When I lay on my back after, I was hard, wanting very much to touch her, explore her, be inside her. It was a new feeling, one I haven’t had about my wife. Maybe a glimmer of it was present when I saw her at the Palazzo Alighieri—but now that shimmer is a fire, sparked by talking to her, getting to know her.
She’s an exquisite woman, layer upon layer, with the kind of depth you only find in wines from exceptional years.
I turn on the DeLonghi coffee machine and make myself a cup.
I like her kitchen, it reminds me of my mother’s.
Warm and welcoming.
It’s the kind where everything is easy to find, even if you’ve never been here before, because it’s organized the way she is—practical, intuitive, and quietly generous.
I take my coffee on the terrace. It’s early in the day. The estate is waking up while the mist clings low to the vines. It will retreat as the sun comes up and works to ripen the grapes that have had a good sleep in the cool sea air.
I don’t see Alessia, but then the estate is large, and she could be anywhere. As I think about her, the door from the tasting room to the courtyard opens, and she comes out, looking radiant.
Her hair is tied up as it usually is, and she’s wearing jeans, knee-high work boots, and a House of Alighieri T-shirt. She rarely wears makeup—except that night at the Palazzo.
Alessia isn’t preoccupied with her appearance, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand it. I remember her as my bride. The makeup had been soft—so subtle I’d wondered if she was wearing any at all. Now I know better. It had been light and deliberate, meant to enhance what was already there, not disguise it.
I feel like a fool.
I was looking at the wrong things, measuring her by shallow standards, and in doing so, we lost time. And not just that, we also lost trust.
I said the wrong things. I did the wrong things. Now, if we’re going to find our footing and give this marriage a fighting chance, it will be harder than it ever needed to be. And the fault is only mine.
“Good morning.” She sets a brown paper bag on the table next to me. “Croissants. Freshly made.”
“Grazie.” I set my coffee down and open the bag; the smell of fresh pastries fills the air.
I take a bite and moan in delight. The chef at Tenuta Pietra Alta is truly remarkable.
“I’ll be working from here today,” I tell her after I wash down the first few bites of the pasty with coffee.
She looks at me as if I’ve just said something impossible. “Here?”
It’s my fault that she seems so surprised.
Cristo! I’ve been a fool.
“Si.” I keep my tone casual, though my choice is heavy with intent. “If that’s all right.”
“Yes, it’s alright,” she breathes. “Ah…the chef knows you’re here, which is why we’re all having fresh croissants for breakfast.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You” —her eyes twinkle with laughter—“are the CEO of the House of Alighieri, and he wants to impress you.”
A startled chuckle bursts out of me.
“And…well, you’re also my husband,” she continues.
How did I ever think a woman with those eyes could be plain? How blind could I have been?
“Does that mean I’m going to eat well?” I tease.
“Yes.” She tucks her hands into her jeans, suddenly self-conscious. “He’s making lunch and wants to know what you’d like.”
I move closer to her because I can’t resist it. “I’d like to be surprised,” I murmur and then dip my head.
