“Splendid.”
“What do you think?” I say, spreading my arms as if to embrace the whole room. “It’s the most beautiful part of the property, besides the cellar, of course.”
“Actually I was referring to you, but yes, I like the winery too.”
This time I speak up, because otherwise I’ll have false hopes. Michael is showering me with compliments, and even though I’m an adult and practically immune, I’m not only listening for them a little too much, but liking them a little too much. “Please, Michael, that’s enough.”
“Enough, what?” he asks with an innocent tone that defies his earlier malice.
“Stop making fun of me. It was funny the first few times, but I don’t want to be the butt of your jokes while I’m trying to work.”
“Am I joking?”
“Sexy, splendid, exciting teacher dress ... Come on. I know very well what you think of me.”
“I assure you, you have no idea,” he replies. “But if I’m out of line, I’ll stop. Message received: No more personal compliments.”
“Thank you,” I reply, reassured. “Professional comments are more than welcome.”
He takes my arm, escorting me through the tunnel. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know so much work went into a bottle of wine.”
I can finally relax. “It’s normal. You don’t know how hard it is until you’re in it.” I listen to myself again, and Michael’s sidelong glance tells me that there is no way to escape this blatant double meaning. “Work,” I specify unnecessarily. “In the work.”
“I really appreciate your invitation to let me in,” he replies without hesitation. “To your work, of course.”
Michael and I walk solemnly in step between the two rows of barrels towering over us, as if we were walking down the nave of a cathedral, the sound of our footsteps reverberating against the vaulted ceiling.
“This is where the wine ages, right?”
“Matures,” I correct him. “Agingsounds like something is getting worse.Maturing, however, means it’s improving. In eight months, the acids and tannins balance; the wood barrels enrich the bouquet; and the oxygen that penetrates the oak stabilizes the wine.”
“Where are all the bottles?” he asks when we reach the end of the barrels. Michael’s voice reveals a sincere curiosity that amazes me and quickens my heartbeat. Not even the most pyrotechnic compliment can match a man who simply shows he’s listening.
“Here,” I reply, pointing to a wooden door with a worn look and a heavy latch. I unhook it and take one of the flashlights hanging on the wall. “Do you want to see where the magic happens?” I ask, pointing to a stone staircase that disappears down into the darkness.
“That’s the best part, isn’t it?”
“Nothing better.” We step inside, and I close the door behind us, plunging us into darkness. “There are no lights here. There’s nothing that can disturb the wine.” With a click, I turn on the flashlight, which illuminates a flight of worn stairs.
The staircase is long and narrow, and as we go down, the temperature gradually cools. When we reach the bottom, I illuminate theendless cellar with its low ceiling, one cross vault after another, the sides lined with wooden racks packed with bottles.
“Here’s the Chianti Classico Gallo Nero: One hundred thousand bottles come to rest here every year in the dark, cool, silence,” I say whispering. I take out a bottle of Count Ricasoli Riserva Oro and place it on a barrel where we keep the tasting kit. If I want to impress Michael, I have to uncork the best we have. “2015 was an excellent year,” I say, pouring it into two glasses. “The winery’s most prestigious selection.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?” he asks, taking the glass by the stem, his fingers near the base, giving me a mental orgasm. Practically everyone I see drinking wine holds the glass by the cup, unaware that heat from the hand alters the flavor.
“If I’m going to convince you that the company has great potential, you have to taste it for yourself, and the potential, right now, is in that glass. But yes, I’d also like to bribe you. Am I succeeding?”
“We shall see,” he replies cryptically.
We bring the glasses to our lips and take a sip, in silence, locking eyes in the dim light, our faces barely illuminated. God, why does it look like he’s thinking about anything but wine?
I wanted to impress him by reeling off tasting notes worthy ofWine Spectator, but everything I ever knew about wine analysis just went out the window. I could have drunk some flat Fanta and not realized it. “What do you think?” I ask him.
“Superb.”
“I’m responsible for all this,” I exclaim, exhilarated, taking the flashlight again and illuminating the cellar. “Time doesn’t exist here. Wine doesn’t care; you can’t rush it. Every second, every hour, every day, every year that passes, it improves.”
“I think you’ve improved,” he says out of nowhere, putting the glass down. Here we are again on that slippery ground from before. “In every way.”
