Page 180 of The Wrong Vintage
“Yes.” I cup her cheek. “We do by learning. You’ll learn as you go. But there are things you already know, which means you will guide every vineyard with a light hand and a fierce eye, shaping strategy and nurturing talent just as Matteo did for you.”
She convinces me that living at the Palazzo makes sense—and is the right thing for our marriage, because it’s no longer a careful edifice we fear to crack—it’s a deliberate choice.
She leans into me, her forehead resting against my shoulder. I kiss her softly and then with intent. The heat rises between us as it always does. I can’t keep my hands off my wife.
“Hey, we’re having a meeting,” she protests.
I press my lips to her hair, breathing in her spice and warmth. “And I’m technically your boss, so do as I say.”
“And what do you say?” she asks, laughter in her eyes as she tugs me down for a kiss.
“I’ll give you proper direction shortly.”
I pick her up in my arms, bridal style, and take her to bed in the bedroom that is nowours.
As night drapes Florence in velvet blue, my beautiful wife and I seal a fracture—like a barrel bunged at precisely the right moment, the wine safe within, ready to become its truest self.
43
ALESSIA
A YEAR LATER
Another harvest has passed us, and the cellar breathes differently—softer, more intimate.
The rough-hewn limestone walls, once echoing with the harvest's frantic clamor, now cradle every muted drip of water like a lullaby whispered in the dark.
Footsteps here have lost their urgency.
Even the hush feels meditative, as if the very stones have sighed and settled into contentment. It's quiet—yet far from empty—brimming with the patient confidence of wine that knows the gift of time.
French oak barrels stand in solemn rows, their curved staves darkened by years of memory, their metal hoops mellowed to a burnished copper glow. On each rounded head, a date is chalked in soft white—imprints that feel both like yesterday's promise and a lifetime's vow kept.
I step forward and press my palm against the cool oak, feeling its gentle give, the wood swollen with secrets it has borne.
This was the vintage everyone declared impossible—days that blazed like a midsummer furnace, nights bone-dry and unrelenting, vines aching for a single drop of mercy. Too warm, too demanding, a year that asked infinitely more than it gave—until, in an almost miraculous crescendo, it surrendered something far greater.
The vintage that marked the start of my marriage—uncertain whether it would outlast the season.
Nico is a few paces away, jacket tossed over a wooden crate, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms dusted with the cellar's pale grit. He’s just gotten back from Florence and came straight to the cellar to find me. He always does that.
“You ready to taste some wine from the last harvest?” I ask him as I reach for the thief—the slender rod of polished steel—its weight cool and promising in my fingers.
He kisses me. “I can’t wait.”
He watches me with eyes that flicker between hope and reverence, as though I'm about to unveil a long-hidden treasure.
With a gentle twist, I ease the thief into the barrique’s bunghole.
Wine—deep as inked garnet—climbs the glass tube in a slow, molten ribbon, catching the ceiling light’s glow like molten ruby.
I release the sample into a glass, lift it, and swirl the liquid in lazy, loving circles.
Then, I inhale.
The aroma drifts into the cellar's humid hush.
Black cherry tangled with wild bramble, a hint of crushed violet, a trace of cedar from the young oak. Beneath it, the faint mineral pulse of warm stone. Every scent threads through the damp air, weaving a tapestry of all the elements of theterroir, carrying the promise of what time will deepen.
