through the pages until he found last year’s data. “One hundredth of a point off,” he reported before turning the page and making note of today’s measurement. Even better than he expected. He’d been afraid the easy summer had accelerated the ripening process. So far, however, the sugar levels were holding close to previous years, which boded well for this year’s vintage.
“When will you harvest?”
He turned to the young man at his elbow. Mario, a viticulture student from the university was hanging on his every word. “Depends upon the weather and the variety, but for Amatucci Red, I like the Brix level to be between twenty-five and twenty-six. A hair shy of precocious, as it were,” he added with a chuckle.
Mario nodded as he took notes. Nico would never admit it out loud but he enjoyed being seen as a master. It made him feel as though he’d achieved what Carlos had hoped for him. “Precocious?” he asked. “I’ve never heard that winemaking term before.”
“That’s because it’s not really a winemaking term, just something Carlos Bertonelli used to say. ‘Grapes are like children. You want to raise them to be sweet, but not so sweet they overwhelm you.’ In other words...”
“A hair shy of precocious.”
“Exactly.” Tossing a grape into the air, he caught the plump berry in his mouth. “Carlos was full of sayings like that,” he said crushing the skin between his teeth. The juice was tart on his tongue; a ways to go before precociousness. “His version of Old World wisdom.”
“Signor Bertonelli is the man who used to own these vineyards, right? The ones surrounding the palazzo?”
“Si. He was my mentor. Taught me everything I know about winemaking.” Nico’s heart ached a little every time he thought of the old man, which was often.
“Is that why you’re still maintaining the vineyards? Out of respect for him?”
“Out of respect, and partly because Monte Calanetti wouldn’t exist without these vineyards. I don’t want to see part of our tradition disappear.”
There was more to the story, naturally—the truth was always complicated—but Mario didn’t need to know how Carlos had kept him grounded when life got crazy. With his even, unflappable demeanor and vat full of wisdom, the old man had been mentor, grandfather and safety net all rolled into one.
When he was a little boy, Nico wondered if the stork hadn’t delivered him to the wrong house. That he should have been dropped in the Bertonelli fields instead of his own family’s. Truth was, Carlos had been so much more than a mere mentor. Not a day went by that Nico didn’t miss the man.
If he were alive, perhaps he could help Nico understand his grandniece better. Looking over the vines to the palazzo, he spied Louisa’s platinum-blond hair reflecting the sun as she watched them from the terrace. He nodded hello only to have her move out of view. Still avoiding him. She’d been doing so since the wedding.
Never had he met a woman who was so difficult to read. Cold one moment, warm and tender the next. He’d thought they’d turned a corner at the wedding. A very satisfying corner at that. He smiled, remembering the press of her mouth against his. So soft, so receptive. Then suddenly—poof!—everything changed, and they were back to those frigid early days when she barely gave him the time of day.
“Signor Amatucci?”
Mario was staring at him, obviously waiting for a response of some kind. “Nico,” he corrected. “Not Signor.”
“Sorry. Nico. I was wondering what you wanted to do next.”
Figure out what’s going on in my blonde American’s head. He doubted that’s what Mario meant, though. “I want to gather a few soil samples from the southern fields,” he said. “Why don’t you head back to the winery and begin testing the grapes we’ve collected?” It was standard practice to double-check the field readings using the equipment at the lab. Unlike his mentor, Nico liked to have solid data to corroborate his taste buds.
“Are you sure?” Being on the field must truly be making him nostalgic, because the way the kid straightened with the prospect of responsibility brought back memories of the first time Carlos had given him a task to complete on his own. Had he looked that earnest? “I suggested it, didn’t I?”
“Yes. Of course. I’ll leave the results on your desk.”
“Along with your recommendations. I’m eager to hear your suggestions.”
The kid nodded again, wide-eyed and serious. “Absolutely.”
Of course, Nico would repeat the tests himself later on—the crops were far too valuable to trust to a university student—but there was no need to say anything. Better for Mario’s confidence if he believed he was operating without a safety net.
He started packing his test gear back in his canvas satchel. The faded bag had been with him since his days with Carlos, and looked older than that. “If you have any problems, talk to Vitale. I’ll be back later this morning.”
“How are you getting back? Do you want me to come back for you?”
“No need. I’ll hop the wall. There’s a low spot,” he added when the student frowned. “The Amatuccis and the Bertonellis have been cutting back and forth through these properties for years.” At least this Amatucci had. His brother and sister had found other ways to escape.
Once Mario’s taillights disappeared in the dust, Nico shouldered his bag and headed south. Above him, the sun lit a cloudless blue sky. The air was ripe with fruit and olives, and if the breeze hit just right, you could catch the faint undertone of lavender. Another perfect day, he thought, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
He was by himself, walking the terraced hill. Back when he was a little boy, these fields had been filled with workers. He remembered the first time he ventured through the archway that divided the properties, a stressed-out, scared boy looking for a place where doors didn’t slam and voices were calm. Stepping into the fields of Comparino had been like finding paradise. There was a tranquility in the steady tick-tick-tick of the sprinkler, the low hum of the insects. And it never changed. Oh, there were storms and blights. Natural disasters that caused temporary disruption, but no matter what, Nico knew that come summer, the sounds would be there. Grapes would grow and wine would get made the same as it had for hundreds of years. How he loved the predictability; so unlike the world on his side of the arch, where he never knew from one day to the next whether his parents were together or apart.
Such is the price of grand passion, Carlos said once, after one of his parents’ explosive breakups. It’s either sun or storm. No in between.
Nico wouldn’t know. His passion didn’t run that deep.
The vines in the south garden had grown thick and tangled with neglect. Left unmolested, insects had nibbled holes in the leaves. Ignoring the bee buzzing near his ear, Nico knelt in the shade. Using his utility knife, he churned the hardened topcoat, unearthing the moist soil beneath. Then he carefully shoveled several inches of the rich black dirt into collection jars. He was wiping the residue on his jeans when a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. He smiled. Part of the reason he’d picked this morning to test the soil was because the southern fields abutted the verandah. This time of morning, Louisa would be having breakfast outside, the way she always did, and while she might be avoiding him, she wouldn’t be able to resist spying on what he was
