This is working land.
Like many estates in Bolgheri, the roads are unpaved, created by tractors and trucks. If you want to see fancy cars, this is not the wine country to find them in. Well, unless you count the black Range Rover Autobiography we arrived in.
I wasn’t meant to come here today, but when I found out that Chiara would be taking anIl Vino Vivemagazine editor and photographer to Pietra Alta, I knew I couldn’t let my wife be alone with her.
The article the editor is working on is about women winemakers in Italy, and of course, Chiara pitched Alessia Alighieri.
She’s already talking as we step out of the car, sunglasses on, phone in hand, relaying instructions to the photographer and the magazine’s editor.
The shoot is meant to be informal.
Authentic…a word that gets used a lot by people who don’t know what it means.
Chiara obviously doesn’t.
“Golden hour will be perfect here.” She gestures vaguely at the vines. “We want movement. Energy. Something,” she says with affect, “aspirational.”
I follow her gaze—and see my wife.
Alessia is halfway down a row of vines, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back in a low knot that exposes the back of her neck.
She’s speaking to one of the crew, gesturing toward a cluster she’s already marked with tape.
She hasn’t noticed us yet. But then she does and nods tightly, starts to walk toward us.
I know she received an email two days ago, warning her about the editor. She responded briefly:Thank you for your interest. We’re very busy, so as long as we don’t have to spend too much time with them, it’s not a problem.
Chiara had complained about it, saying that Alessia doesn’t understand PR.
She doesn’t.
She doesn’t have to.
She understands wine, and that’s all that matters at the House of Alighieri.
For a moment, I watch her without interruption. Without comparison. Without expectation.
She belongs here in a way I don’t belong anywhere.
“Ah,” the editor says brightly as Alessia finally looks up. “Is that…?”
Chiara steps forward smoothly. “She manages the estate.”
Alessia walks toward us, wiping her hands on her jeans. She looks resigned to see Chiara and surprised to see me.
I walk to her and kiss her cheek. That startles her, but she smiles at me, and it’s genuine.
“Hello, wife.”
That makes her chuckle. “Hello, husband. I was expectingthem,but not you.”
I slide an arm around her because I want to touch her. It’s a new desire. “I thought I’d accompany Chiara for your photoshoot.”
That stops her. She turns. “Myphotoshoot? I thought they were here to take pictures of the vine.”
“Is that why you’re dressed this way?” Chiara remarks, her eyes wide with disgust.
Alessia doesn’t seem to be affected by her harsh words, as I’d expect another woman to be.
