“Story time,” Laine says fondly down at me, and Marisol agrees cheerily. I clear my throat, looking out on the vineyards, and summon this untold story, forbidden for so long, from my heart.
“Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Julie who worked on her family’s farm in the foothills of Appalachia, where she helped with a little of everything.” I didn’t intend to tell it like this, but the story flows out of me like a fairy tale, the way Mom always told it when I was a kid. Every night, I’d beg to hear it, and she’d indulge me more often than not, sitting on the side of my twin bed, her hand resting gently on my covers. Sometimes Dad would listen in the doorway, his eyes starry as he leaned against the frame. How I loved seeing them in love.
“Julie’s favorite pastime was helping her father cultivate a small patch of Merlot vines and turning grapes into rich, red wine. She longed to turn her father’s hobby into her own future, but her family didn’t approve. There weren’t any vineyards in Blue Ridge then, and it was an untested idea whether they could work here on a large scale. But Julie believed in what she could do, so she saved all her nickels and dimes with the hopes of buying her own land one day. She worked every job she could, but it was her job at the old hardware store, the one place in town you could buy camping gear back then, that set her dreams in motion. One day, a young man came in with a shopping list a mile long, preparing for a months-long hike up the Appalachian Trail. He was dark-haired, handsome, and extremely confused, and Julie took pity on him.” I stop to smile, remembering how Mom’s eyes would always travel over to Dad as she told this part of the story, a gentle, teasing lilt to her voice. “He seemed to think he could carry a hundred pounds of beans on his back and make it past Springer Mountain.”
Young Cosimo was an ambitious man,Dad would always add, then grin.And very stupid.
“It took weeks to get all the supplies he ordered into the store, but Cosimo found he didn’t mind the delay. He’d graduated from college that winter and, feeling lost about his own future, had decided to hike the Appalachian Trail to find himself. He was a romantic that way, idealistic to his core, and he wasn’t ready to return to his family in Italy just yet.He was looking for inspiration, and he found it behind the register at the hardware store with a name tag that read ‘Julie.’ He asked her out that night and every night that followed.
“After a short, passionate spring romance, it was time for Cosimo to depart on his hike. The weather was right, his pack was ready, but his heart longed to stay in Blue Ridge with Julie. She hiked with him to the top of Springer Mountain, and as the sun set on the rolling hills and valleys below, she told him of her dreams to start her own vineyard.
“Cosimo listened, thinking this must be his fate. He grew up in Tuscany, where every extra pair of hands were set to work in the vineyards. He had no dream of his own, but he could help Julie live hers. Wine was her dream, but Julie was his.
“They sat, surrounded by the first bluebells in bloom on Springer Mountain, and together, they picked the prettiest patch of hilly forest below them, drenched in the last rays of sun, to be their future home. He promised her he’d return, and they’d start their lives together. Julie didn’t believe a word of it, of course. He was a beautiful Italian man who wore his heart on his sleeve, and she didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore. So when Cosimo Rossi Giuratraboccetti appeared on her doorstep a month later with a deed, a ring, and more bug bites than you could count, Julie nearly fainted on the spot.”
“He quit the hike and bought the land?!” Marisol broke in, her hand pressed against her chest, unable to contain her surprise.
I grin. “He didn’t last two weeks on the AT. He couldn’t stop thinking about his Julie, and fate, and the sign he’d been given. He turned right back around, emptied his savings for a down payment, and put all his romance and fate to the test. He proposed, and she didn’t even have to think about it. Julie said yes.”
Laine shakes her head and whistles. “Cosimo, that old dog.”
Agatha scrunches her brow. “Didn’t you know the story already?”
Laine starts a bit at the question, then falls back into character. “Of course! Gets me every time, though.” She wraps her arm around my shoulders and gently brushes a tear off my cheek. “You’re crying, boss.”
I laugh a little as Marisol hands me a handkerchief with concern. “I’m sorry. I hear my mother’s voice in my head whenever I tell this story. She died when I was twelve.”
“Oh, you poor dear,” Marisol murmurs. Even mean-faced Agatha looks chagrined. I smile weakly as I look out onto our vineyards, the gold faded into a solemn silvery lavender in the sun’s absence.
“My mother Julie and my father Cosimo cultivated the land they picked on sight for Bluebell Vineyards, the land we’re standing on today. You can see Springer Mountain, just there, in the distance. It must’ve been fate because our terroir is perfect for growing grapes. The hills are red clay topped with sand, providing the drainage needed to survive our rainy seasons, and the constant breeze from the mountains keeps our leaves dry and healthy. Every spring, our woods are ringed in bluebells, which give us our name. Together, my parents founded this vineyard and filled it with their love, my mother as vintner, my father as farmer. My mother has passed on, but not before giving me her dream, too. I’ve run Bluebell with my father ever since, and now, Laine.”
Mr. Logistics wipes his own tears away. “What abeautifulstory, and you and Laine are carrying on the tradition, just like your parents. This vineyard runs on pure romance. Mygoodness.”
Laine gazes into my eyes so tenderly, it takes my breath away. “It’s hard not to fall in love with this place, or the people in it.”
I swallow, just barely, as her hand brushes my cheek again.
“Where is Cosimo now?” Agatha asks abruptly, then coughs into her hand as though self-conscious about her question.
“He’s on an extended stay in Italy to see our family there,” I respond, still locked into Laine’s dreamy eyes. “Would you all liketo see a picture of my parents?” I turn to face the events team, pleased to see their wholehearted delight at the idea. I pull out my phone and open a special folder of old pictures I scanned in one night when I was feeling lonely. Dad took all her pictures down after Mom passed—he just couldn’t handle seeing her face everywhere her body no longer lived, but I missed seeing her smile. I pull up my favorite—one of my parents when they were both young and healthy, just a few months before I was born. Dad’s sitting with his back pressed against Mom’s tree, his arms wrapped protectively around her pregnant belly. His chin rests on her shoulder, and she’s smiling through a big laugh, as though the photographer, my aunt Bri I think, just said something funny. Dad’s eyes are shining and gloriously happy, an expression that disappeared the day Mom found out she was sick. But here, with their whole lives ahead of them, theywerehappy. A southern girl and an Italian boy. An unlikely romance fated to be.
I float through the rest of the tour and back to our tasting room, the tide of memories making my heart swell in bittersweet longing. It feels good to tell them, to remember her here. This is her place, her land, picked by her and Dad in a moment of waking dream. Long after the wine leaves my system, I remain heady under the memories’ influence and Laine’s lingering touches. I know it’s just for show—Marisol and theEveryday Bon Vivantevents team are fully in love with the idea of Bluebell Vineyards, and the idea of Laine and I together, carrying that romantic legacy forward. It makes good business sense to lean into it, that’s all. I should be grateful she’s willing to sell it as hard as we need, though the pleasure from her touch is laced with a stinging pain.
I may not have the romance my parents did, but I have the heartache. Every good love story has both, so if you look at it that way, I’m halfway there.
Alwayshalfway there.
The substitute shuttle arrives, but the events team opts to stay late into the evening, laughing around a table on our patio beneath the string lights with Laine, Olinda, and me, wine flowing while stories are traded. Eager to hear more Julie/Cosimo canon, the team begs me to tell them more, so I regale them about our trip to theEveryday Bon Vivantfestival in the Finger Lakes, to which Marisol exclaims that was the first event she ever worked on. By the time they leave, Marisol feels like an old friend, and Matthew and Preston, Mr. Logistics and Mr. Bright Future respectively, are well on their way, too. Only Agatha, whose real name is Erica, remains difficult to pin down. She didn’t finish her wine at the tasting, nor did she hug Laine and I goodbye as the others did when they bid their farewells.
“We’ll win her over,” Laine whispers into my ear as we wave goodbye from the door, making the soft down of my neck prickle. “Don’t you worry.”
But when? When would we see them again, if ever? Suddenly possessed, I run out into the parking lot, calling for them to slow down.
“This Saturday evening, if you don’t have plans, please come visit us again. We’re hosting my dear friend Hannah’s wedding, and the reception will be a huge party—all are welcome.” I smile, pleading and breathless, as Laine joins me. “I’d love to show y’all Bluebell Vineyards fully decked out and brimming with romance.”
Marisol’s mouth curves in the moonlight as she takes both my hands in hers, and without even looking at the others, says, “Zoe darling, we’ll be here. See you soon!”
I clasp my hands to my heart as the now familiar weight of Laine’s arm encircles my waist, fingers splayed warmly across my hip. The touch feels possessive and easy, and it sends waves of heat through my belly, radiating from each point of contact between our bodies. We wave goodbye for a second time and as the van rolls away, Laine leans down.
