“You look beautiful. And it’s fine. I know the owner.”
“Okay. Vale,” Carla agrees, reaching for my hand.
And I like that she reaches for me. That she is beginning to show the same affection I freely give her. This weekend feels like more than just camp preparation. It feels like the start of something big and meaningful.
Carla guides me down the hill and I follow, enjoying the view of her in my home, surrounded by my father’s favorite vineyard. I invested heavily in it, purchasing half of the company several years ago.
As we step into the main building, the woman behind the bar turns and a beatific smile crosses her face. Her hair is more gray than black now and she looks smaller than I remember, but her eyes dance. “Luca, Luca. Bentornata a casa.” Welcome home.
“Grazie, Angela.” I approach the bar. “Carla, this is Angela. Her great-grandfather started this vineyard in 1889. Angela, meet Carla.”
“È la tua ragazza?” Is she your girl?
I blush and Angela chuckles, clapping her hands together. She rounds the bar and embraces Carla, kissing both her cheeks. “Piacere di conoscerti.” Nice to meet you.
“Il piacere è mio,” Carla replies, her Italian perfect. The pleasure is mine.
“Ah, there he is!” Angela’s grandson, Pepe, appears, carrying a crate of wine bottles.
“Good to see you, Pepe.” I pull him in for a hug once he places the crate down.
“You too.” He turns toward Carla and introduces himself. Then, he asks, “You want to try some wine?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Carla laughs.
Pepe’s expression warms as he rubs his hands together. “Excellent. Come, sit over here. I’ll take care of them, Nonna. You go rest.”
Angela nods and kisses her grandson’s cheek. She pats me affectionately on the shoulder, giving it a little squeeze, before meandering out of the room.
We turn our attention to Pepe. Carla leans in as he spins a compelling tale of the vineyard’s, and his family’s, history. It’s all true but Pepe shares it with enthusiasm, so much so, that Carla is hanging onto his every word, enthralled by the family scandals and hardships over the years.
“And now…?” Carla asks as Pepe nears the end of his tale.
“And now, we drink,” he says, flourishing two wineglasses and placing them in front of us.
Carla laughs.
“Our first wine is a Chianti Classico. You know, Chianti Classico can only be from this region?” Pepe asks, showing Carla the wine bottle. “On the bottle, it’s marked by this seal.” He taps the black rooster. “Il Gallo Nero. And it must be made from at least eighty percent of Sangiovese grapes.”
Carla smacks her lips. “Chianti Classico is my favorite. You know, I always got headaches when I drank Chianti in the States. But that never happens when I’m back in Italy.”
“Ah,” Pepe sighs. “This is mainly from the additives. I promise, this won’t leave you with a headache.” He pours her a small amount and steps back as he waits for her to try it.
Carla tests the wine like an expert and pride shines from Pepe’s eyes, as if he had a hand in turning her into a wine connoisseur. But I like seeing her relaxed and enjoying the afternoon.
We’ve never spent this much time together away from our daily routines and commitments. For the first time, we can just be.
“Mm,” Carla murmurs, placing down her glass. “It’s delicious.”
“Sí,” Pepe agrees, pouring us each a full glass. His phone rings a moment later and he holds up a finger. “I need to take this.” His eyes cut to mine.
I wave him away. “I got it.”
“Grazie, Luca.” He slips around the bar and out the front door.
When I turn toward Carla, she’s spun closer to me. Her knees are pressed together and when I turn my barstool my knees bracket her thighs.
She looks beautiful, with her braided ponytail resting over one shoulder, strands of hair framing her face. She lifts her wineglass. “Thank you for taking me here, Luca.”
