Laine smiles down at me. “We’re both adults, and we can leave it in the past and forget it ever happened. Sound good?”
My grip on her slackens, the handshake losing momentum. The tentative smile, the hope in her eyes, her entire body posture’s begging me to be cool about this. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve certainly had enough practice with flings that go nowhere, with being set aside.
“Yeah. Of course.” Young Zoe couldn’t handle Charlaine Woods so much as looking her way, but I can rise to this occasion. Laine tending to my vines, making my wine, living on my property?
No problem. It’s not like I have a crush on hernow.
Her palm is warm against mine, but it still sends tiny shivers up my arm and through my core. She lets go of my hand abruptly, as though she just realized she was still holding it.
Rich, buttery smells greet me as I jiggle the door open to the house I grew up in. Dad’s making my favorite comfort food—a decadent butternut squash lasagna—for our last dinner together before he leaves.
I slide into my chair at the small pedestal table that’s sat in the corner of our kitchen for as long as I can remember. The table’s set for two tonight, but Mom’s chair is still there, painted in the sunset’s last pink rays filtering in from the big window overlooking our vineyard. God, it’s a sight out there. The newly budding vines are kissed by gold, the hills beyond limned with lavender and the coming night. Mom’s memory is etched into the view itself. How many times did we sit here, staring out into all that’s ours, waiting for Dad’s latest culinary adventure to arrive at the table? My heart aches as it always does knowing she’s no longer here to share it, but over the years, the hurt’s grown soft and pliant, its sharp, jagged edges worn smooth by time. If anything, the ache of losing her has become part of Bluebell’s beauty. This place was always part of her, but now, she’s part of it, too.
I could never leave. I used to think Dad felt the same, but his old, leather suitcases are waiting by the door.
A bottle of red sits in the middle of our table, along with a corkscrew. The label is yellowed and crumbly at the edges, one of the last remaining bottles of Mom’s famous red blend, vintage 2004. The best season, best grapes, best batch. There are only a handful left.
This is Dad’s custom on special occasions—he places one of our last treasured bottles on the table as an invitation, but I rarely accept. The last one we opened was after my college graduation eight years ago, when I returned to take my place at the vineyard beside him. WhileDad leaving for Italy is momentous, these last tastes of Mom’s genius should be in celebration, not consolation. I get up and pull a bottle of C’est la Grigio out of the fridge and bring it to the table instead. Maybe I’ll open one of Mom’s reds to celebrate if we get the showcase.
No.Whenwe get it. A small smile blooms on my face, and I feel a little better. My old ambition is a warm blanket wrapped around cold shoulders. I simply don’t know how to be myself without it. These last few days, the March winds cut deeper, the weak, watery daylight unable to banish the chill that set in with the news of Nonna’s illness and Dad’s indefinite trip. But sitting in our cozy, humid kitchen, ringed with bookcases stuffed with Mom’s old wine journals and Dad’s spy novels, my ambition stirs again. We have a vintner. And a real chance.
With oven mitts up to his elbows, Dad sets the steaming lasagna onto a folded towel on the table. He returns carrying a simple arugula salad with shaved parmesan, dressed in truffle oil and lemon, and sighs with satisfaction as he slides into his chair.
“Dad, this smells amazing. Thanks for cooking.”
He waves a hand at me and mumblesit’s nothing!in the obligatory Italian way, even though he’s been in the kitchen for hours. We tuck in quietly, the evening now purple and dreamy outside.
“So, what’s this news you have?”
“Hmm?” I’m deep in food admiration right now.
“Before I told you about Nonna.” Dad reaches for his glass of wine. “You had news, too.”
“Oh, right.” I twist my fork in the lasagna. “Do you remember when we went to theEveryday Bon Vivantfood and wine festival in the Finger Lakes? When I was a kid?”
Dad’s face slackens as the memory inhabits him. “What a trip that was. Your mother discovered ice wine. You discovered poutine.” He huffs, a rueful sound. “I’m not sure who vomited more.”
“Right … Well, remember how much fun it was?Beforethe vomiting?”
“Of course.” His gaze has turned fully inward now, eyes welling at the memories of my mother when they were young and in love, our family whole. I know the look well. He wears it every day, after all.
I exhale a small, patient breath and take his hand, willing him to rejoin me in the present. This is what it’s like living with Cosimo Rossi Giuratraboccetti. Half loving father, half living memorial to my mother. He says it’s our Italian blood that makes him so romantic, but I’m half Italian and I’ve never saidI love youto someone I don’t share DNA with. I haven’t even gotten close, my longest relationship spanning a whopping two months.
“Dad,Everyday Bon Vivantis coming here, to Blue Ridge. They’re scouting for vineyards to host the local showcase.” I gently shake his hand, like I’m trying to wake him without scaring him. “I’m going to convince them to have it here.”
“That’s wonderful,” he says, returning to me at last. “We should collaborate with Into the Woods, see if together we can nab the spot.”
“Dad,weneed to win, not them. I can’t work withRachel.”
Dad shakes his head sadly. “You used to be so close. Maybe it’s time you made up?”
I roll my eyes. “For the millionth time, Dad, Rachel’s the one who woke up one day and decided she hates my guts. Besides, we don’t need Into the Woods’s help to win.”
He frowns. “But their wines are better than ours.”
“So?” I cross my arms. “Our vibes are better. Our views are better. We’re more fun, more accessible, more creative.” My voice is rising in both pitch and volume, but this gets under my skin more than any of Dad’s other bullshit. He should be loyal toourvineyard. But when Mom died, Dad’s love for this place started to, as well. This was their dream, the magic they made together in the warm Appalachian sun. But doesn’t he realize that I made this my dream, too? That it’s all I have?
Dad’s frown softens. “Yes, all that is true, and it’s because of your hard work, Zoe Nicoletta. I’m sorry. Of course I want them to choose Bluebell Vineyards.” The corner of his mouth quirks up, though it’s not with a smile. “It’s a good thing Laine came along when she did. Maybe with her making our wine, we’ll have a better chance.”
