Page 3 of The Wrong Wife

“How are you, Alessia?”

“Busy,” I retort. “It’s green harvest, Alba. You know how it is.”

“I do.” But she’s assenting not just about what she knows of green harvest but more about what she knows about me.

I am the quiet Alighieri sister. The dull one.

Alba is beautiful, while I’m plain. She’s delicate and feminine, while my hands are rough like a farmer’s. But then, a winemaker is a farmer—a worker.

I end the call before she can say anything else.

The vines are waiting .

Diradamento doesn’t pause for scandal, and it doesn’t care who my husband is seen with. The work demands everything I have—my focus, my judgment, and my equanimity.

I step back into the row, lift my shears, and make another cut.

I lift a bunch, thumb the grapes to test their firmness. The berries are small but swelling fast, tight-skinned and promising.

But a generous vine will ruin itself if you let it. It will feed everything and perfect nothing. Sacrifice is part of the job.

“Alessia?” a voice calls from behind me. “Are we starting next on the merlot block or the cab?”

I turn. Edam stands a few paces back, his hair pulled into a knot, sleeves rolled, sun already catching the sharp lines of his forearms.

He’s in his early thirties—older than me by a year, maybe two—but he has the alacrity and energy of a teenager.

Dirt streaks his cheek, and he makes me feel old.

“The merlot,” I tell him. “It’s running ahead.”

“Got it.”

He signals the others with a quick wave. They fan out between the rows, the soft metallic snip-snip beginning like the buzz of insects.

“Merlot is a pain in my ass,” Edam complains.

A laugh lifts behind me—bright, female, warm as fresh bread.

“Merlot is a dramatic grape.” Lucia steps into the row beside me with a bucket. Her dark hair is tied up with a scarf that used to be pretty, but is now a work rag. Her nails are as dirty as mine. Her hands are strong, scarred, and competent. “It likes attention.”

“Just like a woman to make wanting attention sound like a virtue,” Edam teases .

Lucia grins. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t know how to appreciate something valuable.”

“Oh, I know how to do that, cara Lucia.” He winks at her.

I smile.

These two have been flirting for two vintages—and I have a feeling they’re sleeping together, but they haven’t said a thing to me, so I’m allowing them their privacy.

Lucia nudges my shoulder gently. “If he had been born a grape, he would be a Sangiovese. Stubborn. Acidic. Prone to sulking.”

I smile despite myself. This is obviously their foreplay.

Sweet.

“Sangiovese is noble,” I muse.