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Why bother with a bathing suit when it was just me? I’d never been skinny dipping, but this Tuscan garden and unusual pool invited me to shed my inhibitions, along with my clothing, and embrace the lush sensuality awaiting me at every turn.
A furtive glance reassured me the pool was secluded, my privacy ensured by tall shrubs and wide hedges. The silence, tempered by the soft sibilance of the breeze and faint chirp of insects and birds, was another layer that enriched the solitude. Yet, instead of feeling alone and lonely, I went a little dizzy as heightened self-awareness washed over me. My life had spun out of control, but somehow I’d landed in this gorgeous corner of the world with all the time and space I needed to recenter myself.
Crouching, I untied my sneakers and eased them off, along with my socks, curling my toes into the thick, springy grass. I stripped off my hoodies and yoga pants, unclasped my bra, and stood there for a moment, absorbing the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine, tilting my face up and smiling as my hair swayed over the skin at the base of my spine. Oh, but there was something heady about standing outdoors, practically naked in the bright golden light. I slid my hands over my ribs to cup my breasts, the ponderous weight of each globe seemingly appropriate for the lushness of Tuscany in a way they’d never been back in the good old U.S. of A. Images of Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida came to mind, their curvaceous figures and bold sexuality such a contrast to the American standard that idealized long, leggy blondes.
Something dark and shameful tried to rise up inside me as I shoved my panties down my legs. My first instinct was to push it away, until I realized I was steeling myself for some kind of criticism from Henry.
“Fuck you, Henry.” I kicked the neat pile of clothing into disarray, lobbing the panties as if trying to put a basketball through a hoop for two points. My butt and boobs jiggled as I danced over the grass and leaped into the pool, my hot tears washed away by the cool water.
Chapter Four - Alessio
The ringing of a phone distracted me from the sales report I’d been pouring over since early afternoon. Resentful of the intrusion, primarily because I’d yet to complete my analysis of the seemingly endless rows and columns, I pawed through the paperwork strewn over my father’s mahogany desk, searching for mycellulare. An impatient sweep of my forearm sent a stack of folders tumbling onto the tiled floor along with my device.
I retrieved the phone and swiped the screen with a terse, “Prego,” as I gathered up the scattered folders in a one-handed clutch.
The ringing continued, and I realized it was the house phone, not my mobile phone.
“Chi parla?” I barked, demanding to know who was interrupting my already frustrating day.
“Ciao, mio figlio.” My father greeted me warmly, but I heard a catch as he called me “son.” “You sound stressed, Alessio. Working in the vineyards is supposed to eliminate suchnegatività.”
“What can I do for you,Papà?” I ignored his reference to the vineyards, not wanting the conversation to escalate into yet another argument.
The phone line hummed with tension as silence stretched between us. My shoulders slumped in resignation as I forced myself to acknowledge that my father’s struggle to respect my choices—choices he largely disapproved of—was equal to my own effort to respect the tradition and legacy in which he was mired.
“A guest is arriving at any moment for a two-week-long stay at the farmhouse apartment this afternoon.” His tone deepened slightly. “As the host in residence at the family estate, it is your duty—”
Dannazione! I wanted to shout a string of obscenities that would burn my father’s ears off of his skull. Duty, duty, duty. That’s all I’d heard for the past six months. My father had finally worn me down until I’d agreed to spend three months managing the family vineyards, a capitulation I’d immediately regretted.
There’d been no other option. Papà refused to consider my proposal for expanding production of Venturi wines until I returned home from Rome and managed every level of operations for ninety days. I was halfway through my internment at Terre del Venturi and no closer to embracing the family heritage on my father’s terms than I’d been on day one.
I shoved my fingers into thick dark hair inherited from my mother, the tangle yet another reminder of everything I was missing not being inRoma. Biweekly haircuts and manicures, the tailored fit of a bespoke suit, the politics of international commerce, an endless parade of beautiful women, the exciting nightlife. The last two years I’d been positioning myself to take Venturi Wines to the next level, eagerly awaiting my father’s retirement so I could double, hopefully even triple, production by merging with one of the export co-operatives.
I dreamt of seeing our bottles on shelves next to offerings from Marchesi Antinori and Barone Ricasoli, Tenuta San Guido and Mastroberardino, some of the most successful wine producers in Italy. Each had begun as a family-owned enterprise, most dating back as many generations as the Venturis, but unlike the Venturis, they’d innovated and expanded. People around the world celebrated weddings and birthdays and anniversaries and other special occasions with these wines. They splurged on their favorites and tucked the bottles away, saving them for a moment worthy of decanting that perfect sangiovese or chianti or Super Tuscan red.
Enzo Venturi—Papà—was a peasant at heart, despite the fact that our vineyards produced some of the best wine in the region. He was content to bottle a limited supply, content to hear tourists at the localosterias, trattorias, andristorantesexclaim in delight when they tasted ourvino.
I would not be content until Venturi Wines went international.
But first, I had to play host.
“I don’t understand why Flavio and Eva cannot—”
“Terre del Venturi is our home, Alessio, and as such—”
“Va bene.Okay,” I grumbled. “It’s not enough that I’m in the vineyards, trimming and topping the shoots, tending the soil, listening to the vinedresser’s endless harangues. I am the vineyard owner, not a village idiot hired to—”
“Alessio.Mio figlio.” My father’s voice was heavy. I could picture him shaking his head in disappointment.
Shame and impotent fury filled my mouth with the bitter taste of poorly fermented wine.
I didn’t know how make my father understand I was just as proud of our heritage as he was, but that Venturi Wines could be so much more. He abhorred the idea of joining a co-op, fearful it would compromise the Venturi product and, even worse, the family name. He refused to listen to my ideas or acknowledge my experience or admit that, one day, I would head the Venturi family and estate instead of him.
I swallowed hard, forcing unsaid words back through my tight throat. What was that American saying about selecting one’s battles? I would not go to war with my father over something as simple as welcoming a guest.
“Papà, I will attend to it.” I returned the handset to its cradle as if handling delicate crystal, pouring the rest of my energy into reining in my emotions.
It seemed all I did lately was give in to my father’s demands. I glanced at the brass clock on the desk noting it was after six, too late to call Roberto Esposito, chairman of the Italy’s largest wine co-op. Despite my father’s objections, I intended to lay the groundwork for Venturi Wines to go global, and Esposito was a key player in making that happen.
