. Teo makes the best focaccia in Tuscany. And Tordelli Versiliesi. She’s spoiling us.”
“Oh that sounds so good. And the fruit and yogurt I had for breakfast has completely worn off. I definitely need to eat something before I have any more of that wine you people are pouring like water around here.”
“When in Chianti,” I said with a laugh. I uncorked the bottle Romigi had tucked into the basket and poured two glasses, then dug into the focaccia while Macy did the same. After eating several slices of bread and some cheese, she finally lifted her glass and took a sip.
“I can’t believe how much I like this.”
“You are not a wine drinker then?”
She shook her head. “Not really. You are, clearly. You must know a lot about it.”
“From grape to glass,” I said and raised mine to hers for a toast.
“So I take it you spent a lot of time here as a kid?”