Page 59 of The Wrong Vintage
They’re game planning harvest.
Alessia nods, thoughtful. “But the Cab Franc up there is holding acidity better. Night temperatures dropped more than forecast.” She taps the screen. “See? The diurnal swing has been sharper this week.”
Edam grins. “You trust the data over your eyes?”
“I trust both,” she replies. “But the data keeps me from lying to myself.”
I stop a few steps away.
She looks up and notices me, a faint surprise crossing her face before it softens into something shy.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice still rough with sleep.
Edam straightens. “Good morning.”
“We’re reviewing harvest sequencing,” Alessia explains.
“Looks riveting,” I say honestly.
Edam chuckles. “It is. Alessia thinks in three dimensions. Makes the rest of us look lazy.”
Alessia ducks her head slightly at that, embarrassed, and gestures toward the table. “Coffee?”
I notice the French press then—half full, steam still ghosting up from the spout. She pours without asking.
She sets a mug in front of me, then lifts the dome off a plate of jam-filled crostata slices.
“Lucia stole them from the tasting room.”
Edam glances between us and smiles to himself. “I’ll leave you to it. We’ll finalize the pick order this afternoon.”
Alessia nods. “Thank you.”
When we’re alone, the quiet settles comfortably between us. There is no awkwardness.
“I’m going to work from here today,” I tell her, lifting the coffee. “Renzo will dial in later. I’ll set up under the pergola.”
She smiles hesitantly, as if she doesn’t trust me, us. “I’ll be in the vines most of the morning.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
The ease of it startles me.
Two people making plans.
Overlapping days.
Life.
God, but I want her!
She sees something in my eyes, which makes her take a step back. “I should…I should?—"
Oh no, wife, you’re not running away.
