“This wine is notfine.It is a gift from God—if I were a religious man, of course.”
“I mean, I’ll have more, if that’s what you’re getting at.”I finished what was in my glass and held the empty vessel out for more.“Don’t dump the bottle out or anything.”I waggled the glass.
Grinning wide enough to cause dimples to form beneath his salt-and-pepper scruff, he shook a finger at me in mock scolding as he poured me more.“I would be less outraged if you condemned the pope,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart.
Of course, he was being just as playful as I was and winked at Sam when she got up from her spot on the floor and came over—with Portia on her heels—to take a sip of my wine.
Our philosophy at home with all the kids was that if it wasn’t treated like this “forbidden” thing, they would be less likely to abuse it.We allowed them sips of ours to try, and on special occasions, a half glass of sparkling wine.We’d rather they develop an appreciation and respect for alcohol, and not think of it as some prohibited fruit they need to abuse later.Also, they all worked for us in some capacity, so they needed to know what they were selling and harvesting.
Tom didn’t bat an eye at Sam trying my wine.Then again, I’m sure children enjoying a glass of wine at dinner was pretty standard in Italy.
“That’s good,” Sam said.“I taste cherries.”She smacked her lips together.“And … licorice?”
Tom nodded.“Molto bene.Very good.”He turned the bottle over to read the back.“This aged Brunello has notes of chocolate, cherry, and anise.”
“What are we drinking?”I asked, taking the glass from Sam and having another sip.
“Brunello di Montalcino.One hundred percent Sangiovese.It has Italy’s highest DOCG classification.”The pride in his voice made me want to giggle, but I hid my smirk behind another sip.
“What’s that?”Sam asked.
“A classification system of wine in Italy,” I told her, affectionately running my hand down the back of her head.“Heavy quality control, strict rules on production methods, grape ripeness, aging, and there is mandatory government tasting before bottling.”
“Do we have that here?”she asked.
I shook my head.“Not as rigid.But sort of.We have the Wine Appellation of Origin, but it lacks the guarantee of quality assurance like the one in Italy.”
Tom nodded.“I have yet to try an American wine I welcomed into my stomach.”That made me snort.He took a sip from his glass, swirled it around in his mouth, closed his eyes, and let it slide down his throat, smiling the whole time.Then he glanced at me.“I have not tried your wine yet though.”
“Our wine is good,” my daughter put in, reaching onto the veggie platter Tom had put out and taking a bite of a carrot.“Can we bring him some tomorrow, Mom?”
I had to laugh at my child and how much she’d come out of her shell around Tom.It was wonderful to see, and I didn’t want to discourage it at all.But we’d been over here every day, and the last thing I wanted to do was overstay our welcome or become a nuisance.He’d carefully curated his peaceful, private life here, and ever since we showed up, it’d been anything but either of those things.
Sam picked up another piece of carrot.“Can I give this to Portia?”
“Si,” Tom said, bobbing his head.“She will love you more than me by the end of the night, I am sure.”
Sam brought the carrot stick back into the living room and used it as an incentive to get the pig to sit.
“I will try your wine, Danica.”His eyes bored into mine, pulling my attention away from my child and the pig.“I cannot promise you that I will like it.But I will try it.”
I put the wineglass to my lips again.“Trying is good.Trying is … important.”
I took another sip, and he did the same.Our eyes locked as we each let my words settle between us.Heat blossomed in my belly like an unfurling lily, and I swallowed the wine.
“Tomorrow is Friday,” he said, still holding my gaze.“Come back for dinner.”Then he brought his voice down low.“Just you.”
And before I could answer, he turned, showed me his broad back, and began pushing the gnocchi around in the cast iron pan, humming softly as he sipped his wine and tapped his bare foot to a song in his head.
In just one week, Tommaso Barone had done the impossible.He’d brought my daughter out of her shell, cared for me like no man ever had, made me feel things I’d never felt before, and most importantly, had me thinking about the future beyond what it would look like for just Sam and me.Could we welcome someone else into our world?Would it work?
I had no idea, but as I watched Tom casually sauté the gnocchi, and my daughter belly laugh in the living room with Portia, I had the sneaking suspicion that a life like this, with these three, would be as delicious as the wine in my glass.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tommaso
“Ciao,”IsaidtoDanica and Sam as I stood on the bottom step of my porch later that night, watching them walk to their car in the dark.
