Page 15 of The Wrong Vintage
And still, a part of me wakes up at night and thinks, “What did I do wrong?"
The answer comes fast and cold:You exist in a world run by men, and you bartered the best you could.
Matteo watches me for a moment and then on a sigh says, “I have to go to Castello di Monteserra before heading to Florence.”
I nod. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
He nods, mutters something I can’t hear, and, with a wave of his hand, leaves.
“Alessia,” Edam yells as he waves at me from the far end. “The cab block is showing botrytis.”
I let out a laugh. “This time of the year?”
Lucia rolls her eyes. “He’s so dramatic!”
“I’ll take a look.”
I go toward the small rise where the vineyard meets the stone.
From here, you can see the whole estate—the main farmhouse with its pale walls and green shutters, the newer cellar building tucked behind it, half-hidden by cypress trees. Beyond that, the land rolls down toward the flatter coastal plains, and the faint blue stripe of the sea lies like a promise at the horizon.
I walk toward the parcel where we’re growing thecabernet sauvignon, the vines still young enough to look almost fragile against the Bolgheri light.
As I start back down the slope, my phone vibrates in my pocket again.
For a stupid, hopeful second, my body reacts, wondering if it’shim—if maybe he remembered his wife exists in Bolgheri, surrounded by grapes and silence.
I pull out the phone.
Alba:I have sent something over. Wear it.
I smile. My sister, the fashionista, always trying to dress me up because she knows I won’t…mostly because I don’t know how to. I’m grateful that she cares—grateful that she’s putting in an effort.
Another beep follows, and she continues:I wish I could be there, but I’m stuck here in Rome with a crisis. We need a new chef at Pietra Nera!
Pietra Nera, Black Stone, is one of our Michelin-starred restaurants near Piazza di Spagna. It is Alba’s baby as she built it from scratch and concept, and within a year of existence, it had already won a Michelin star. I’m so proud of her.
I use the voice function to send her a message:Don’t worry. I’ll somehow survive without you tonight.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and return to the rows, my mind on so much more than the vines that I don’t care about tonight.
But I do.
I’m nervous to see my husband for the first time since we married.
I look down at my hands.
Stained.
Nicked.
Not soft.
Not elegant.
Not the hands of the women in magazines my mother used to save—the wives of men like my father, smiling on balconies in silk, as if their lives were just a string of beautiful days.
My mother is gone. The women in those magazines look like ghosts to me now.
