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“Do you see? It is very sweet.”
Two weeks after the harvest began, the crew started picking and drying the red grapes. The must had been started, and Nicolas was teaching Alex the fine art of producing Amarone.
Alex made a face. “Much too sweet. And light, not heavy and robust.”
Nicolas smiled broadly and clapped his hands. “Sì, sì! You have a mouth made for tasting wine.” He took the tasting glass from her and leaned closer. “And for this,” he whispered as he lowered his lips to hers.
Cat calls and whistles came from the nearest field, and Alex blushed as she pulled away.
“Do not mind them. This is Italy, where lovers can do as they please when they please.”
“Is that so? I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.”
“You are just a tease.” He pretended to sulk which just made Alex laugh.
“And you have a one-track mind.”
“If that were true, your virtue would not be safe with me, bella, but I am putting my own desires aside for you.”
A shiver ran down her spine and settled right where he intended it to. Nicolas held her in his stare, and Alex found herself melting into those chocolate eyes once again.
“The testing,” she said quietly. “So far, it’s good?”
“Sì, sì, it is good, but it is early. It will be many more weeks before the must is ready for the Amarone. Alex,” he grabbed her arm so that she couldn’t turn away, “I will take care of you, always. You are always safe with me.”
“Sì, Nicolas, Allora. Perhaps it is not your desires that I fear.”
Alex showered after dinner that evening but did not see Nicolas on the couch when she went downstairs. He had asked some of the men to help him move the furniture back before they left, and Alex was part happy and part anxious to have him back in the room across the hall from her. The picking and drying of the red grapes was the most work they had done outside of the wine making since the harvest began. Even the reading of the journal had been put aside for now. Evenings were spent watching the tanks, and they all dropped into bed early, exhausted from the work of the day.
“Nicolas,” she called when she found the kitchen empty as well.
Thinking that he may have gone to check on the must, she went back through the parlor and out onto the porch to look for lights in the winery.
“I am here.” His voice was low, but it penetrated the night and sent an arrow right into her heart.
Alex turned around and saw him on the settee. She walked to one of the columns and looked up at the night sky.
“It’s a beautiful night,” she said as she felt his stare. There was a pulse in the air, like a heartbeat, their heartbeats. It wrapped itself around them like a Hispanic wedding lazo that was looped around the couple and bound them together. She was bound to him, and the rope tightened each day, pulling her closer to him, binding them together for eternity.
“I have not been fair to you,” Nicolas said, and Alex could hear the weight of his words but didn’t understand their meaning.
“What do you mean?” She went to the settee and sat next to him.
“I have not treated you like a lady, like someone I respect and,” his words trailed off, and he looked away.
“I don’t understand.” Alex tried desperately to figure out what he meant.
Nicolas shook his head and then bent over, placing his face in his hands. After a moment, he sat up and looked at Alex. He covered her hands with his.
“Alessandra, this living together, it is not right. It is not what you deserve.”
Was he kicking her out? Did he want her to leave? Her heart pounded and her eyes filled with tears. “You want me to leave?” she choked out.
“No, no, mi bella,” he let go of her hands and put his hands on each side of her face. “I want you to stay, but not like this. Do you not see?” Alex shook her head, and held back the tears that welled in her eyes. “Mia bella, amore mio,” he cried as he pulled her to him. He pulled back and again grasped her face forcing her to meet his eyes. “Ti amo, I love you, I want you here forever.”
“Then what is wrong? I don’t understand,” she said again.
“Amore mio, things have changed so much. You are no longer a guest in my villa, an unwanted business partner, or even someone I just want as a lover. I do not want you as a guest, a partner, a lover. I want you, all of you, for all time. I do not have a ring, I have nothing to offer you but a mediocre vineyard. But I offer you me, my love, for the rest of your life, if you will take me.”
“Nicolas, are you asking me...”
“Sì, sì.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “Mi vuoi sposare?”
Alex couldn’t stop the tears that began to stream down her face. She reached for Nicolas, pulled him to her, and kissed him. It was a sweet kiss, soft and tender, and he returned it in kind. When he pulled away to look at her, she smiled.
“Sì, Nicolas, lo sposerò te.”
“As if we didn't have enough to do already,” Maria playfully scolded Alex. “Now you want to have a wedding?”
“I suppose you’re too busy to help plan and be a part of it,” Alex said as they checked the final batch of grapes on the crush pad.
“Sì, I am too busy. Ho troppo lavoro da fare.”
“Too much to do to be my maid of honor?”
Maria stopped inspecting the grapes and looked at Alex. Her face lit up with joy, and she ran around the pad to hug her soon to be cousin. “Sì, troppo lavoro, but I will find time.”
“Look what you’ve done now,” Luigi punched Nicolas in the arm as they watched Maria and Alex from the field.
“Sì, we are in trouble.”
“Not me, mio cugino, not me.” Luigi laughed as he left his cousin to ponder his own fate.
“We should finish the journal soon, don’t you think?” Alex placed two plates on the table as Nicolas poured two glasses of wine. “Now that we will have more time in the evenings.”
“If we are able to start reading at night and don’t have any problems,” Nicolas replied. “Our days will not be so tiring now that all of the grapes have been harvested, and the must is past the dangerous time. Busy, still, but not exhausting.”
“I called Father Rulli today,” Alex said casually. Nicolas laughed.
“That did not take long.”
“Well, there is a process, you know. I figured the sooner we get that started and the sooner we get married, the happier you’ll be.”
“Oh, I’ll be happier?” He walked around the table and lifted Alex into the air. “It was I who said I could wait. Do you want me to change my mind?”
Alex giggled and then gasped. “Your ribs, Nicolas!”
“My ribs have been healed for some time.” Nicolas put her down and then turned her to face him. “We will both be happy. Forever.” He leaned down and kissed her so passionately that Alex almost forgot about the virtue that Nicolas had vowed to protect.
October 6, 1943
The Allies have crossed the Voltumo, the line set up by the Germans to establish their occupation of Italy. The war draws closer to us each day. The Germans are taking art and sculptures and transferring them “for safe keeping” to other countries, but Papá has learned that the Fuhrer is building a museum in Germany to hold all of the greatest treasures of the world. They have air dropped letters to the Italian people asking us to help them save the art and keep it from the thieving Americans and Brits. I threw them into the fires that are used to heat the must tanks. The wine is fermenting, and some is bottled. We try to live each day as if nothing has changed, but every strange car brings fear of a raid, and every plane overhead sends us running to the cellar. I am so tired of war.
October 13, 1943
We are back in the war, though in truth, we were never really out of it. Italy has joined the Allies and declared war on Germany. Our men are called to fight. Dr. Romano gave papers to Roberto exempting him from fighting, which is what I thought Roberto wanted, but now he is angry. He says it is different now. Now we fight to save our own land, our own families. He feels useless, but Papá has a plan.
October 14, 1943
We met underground tonight, Papá, Roberto, Padre Lorenzo, and I. We are not a wealthy town, and our public buildings do not hold works by Michelangelo or Botticelli, but we do have something precious and rare - a rather large Robbiano that hangs over the doors in the back of the church. Padre Lorenzo worries that it will be desired for the Fuhrer’s museum. There are many Robbianos throughout Italy, but none is like ours. It is just over two meters in diameter, round, and beautiful. The Virgin Mother holds the Babe, resplendent in blue and white, and lambs sit on each side of her. Roses of every color encircle them with leaves of the brightest green, and ivy trails around the edge of sculpture. I will admit that I have never thought of it as anything special. It was always just there, part of Our Lady of the Roses. I cannot say that I have ever even looked at it for more than a second. But to hear Padre Lorenzo say that it may be taken from us, sends a spear to my heart. Even removing it could cause irreparable damage. A slight bump could chip or even crack the entire work of art. I fear that the Germans may break it if they try to steal it, but more than that, I fear that we will break it when we steal it ourselves.
“A Robbiano?” Alex tried to think back to her days as an art student, but she couldn’t place the name.
“Sì, Della Robbia was a sculptor and painter, a very skilled artisan who helped sculpt the doors of the Baptistry in Firenze. Do you remember them?” Alex nodded, and Nicolas continued. “He created a special paint, a, what would you call it? A shiny overpaint?”
“A glaze?”
“Sì, sì, a glaze. He created a glaze for terra cotta. Do you know what this is?”
“Sì, we use it for outdoor plants in the States. It’s a type of clay.”
“Sì,” Nicolas’ face lit up as the full impact of Isa’s story hit him. “It is a clay that, as you must know, is orange and plain, rough and not pretty.” Alex nodded. “Allora. Della Robbia made this glaze for terra cotta. Only he knew the secret of the glaze. He sculpted pictures into the terra cotta. For the most part, they were religious like most Renaissance art. He sculpted angels, religious symbols, and many, many depictions of the Madonna and Child. The most famous are in Il Duomo in Firenze. He painted with bright colors - yellows, blues, greens, and a lot of white, more white than color sometimes. The terra cotta was completely unseen, and the pieces were much in demand because of their rarity and secret formula as well as their beauty. On his deathbed, he told his nephew the secret to making the glaze. You see pieces now in tourist shops in Firenze and cities in the north, but even these are not made with the exact formula as it was kept secret. Most tourists do not even know of their...” Nicolas looked at Alex for help.
“Significance?” Alex filled in quickly, reading his mind. Nicolas’ excitement was contagious, and she felt that they were on the verge of discovering something important, perhaps the very thing that Signora wanted them to find in the reading of the journal, other than each other.
“Sì, sì, significance. They do not know why these are sold in souvenir shops except that they are beautiful. By today’s standards, they do not seem to be representatives of priceless art.”
“Nicolas, perhaps I am just as unobservant as Isa, but I don’t remember seeing anything like she described in the back of the church. Am I blind?”
“No,” Nicolas put down the journal and jumped from the settee. “It is not there,” he said with excitement. “I did not know there ever was one. There has never been anything over the doors, which, now that I know, I see is very strange. Most other churches in Italy have something over the doors. I do not know why I never questioned it before.”
“Why would you? You grew up in that church. Nothing about it would seem strange or different to you.”
The clock chimed midnight, and Nicolas suddenly realized how late it was. “Alessandra, it is molto late. We must be up early in the morning. What do you want to do?” He held up the journal.
“Prudence would say that we should sleep...”
“Prudence?”
Alex laughed. “Wisdom. We should get some rest. Will you be able to go to sleep, or are you too excited?”
Nicolas looked at Alex with hunger in his eyes. “I face that difficulty every night and have since you arrived. I will manage.”
The following day seemed to drag on for Alex. Though it was Saturday, they were hard at work in the winery. She tried to focus on her tasks, but her mind was a jumble of thoughts—her growing love and passion for Nicolas, plans for the wedding, the war in Italy, and the missing Robbiano. Alex was anxious for Sunday to arrive so that she could see the space where Isa said that the artwork once hung. Had it been stolen? Damaged? Lost forever in a salt mine somewhere in Europe or reduced to a pile of crushed clay?
“How’s it going in there?” Alex teased as she looked over the top of the tank and into its depths where Nicolas filled the bucket with the second, heavier layer of solids left in the bottom of the tank by the fermented grapes.
“You can climb down and see for yourself.”
Alex laughed and hauled up the bucket.
She was learning that emptying the liquid and then clearing the tank of the solids is a process that takes several days. The liquid was transferred into smaller tanks to complete the fermentation process, and the solids were saved to be added back in later to enhance the flavor of the wine. What was not used would be sold to make other grape or wine flavored products.
At the end of the day, everything was thoroughly cleaned and readied for the next day. Nicolas showered under an outdoor faucet before going inside for a real shower. He and Alex ate a light supper before hurrying onto the front porch to read.
October 20, 1943
We have devised our plan, and there is not time to waste. More and more works of art are disappearing from Italy. Papà says that many of them have been hidden in villas in the countryside to keep them away from the Germans, but some of the most priceless works are unaccounted for. Papà has forbidden me from writing down our plans and has ordered that my journal be destroyed, and I understand why, but I feel that our actions must be documented somewhere. If something were to happen to any of us, the world must know what we have done and why. Otherwise our endeavor, even if successful, will be considered a failure. From now on, my journal will be hidden so that even Papà will believe that it no longer exists.
“That explains why it was hidden in the loft and how it remained there for so long,” Alex surmised.
“Sì, the loft is not often used, though I did play there as a boy. I still do not know how it was not found in all of these years.”
“Perhaps it was not yet time.”
Nicolas leaned down and kissed the top of Alex’s head.
“Sì, perhaps it was not.”
October 29, 1943
It is difficult for me to write now. With the journal hidden high in the eaves of the loft, I cannot so easily find the time and the opportunity to write all that happens. There has been much rain this week, and I feared that my words would be lost forever to the dampness, or worse, to a leak in the roof of the barn. It seems that it is safe, though, so I will keep it in its hiding place and write when I can.
The rain has hampered our plans, but it has also slowed down the progress of both the Allies and the Germans. This has given us more time to make the plans firm and for Roberto to be strong enough for his part. Papà is strong and healthy, but he is not a young man any longer, and the war and Paolo’s death have taken their toll on him. Padre Lorenzo is old and can do no more than direct us. The labor will be mine and Roberto’s. I pray that I am strong enough in mind and body to do what needs to be done.
“Well, there it is,” Alex said. “The journal was in the eaves above the loft. At some point in recent years, something must have dislodged it, and it fell onto the floor.”
“Sì, birds nest in the eaves of the barn. Perhaps one of them hit it and knocked it down.”
“Or Signora was finally ready for it to be found.”
“I am not a believer in ghost stories, but I think that you may be right.” Nicolas smiled and nudged Aex’s head with his chin so that she turned and looked up at him. He kissed her tenderly, and all thoughts of Isa, the War, and the journal were lost. Alex reached up and caressed his face as Nicolas pulled her to him. His lips left her mouth and trailed across her cheek to her neck.
“Ti amo, Alessandra,” he whispered into her ear. “I love you.”
“Ti amo, Nicolas,” Alex breathed as she relished the feel of his lips on her skin and the sound of his words against her ear.
After a few moments, Nicolas pulled back and gazed lovingly into her eyes. “I will see you in the morning, mia bella.”
“Sì, buona notte,” Alex answered breathlessly. As she stood and walked to the door, she turned to look up at the starry sky. She smiled and silently thanked Signora for her gift. Not the journal or even the vineyard, but for the chance to love and be loved unconditionally.