Nico frowns and shrugs. “I know he got to know her at the wedding and helped her get the summer internship in Milan.” He slides a finger down my cheek. “You miss your sisters.” It’s not a question. He knows I do.
“They really wanted to come,” I admit, tucking my phone away. “They wanted to spend time with you. Get to know you.”
Nico’s brow dips with genuine disappointment.
“Soon,” he promises. “We’ll make that happen.”
“Careful what you wish for,” I tease. “They plan to interrogate you. A water hose may or may not be involved.”
Nico laughs—a low, rich sound that settles warmly in my chest like sun on old stone. As night deepens, the wine flows more freely.
Edam bangs on an old barrel for a makeshift drum, and a few of the younger pickers spin between tables, barefoot and lighthearted. Hortensio leans back in his chair, sleeves rolledto the elbow, unleashing a bawdy story that sets everyone roaring.
I rest my head against Nico’s shoulder, eyes half-closed, breathing in the mingled scents of cork, pine smoke, olive oil, earth, and him.
“Now that harvest is done,cara, you need a break,” he tells me.
“Do I?”
“Yes,” he says. “What would you like to do? Tell me…ah…an indulgence.”
I think about it for a moment and then smile. “I’d love to travel on the Orient Express… without any Agatha Christie–style murders.” I tilt my head. “Well, maybe if Johnny Depp were around.”
“You like Johnny Depp?” he growls.
I laugh. It’s a happy sound. “He doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
He smiles, amused.“That’s good,cara. Very good.”
This is a perfect moment, I think, my people, my land, myself anchored by the man at my side.
“I’m proud of you,” Nico murmurs.
His words taste like home.
The summons arrives the next afternoon after lunch.
Nico brings it to the cellar; my father’s man delivered it to him. It’s gotten cooler, but Nico insists on working under the pergola, now with a light wool topcoat.
He kisses me and hands me the letter.
I smile. How can I not? My husband kisses me…a lot. It’s lovely.
I open the envelope and pull out theheavy cream cardstock that bears the weight of my father’s unmistakable authority.
Duca Alighieri requests your presence in Suvereto today at 5 p.m.
He’s angry about something. If he weren’t, the summons would have had a personal touch—he would have signed it. This one was typed by his assistant.
“Well?” Nico asks.
I hand him the note and return to the data on barrel allocations and topping schedules, cross-checking losses against humidity readings in the cellar.
He reads it, his full lips thinning into a bloodless line. “What do you think it’s about?”
“Don’t know, but he’s not happy with me.”
My husband frowns. “How do you know he’s annoyed?”
