“Yes,” Cesare says, his voice heavy with grief.
He and Matteo are friends and have been for a long time. I can only imagine how devastated I’d be if I found out such news about Renzo.
“We need to be realistic,” Cesare continues. “Matteo is not going to be here for very long. We cannot afford sentimentality.”
I can’t sit still any longer because I have this itch to call my wife and talk to her. I want to comfort her and be comforted myself. But this isn’t news I have a right to share.
I walk to the window, my hands tucked in my suit pants, and look out at the Arno, shimmering on this first day of September.
“We have to handle this carefully.” I hate that I have to talk business at this time, but the show, as they say, must go on. “Losing our head winemaker is going to cause waves in the industry.”
“We need a successor to be announced before everyone finds out about Matteo,” Cesare says in agreement. “Renzo, I asked you to start whittling down the list of candidates I gave you.”
I don’t have to look at Renzo to know that he’s done that even if he hasn’t advertised it.
“I have five left on the list.”
“Is Elda on it?”
“Yes.”
I turn now. “This is Elda Costa?”
He's a very well-known winemaker from Vigneti San Bartolomeo, a winery in Piedmont that produces some of the best Barolos drunk in the world. He was mentored by the famous Frank Cornelissen from Mount Etna. He would be a feather in the cap of the House of Alighieri.
Cesare steeples his hands. “Yes. And Davide Fontana?”
Renzo shrugs. “Si.”
Cesare dips his chin thoughtfully. “I want someone with international credibility. Gravitas. Someone with a name that reassures the board and our distributors.”
Renzo folds his arms. “Have you considered Alessia?”
The room goes very quiet.
Cesare looks at Renzo like he’s sprouted a second head. “Are you out of your Goddamn mind?”
Renzo isn’t affected by Cesare’s harsh tone. “She’s one of the best winemakers in the House of Alighieri. And she’s an Alighieri to boot. What she’s done with Pietra Alta is pretty amazing.”
Cesare leans forward, looking very much like a predator staring down his prey. Not that Renzo scares easily or at all. “Pietra Alta is a favor I do for Matteo and to humor my daughter, that’s all.”
“Matteo thinks of her as his successor,” Renzo presses. “And she is?—"
“That is indulgence,” Cesare cuts in. “Not succession.”
He turns to me then, fire blazing in his eyes. “And you?” he demands. “Do you think your wife should be considered?”
This is the moment.
I know it as it happens—the way the air tightens, the way Renzo goes still.
I think of Alessia two mornings ago, barefoot in the kitchen, handing me coffee and a kiss as she talked about all her plans for harvest, a new blend she’s been thinking about.
I think of her texts from earlier today: of grapes heavy on the vine and another of the light slanting through the pergola.
Alessia:Miss you. Come back soon.
I replied instantly:Two days, and I’m all yours,cara.
