Instead, she pulled me into a hug.
It was warm, firm, the embrace of someone who meant it. She smelled like tomatoes and sunshine and something floral underneath. Lavender, maybe.
"It's so good to finally meet you," she said against my hair, her accent thicker than Matteo's. "Matteo has told me so much."
"Mamma." There was a warning in his voice.
"What? I'm not allowed to be happy?" She released me, holding me at arm's length to study my face. "You're even more beautiful than he said. And he said quite a lot."
"Mamma."
"I'm going, I'm going." She patted my cheek affectionately, then turned to kiss Matteo on the forehead the way mothers do. "I just came to drop off tomatoes from the garden. I'll leave you two alone."
She collected her basket—empty now—and headed for the door. At the threshold, she paused, looking back at me.
"Isabelle. You'll stay for dinner tonight, yes? I want to teach you my grandmother's pasta recipe."
"I—" I looked at Matteo helplessly. He shrugged, smiling, leaving the decision to me. "I'd love that. Thank you."
"Meraviglioso."Elena beamed, her whole face lighting up. "I'll see you both at six. Don't be late."
She disappeared through the door, and the kitchen fell quiet except for the sizzle of the frittata.
Matteo turned back to the stove, shaking his head. "I'm sorry about that. She has no concept of boundaries."
"I liked her."
"Everyone likes her. That's the problem—she knows it and uses it to her advantage." But he was smiling. "She's been asking about you for weeks. I think she was starting to worry I'd made you up."
"You told her about me?"
"Of course I did,Bella." He slid the golden frittata onto a plate and brought it to the island, our knees touching as he sat beside me. "She's my mother. I tell her everything that matters."
We ate breakfast together, our knees touching under the counter, feet tangling beneath the stools. The frittata was perfect—fluffy, golden, filled with herbs from the garden. Matteo stole bites from my plate and I pretended to be annoyed, swatting his hand away while secretly loving the intimacy of it.
After breakfast, he took me through the vineyard.
The morning sun was already warm on my shoulders, the sky a deep endless blue without a single cloud. We walked between rows of vines, their leaves bright green and rustling in the breeze. Matteo explained the different varieties—Sangiovese, Canaiolo, Colorino.
I'd heard some of it before, during my first visit. But it was different now. Now I watched his hands as he touched the leaves with gentle reverence, listened to the passion thrumming through his voice, and saw the way his entire face lit up when he talked about the upcoming harvest.
This was his world. And he was letting me into it.
"Here, try this." He stopped at the end of a row and picked a grape, holding it out to me.
I took it from his fingers, the grape warm from the sun, its skin taut and perfect. I bit into it, and sweetness flooded my tongue—intense and concentrated.
"Good?"
"Very good."
"These will be ready in a few weeks." He picked another, and ate it himself. "The 2024 vintage. I think it's going to be special."
"You say that every year, don't you?"
"Every year I hope." He smiled. "Sometimes, I'm right. Sometimes, the wine gods smile on us."
We walked back to the house hand in hand, the sun climbing higher, the day stretching out before us full of possibility and unspoken promise.
