“I’m dressed this way because I’m working, Chiara. Isn’t that why you’re dressed the way you are?” She waves a hand at Chiara’s ensemble. A skirt suit. Heels. Highly inappropriate for trekking around a vineyard.
Respect flares inside me.
Alessia Alighieri may be the plain sister who shies away from the media and keeps her own counsel, but she knows how to stand her ground.
It is unexpected.
The editor gestures toward his photographer. “We’d love a few shots of you working the vine,” he says to Alessia. Then, hesitating, “I assume you work here. Do you assist with the vineyards directly, or…?”
The unfinished question hangs between them.
Alessia steps out of my half-embrace without drama and approaches him. She extends her hand, calm and composed, and it dawns on me then that Chiara never bothered tointroduce her at all. It’s careless at best. Deliberate at worst. And unlike her.
“I’m Alessia Alighieri.” She holds out her hand. “I’m the head winemaker at Tenuta Pietra Alta.”
The editor’s expression shifts—recognition blooming a beat too late.
Introductions follow quickly after that.
“You’re Eugenio Gallo.” Alessia’s tone is warm as she presses a hand lightly to her chest. “I loved your work on the Ornellaia retrospective—the black-and-white series inCiviltà del Vino. The way you captured the light in the cellar was extraordinary.”
The photographer visibly startles, then flushes. “Thank you,SignoraAlighieri. I didn’t expect anyone to remember that piece.”
I watch it happen in real time.
The ambience shifting.
Attention re-centering.
My wife is charming—not because she performs it, but because she’s prepared for this visit. She knew who was coming, even if Chiara failed to brief her properly on why. She was preparing her vineyard for photography, not herself. Though knowing what little of her I do know, I doubt she’d have done anything different with her ensemble or appearance.
My wife turns pleasantly toward the editor. “AndSignoraRicci,” she addresses the junior editor by name, “your essay on phenolic ripeness under climate stress—published inEnologica Contemporanea…I think…it was last spring?”
When the baffled editor nods, she continues, “Brava! It was one of the most nuanced treatments of the subject I’ve read. Especially your point about adjusting harvest decisions parcel by parcel, rather than by appellation averages.”
Stasia Ricci stares at her like Alessia has sprouted a second head. “You…you read that?”
Enologica Contemporaneais an obscure academic publication that focuses on the chemistry of winemaking. I’m not entirely surprised that Alessia knows of it, a good winemaker would.
Alessia smiles. “Of course.”
She’s in a faded T-shirt, jeans, rubber boots dusted with chalky soil, grape stains darkening her fingertips—and yet, in this moment, she commands the space completely.
Chiara, I notice, has gone quiet.
“So…you’re the winemaker.” The editor moves toward Alessia, now knowing who the Alighieri is in this situation and who the dilettante is.
Chiara recalibrates with a meanness that shocks but does not surprise. I know her well, and this is her style. “Alessia works very closely with Matteo Rinaldi. It’s a wonderful mentorship.”
My wife doesn’t correct her.
Stasia nods like a doll. “So, Matteo Rinaldi is still the winemaker here?”
The photographer nods, losing interest. “Great. Maybe we’ll get a few shots of you…walking?”
“Me?” Alessia shakes her head. “I think the vines should be the main focus, right? We’re inveraisonnow. The cab franc is responding differently than the merlot?—”
“Oh, we’ll get to that,” Chiara interrupts. “Let’s capture the mood first.”
