Page 31 of The Wrong Vintage
"Fact two," Toni adds, raising her beer, "you are sitting in the most beautiful place on the estate, drinking Franciacorta."
I laugh then—really laugh—and it surprises me how good it feels, how necessary. “Is there a fact three?”
“Yes,” Alba confirms softly. “You’re talking to the two people who love you most in this world.”
My heart lightens at those words. "True."
Toni grins. "Also, can we just acknowledge that your husband is texting you about wine? That's not nothing. That's foreplay."
"That is absolutely not foreplay," I protest.
"It’s adjacent," Toni insists. "Very niche."
"You're nuts," I state, bemused.
"And you love us," Alba says gently.
"I do," I confess.
The light shifts across the lawn, shadows stretching longer between the rows, and for the first time all day, the tightness inside me eases just a little.
"Thank you," I murmur.
"For what?" Toni asks.
"For reminding me"—I take a deep breath—"that even if my marriage feels empty right now, my life isn't."
Alba lifts her glass. "To that."
Toni raises her beer. "To not letting men ruin perfectly good evenings."
I lift my Franciacorta and gently tap it against the screen.
Lucia comes by after the call with dinner.
She lives in a cottage on the estate, and I know that these days she sleeps more often at Edam's place than at hers—but they're both pretending they aren't together, and I'm happy to wait for them to announce it. I understand the need to keep something like this private—to nourish it.
I haven't had many relationships—a couple in college that were charming in their intensity, and they made me sad when they ended, but not for long.
I haven't been in love, not like Alba, who has. She doesn'ttalk about it much, but she did tell me she was done with relationships and men.
"Alessia, people who say it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all are full of shit."
Unlike Alba, who will have a one-night stand or a week-long affair, I have been circumspect about who I share my body with. There have been a few lovers in my life—and each one meant something to me.
"So…is he coming this weekend?" Lucia asks me as she pours me a glass of one of our Chianti Classicos.
She's made lasagna. Simple. Nourishing.
Usually, we get dinner from the restaurant that is connected to the tasting room. But it's closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, and we have to fend for ourselves. I like to cook even if it is just for me, but it's been a busy Monday.
I lift a shoulder and let it drop. "I have no idea."
She nods.
Lucia is thirty, a year older than me, and in many ways she's like me—the eldest daughter, who had to carry more responsibility than her younger siblings. She also studied winemaking and has been working in vineyards since her mid-teens. She joined Tenuta Pietra Alta four years ago as cellar manager, around the same time I took over primary winemaking responsibility for our Chardonnay and Cabernet Sauvignon blocks. We became friends almost immediately, partly I think because of our similar histories.
She tilts her head. "You want him here."
