We instinctively step closer, drawing into a tight ring, stacking our palms in a central pillar of skin and bone before snapping our hands skyward with a rhythmic shout.“Andiamo a fare il vino. Let’s go make wine!”
As we step apart, everyone’s already going through their to-do lists in their heads. We’ve been preparing for harvest for months and more intensely for the past few weeks. Everyone knows what they must do. Execution is now the key, and there’s no time to waste because the vineyard has just dropped waiting.
As she walks off along with Edam and Hortensio, I turnmy head toward the Vermentino blocks, the leaves catching the first clean edge of morning light.
From tomorrow on, the vines won’t belong to the field anymore—they’ll belong to the wine.
Tonight, the cellar smells like nothing at all.
Tomorrow, it will smell like crushed berries and promise.
Soon, trucks that have been idling for days will finally turn over.
The picking crews—some local, some seasonal workers we’ve hired year after year—will begin to arrive from the cottages at the edge of the estate tonight.
It’s finally happening, I think, feeling almost like I have drunk a little too much.
It always feels like this—like a held breath finally released.
I call Matteo.
“It’s time,” he says even before I say hello.
“Yes,” I reply. “We start tomorrow morning.”
I rattle out the numbers: pH, acid, sugar, and the other data points that helped me make my decision.
“When I was your age,” he muses, “I would’ve waited—even with those acids. Your judgment surpasses mine.”
“Hortensio would have my head if I waited,” I joke. That might be dramatic—but from my mild-mannered lab rat, a sharp lecture would feel just as lethal. “He’s been running cross-parcel comparisons all week.”
"I’ve been following the reports.” His voice sounds a little thinner than usual.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, careful.
“Oh, fine. A little tired. That’s all. Harvest does that, even when you’re not in the vines.”
I look out over the rows that are waiting to be relieved of their burden.
“I wish you were here,” I say quietly.
“I am,” he answers. “In all the ways that matter.”
We talk a while longer before ending the call.
As I walk to the cellar to check everything there, I call Nico.
“Dolcezza,” he answers on the first ring.
“We start tomorrow,” I tell him giddily. “Will you come?”
Pause.
Cristo! Am I being too demanding?
He’s busy, I know that. He’s running a large company, and his time isn’t his own.
Before I can take my words back, he replies, “I will. I need a few days, but I’ll be there. Maybe help you pick grapes?”
