And then we took a walk in the clouds.
The fog lay at our feet, and as we cut through it, it almost seemed to be curious. It would move away but continue to hover.
“I can’t believe how…I’m not even sure ‘beautiful’ is the right word for what I’m seeing. It doesn’t look real, Rocco. It reminds me of a backdrop in Hollywood. I’ve never been, but Thandie went to San Francisco a couple of years ago. She brought me postcards and showed me pictures. She said none of it seemed real.”
“I prefer Napa,” he said. “I have been there quite a few times.”
“Tell me about it.”
He lifted my hand and kissed it, then pulled out two pairs of sunglasses from his pocket. Both glasses were in vintage style—his smaller and more masculine. The pair he set over my eyes had a gold design on the side, and all I could think was…high style.
“I will take you there instead.”
“That’s…” I’d never known what it felt like to travel on a whim, but I had a feeling I was going to get accustomed to it. No place was too far or too expensive. “I can’t wait.”
He grinned at me and opened the door to one of the barrel rooms where his private stock was, then he motioned for me to go in ahead of him.
The scent of wooden barrels permeated the cool air. It was a bit dark, so Rocco left the door ajar to let light in. He led me to a private room and held out what seemed like a hand-carved, ornate chair for me. The table could sit probably fifty, and its details matched the carving on the chairs.
Rocco disappeared into a room and came right back out, handing me an empty wine bottle. My eyes read over the label. A calligraphy pen with a beautiful purple quill caught my eye first, then the name of the Barbera wine:Aria Amora Bella.
My eyes rose to meet my husband’s.
He touched the spot over his heart. “That one is for me. For me to consume only.”
“You named a wine after me?” I whispered.
“If the world was mine to name, I would name it after you.”
“Rocco…”
He handed me another bottle. This one was older, with cobwebs on it. The label was still in place, but cracks throughout showed visible time and wear. The calligraphy pen and quill on the old bottle were the same as the one Rocco had designed for me, but the name was different. The name on the older bottle was missing my middle name.
He tapped the glass. “This is why I wanted this place to begin with. This Barbera is my favorite, and I sampled this wine in this room before I ever laid eyes on you. After, I could not get this place out of my mind. Thoughts of it haunted me. The drifting fog, or the clouds as you call them, the way the grapes shine in the new morning light, how peaceful my soul feels here at night after a day of connecting with my roots…my life has always been leading me to you, Amora.Signs. Signs have always been in my path.”
“For me too.” The weight of the moment and what it meant, what I’d known from the moment I’d seen him in the window of thecastelloon the island I shared a name with…stole my breath. I knew life had been leading me to him all along, but to hold the proof in my hand was something else entirely. It brought my life into focus like never before.
He set a hand on my shoulder, and automatically, even if my mouth couldn’t form the right words, my hand went to his. “For my brother and his wife,” he said, “it has always been pears that led to the beginning of their love.”
“And for us,” I whispered, using my finger to wipe some of the dirt off the dark glass bottle, “it’s grapes. Grapes and towers.”
“For us.” He breathed out. “It isil uvaandtorri.”
“Rocco?” I whispered, and he squeezed my hand in response. “Who named this wine?”
He took a knee in front of me, and when my eyes connected with his, he cleared his throat. “Your great-aunt and my great-uncle.”
“Avelina and Ricco.”
He nodded. “Avelina and Ricco.” What he did to her name made it sound so beautiful, it became a song.Ave-leeena.
I set the vintage bottle of wine on the table carefully and slowly turned to face my husband. He was still down on one knee. “I keep thinking,believing—” I clasped the cross around my neck “—that our love story will end differently. If I can change it for her, I can change it for us.”
“Amora,” he whispered, “although we seem to be continuing a war they started, we are not Avelina and Ricco. We are Aria and Rocco.”
“I know.” I rubbed my finger against the warmth of the gold. The room felt like it was suddenly turning cold. “But I can’t help but feel that our stories are intersecting because of what happened back then. The Fausti family doesn’t forget.”
“No,” he agreed. “We do not.”
