As I pass the hand-carved sign for Into the Woods, a white Lexus SUV appears from the opposite direction, blinding me. My jaw snaps shut.
Rachel Woods, Director of Operations for Into the Woods, former best friend, and current pain in my ass, slows down until her aggressively polished vehicle reflects the chipped paint of mine. God, she’sobsessedwith her car. Behind the wheel, she’s in an expensive sports-bra-shirt thing I’m convinced runners wear as an excuse to be half-naked in public. I don’t mind normally, but this is Rachel, and thus, everything she does is inherently the worst.
We lock eyes as our vehicles inch past each other, like two sharks lurking over a contested feeding ground. Her long brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail so tight, it lifts the corners of her eyes, making her look even more feline and cruel than usual. Her fingers visibly tighten around her steering wheel as she mouths exaggeratedly,Helloooo, bitch, and caps it with a frosty smile.
Rachel doesn’t know aboutEveryday Bon Vivantyet! If she did, her savage competitive streak would be on full display, and I wouldn’t have received such a pleasant greeting. I raise two fingers to my brow in salute, then smile all the way home.
“Hey, Dad?” I slam the truck’s door shut with my hip, arms full of sweet, sweet office supplies. “I’ve gotne-ews!”
I dump my stuff in the office and enter the winery, where the magic happens. The sharp scent of fermenting wine permeates the air, rushing me like an excited puppy as soon as I step in, followed by the smooth sighof oak from the barrels racked along the back wall. Our winery is smaller than what you’d find at most vineyards, but I’ve always loved it in here. The wooden rafters crisscross above my head like steepled fingers, and the steady hum of the air conditioners keep it a brisk sixty degrees year-round. I squeeze down a narrow aisle of massive plastic bins filled with aging reds to reach our cold room in the back, where I find Dad standing in front of a bin of Vidal Blanc, foot tapping, holding a clipboard.
“Ahhh! Questo vino mi sta sui coglioni!” He makes a rude gesture at the bin that raises my eyebrows.
“Um, Dad? Something wrong?” I don’t speak much Italian, but I know enough to clock that he just yelled at the wine for standing on his balls. Cosimo Rossi Giuratraboccetti came to America for college, met Julie Brennan of Blue Ridge shortly thereafter, had a little bambina they decided was too tiny for such a big name, then never left again. Most of the Italian Dad speaks now is reserved for when he’s deep in his cups and feeling sentimental, or angry at inanimate objects that defy him, so my grasp on our mother tongue is spotty at best. But if you want someone to moon over you, then curse you out?Prego!I’m yourdonna.
He whips around, startled, and smiles hastily at me, pulling his clipboard to his chest. “Zoe Nicoletta! No, no, it’s just this wine”—he pauses to give it a dirty look—“isstillnot ready for bottling. I’d hoped to do it before … well, before now.” His face droops into its normal pensive state.
I follow him out of the cold room and over to his worktable where he plops into his chair, muttering aboutBrixandacidandjust a simple farmeras I swoop in to give his bearded cheek a kiss.
“Well, I hope our whites stop squishing your balls soon, but Dad, I’ve got amazing news.” I brush a lock of his once smoky black, now generously silver hair out of his eyes. “You won’tbelieve—” I stop suddenly. His worktable, normally neat as a pin, is covered with scattered papers, andhis clipboard sports a checklist a mile long, with over half its to-do items crossed off. “What’s all this?”
Dad’s large, dark eyes meet mine. “I have some news, too, Zoe Nicoletta.”
I frown. Dad’s been even more distant than usual lately, staying late at the winery, avoiding me in the tasting room. He hasn’t cooked us dinner in over a week. I chalked it up to Mom’s impending birthday, which always brings him low, but this feels like something else. Something more.
I pull up a stool to sit beside him.
“What is it, Dad?”
He takes off his small round glasses that look unfairly chic on him and slips them into his shirt pocket. “Paolo called. It’s Nonna, Zoe Nicoletta. She’s sick.” His voice cracks on the wordsick, and my hand flies to my mouth. I don’t have many memories of my Nonna, but the ones I do are good. When I was little, we’d visit her in Montepulciano, a small town in Tuscany where most of my Italian family lives, once every few years. My grandfather died before I was born, so as far back as I can remember, it’s only been my beautiful Nonna. She never remarried. She once told me there are a million kinds of love, but you only need a few to get by. I hold that close on my lonelier days.
“Oh, Dad. How sick is she?”
“She’s had a stroke, a serious one. She doesn’t want to be at the hospital, so the family is taking turns caring for her at home.” Dad takes both my hands in his. “I have to go to her, Zoe Nicoletta.”
My mouth parts, the news landing in my stomach like a hot, heavy brick. The notes, the checklist, the preparations—it makes sense now. It’s a bad time of year for us to leave the vineyard, but then again, it’s always a bad time. That’s why we haven’t visited Italy since Mom died. With Dad running the vineyard by himself until I graduated college and came backto take over operations, it’s been a near round-the-clock endeavor to keep the vineyard open. Even with both of us, it’s beyond full-time. We could swing one, maybe two weeks, away, but anything more and the financial hit would be brutal.
Dad sits there watching me realize how difficult this is going to be and squeezes my hands.
And then I hear what he’s really saying.Heneeds to go.
Notwe.
My heart contracts painfully at the idea of never seeing Nonna again, but I haven’t seen my grandmother since my own mother’s funeral. It feels wrong to place my grief on the same level as Dad’s right now. This ishismother. I swallow and nod numbly. “Of—of course, you should go. I can take care of things here while you’re gone.”
He purses his lips in a smile so soft, it’s almost a grimace. “I know you can, my sweet Zoe Nicoletta. You won’t be on your own, though. I’ve already arranged for someone to take my place while I’m gone.”
“A replacement? Is that necessary?” My forehead knits together. Josiah, our vineyard hand, will gripe about it, but he can handle the farming work for a few weeks. “How long will you be gone?”
“As long as she needs me, Zoe Nicoletta.”
“Dad.” I stare into his woeful eyes, my heartbeat picking up in rhythm against my will. “What are you saying?”
“Paolo and the others cannot handle this on their own. They have lives in other towns, small children. Nonna deserves to die in peace, in the house she loves where she’s spent her life. I can give her that.”
“So you’re—what … going to buy a one-way ticket?”
“I already have,” Dad says softly.
