Page 13 of The Wrong Vintage
He crouches to study the spacing between shoots. “You’re dropping too much fruit beforeveraison?”
His concern is valid.Veraisonis that brief turning point when the grapes soften, deepen in color, and the vines begin the slow work of ripening.
But for me, there is no hesitation.
“I’d rather sacrifice yield than compromise concentration.”
He grunts, which is as close to approval as Matteo ever comes. “What’s your target?”
“Five tons per hectare,” I answer without hesitation. “No more than five and a half on the lower parcels if the soils hold.”
His brows lift a fraction. We both know last year we pushed closer to eight.
He studies the row again, running his thumb over a berry, splitting it lightly to check the seeds. “And alcohol?”
“Fourteen, maybe fourteen-two if September stays dry.” I tilt my head and think about it for a moment. “But balanced. I’m watching acidity closely. If nights hold below eighteen degrees, we’ll preserve enough freshness to carry the structure.”
He straightens slowly. “And if the heat spikes?”
“I’ll drop another pass beforeveraison,” I reply confidently. “I’d rather lose ten percent of the crop than end up correcting in the cellar. No watering down.”
Silence settles between us, thick with appraisal. His lips twitch into a travesty of a smile. “You’re thinking ahead.”
“I’m thinking about twenty years from now,” I correct because I know he expects me to. “Altèra isn’t a wine for next spring. It’s a wine someone will open when they’re celebrating something that took time.”
He nods and smiles widely.
I passed a test.
Everything is a test with Matteo.
“Wine is made with scissors as much as barrels.” He takes a bunch in his hand and turns it slightly. “You have a good head for wine, Alessia.”
Praise from Matteo is rare, and I cellar it like a prized vintage, saving it for the moments I doubt myself.
He looks down the row at the crew. “How are you sleeping?”
He doesn’t ask how the work is. He knows how the work is. He watches it in my posture, in my choices, in the way I walk the rows. He asks about sleep because it’s the only question he can ask without saying the wordmarriage.
“Matteo,” I protest. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Alessia,” he snaps.
My hands still, the shears pause midair.
In this way, he and my father are alike. They don’t cajole, they order.
“I sleep fine, Matteo,” I mutter, frustrated. “I sleep alone.”
“Idiota!” he swears. “He’s still not been here?”
“He’s busy with the merger.” I’m not defending Nico…or maybe I am, who the hell knows anymore.
He gives me the look he reserves for lies that insult him.
I stare down at the bucket. “What is it you want me to say?”
Matteo’s mouth tightens. “You’re due in Florence tonight.”
