Page 169 of The Wrong Vintage
Our cabin is intimate in a way only old luxury can be—polished wood, brass fixtures glinting in the soft light, and crisp white linens folded with a precision that speaks of a time when elegance was paramount.
The air is thick with the perfume of leather and fresh flowers, a sensory delight that welcomes us into its embrace.
“Just leave your bags,” I tell her. “They’ll unpack.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “But then they’ll see all my sexy lingerie.”
I kiss her soft and sweet. “Dolcezza, I am hoping you’re wearing that lingerie and don’t have it packed.”
She gives me a shy smile. “You’ll have to find out, won’t you?”
While our bags are unpacked, sexy lingerie and all, we go into the dining car and it feels like stepping into a dream—a realm where elegance reigns supreme.
White tablecloths drape over polished mahogany, the soft glow of crystal chandeliers casting a warm light that dances across the faces of the guests.
Each table is adorned with delicate China and silverware that glints invitingly, while the soft murmur of conversation creates a soothing background hum, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses.
The train begins to move, and a gentle swaying sensation envelops us, as if the train itself is cradling us in its arms. The rhythmic sound of the wheels gliding over the tracks becomes a soothing melody, harmonizing with the soft jazz playing in the background, creating a cocoon of intimacy that feels almost sacred.
“Is this as good as you imagined?” I ask.
“It’s better than the movie with Johnny Depp,” she teases.
“Cara, are you trying to make me jealous?”
She leans in, eyes bright. “Is it working?”
I take a deep breath and savor her closeness. “I know you’re mine and I’m yours.”
Her eyes filled with emotion. “Si.”
Dinner is a feast of culinary artistry that transforms each plate into a canvas.
The first course arrives, an exquisite arrangement of vibrant colors—a salad of heirloom tomatoes, drizzled with arich balsamic reduction, paired with creamy burrata that melts in your mouth.
Alessia’s eyes widen in wonder as she takes in the presentation.
“But is the wine pairing going to be worth it?” she muses.
“Oh, I think so.”
And it is.
I told the barman to not serve us any Alighieri wines. I want us to be free of the company, at least for a night.
“I can’t believe you remembered and made this happen.” She’s still in awe, as she savors each bite, the flavors dancing on her palate.
“I’d do anything for you,cara,” I tell her, my heart swelling with emotion.
The main course follows—a sumptuous duck breast, perfectly seared and served with a cherry reduction that glistens like rubies against the white China.
As she takes her first bite, her eyes close momentarily, lost in the rich, savory notes that unfold. It’s a sight that fills me with joy; I want her to experience the fullness of this moment, to know what it means to indulge in life’s pleasures.
“Is this what heaven feels like?” There’s a playful glimmer in her eyes as she raises her glass, filled with a deep red wine that sparkles under the soft light. French, not Alighieri, not even Italian.
“Only if you let it,” I reply, clinking my glass against hers, feeling the warmth of her smile radiate through the air.
With every course, the world outside the train blurs into a watercolor of lights and shadows, the passing landscapes a backdrop to our unfolding connection.
