Chapter 13
Rot Creates Sweetness
I never got to see my great-grandmother give her original wine tours, so I don’t know how much Ro is nailing the impression of her grandmother, but she’s giving a stellar performance. Wrapped in a delicate shawl and cloaked in her frock from the old country, the new Mama Bianchi leads guests like a crypt keeper through the lamplit catacombs. The winery barn’s dark, cavernous hallways are earthy-looking structures made from stone and exposed beams of timber. Everything creaks ominously. If Ro wants to keep business booming beyond the Rose Festival, she should turn the wine tour into a Halloween haunt.
Just being here, I feel more creatively alive than I have all year in my city design courses.
As we round another corner in the cool, vaguely humid corridor, I mutter a silent prayer begging God/the universe/Mama Bianchi’s ghost not to turn me into one of those “the country is better than the city” assholes. There are simply fewer natural predators here, so my ideas are consistently met with unchallenged enthusiasm. Anyone with half a creative light bulb in their head would thrive under these conditions.
Still, a spooky wine tour haunt would be cute.
A shriek rings out, and half the tour ahead of me jumps.
As the tour crowds into the next room, I realize Mr. Cartwright simply screamed with glee at the sight of four large basket presses—wooden-slatted tubs that have been smashing grapes since my great-grandmother built the place. Heavy iron arms, operated by massive clockwork machinery, fill the pressing room with more ghoulish, rhythmic creaking as they plunge wooden platters into the vats of grapes.
Two winery operators—a man and a woman—stand on a raised platform to the side while operating the presses. They’re draped in heavy rubber aprons slathered with dark grape residue, and they’re too intently focused on their job to interact with us.
“Basket presses!” Mr. Cartwright gasps, impressed, into his phone. He’s been recording voice memos the entire tour. Each new detail of this old-fashioned winery has exploded his brain with joy. “Not a single piece of machinery here is younger than forty. I would’ve come years ago if I’d known.”
While the other guests glance at each other, slightly irritated, Aunt Ro describes the use of the basket press, how it’s more fragile than modern presses, and how the machines require round-the-clock maintenance.
“Guess that’s where all her money goes, not to landscaping,” a coarse voice whispers in my ear. The hairs on my neck prickle. I know it’s Ben before he reveals himself. He must’ve spiffed himself up after parking everyone’s cars and hauling their luggage. No more backward cap. He’s finally run a comb through his tangled hair and put on a fresh shirt.
I smirk. “You’re looking spit-shined.”
“I do look foxy most of the time.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it. Usually, you look like a wet dog that got loose.”
Chuckling, Ben flicks his tongue discreetly over his upper lip. “Boys in town don’t mind.”
“I bet they don’t.”
“Don’t think you mind, either, the way your eyes have been falling out of your head at me since you got here.”
“Please. Somebody get you a straitjacket.” We’re in the back of the tour, but the dark-haired girl and one of the two brothers keep turning around to hear what we’re saying. “Sorry,” I mouth to them.
“Don’t get your undies twisted,” Ben whispers, “I’m just here for free wine.”
“My aunt’s not gonna serve you,” I say, baffled.
Ben shrugs. “I helped save her business today, I’m getting a sip.”
“Don’t celebrate just yet. We only slapped a Band-Aid on the problem. We’ve got two months to put on the Rose Festival. That’s gonna be a whole new nightmare.”
“That’s a you problem. I’m just the muscle.” Ben tosses me a wink and grazes his fingertips across my back. I stiffen like a snake has coiled around me. The problem is, I’m stiffening everywhere.
He’s literally a human curse!
Each signal from Ben is radically different from the last. I have to think he just likes my attention, likes making me all mixed-up and paranoid. The boy who I used to love, who used to get under my skin, has now grown a foot taller and acquired chest hair and wide arms. He has weaponized messing with me, and if I don’t keep up my guard twenty-four seven, Ben McKittrick is going to gut me all over again.
And I don’t think I could survive it a second time. Not after this year.
Thank God Aunt Ro has arrived at her grand finale moment to force Ben and me to shut the hell up. It’s the moment everyone has been waiting for—the Invidioso e Grato moment of choice. Uncle Paul, cleanly dressed in a white button-down and slacks, presents Aunt Ro with a tray of evenly dispersed tasting glasses of whites and reds. She runs through her spiel again that envy and gratitude are the two sides of romance, each one serving a purpose.
“Envy allows you to savor defeat enough to recognize your gratitude,” she says, grandly gesturing at Uncle Paul’s tray. “You all seek the Wishing Rose to reveal your heart’s truth. But as some of us here have already warned you, that can be tricky.”
Ro gestures toward me, and the teens on the tour briefly pitch their necks backward to get a look at me, the heartbroken sideshow (their parents have their sights firmly set on Paul’s wine tray).
If being a cautionary tale is good for business, so be it. It should do somebody good.
I smile to let everyone know Ro’s comment was in good fun, but Ben isn’t happy about it. His heavy brow scowls at the gawkers, and he spins his finger in a circle. Get your eyeballs off him! his gesture seems to say, and everyone takes the hint.
When everyone turns back to Mama Bianchi, Ben’s strong, chapped hand finds mine. He squeezes, and my heart squeezes with it.
He stood up for me.
Even when I tried to laugh it off, he refused to join in.
My heart rises like a geyser, but my brain slaps a lid on it.
Stay strong, Grant. Ben is sweet until you drop your guard.
“Making a wish on the rose—finding your love—is a serious commitment,” Ro says with gravity as she clutches her shawl. “You must know your own heart before making your wish. Invidioso or Grato? Where does your heart truly lie? Are you lovesick? Do you want to make your wish because you want to possess someone you can’t have? Are your intentions pure? Or are you prepared to humble yourself and accept rejection if that’s what destiny has in mind?”
Ben doesn’t let go of my hand. With each passing second he holds me, the stitching around my heart—the sewing I had to do myself as a thirteen-year-old boy—comes undone. I can feel it bleed. The pain is sharp and quick, but the yawning ache that follows is worse.
Mesmerized, the crowd watches Ro. Even Mr. Cartwright has stopped talking. He holds out his phone to capture the show as Ro tosses the crowd a wicked, knowing grin. “True love isn’t nice,” she says coolly. “Is everyone ready?”
An anxious, tentative mass agreement erupts, and Ro sweeps through the tour. Uncle Paul follows with his tray. She studies each person, their panicked faces. She arrives at Mr. Cartwright, his creased smile struggling to stay up as his phone continues recording. Ro’s many-ringed fingers twiddle over the glasses of red and white, and then a selection is made.
Invidioso.
Mr. Cartwright exhales a pained gasp as Ro closes his hand lovingly around a glass of chilled chardonnay. He gazes at it like he’s been handed my curse on a platter. She warmly rubs his arm, reassuring him, “You have gratitude for beautiful things in life, like this winery. But you seek a traveling partner. Someone who will understand your particular ways. That hasn’t been easy, has it?” Struck silent, Mr. Cartwright stares at Ro, who gazes back with love. Love, openness, and intuitive understanding she’s shown me countless times in my life and on this trip. “Invidioso isn’t anything to be scared of. It just means you should approach the Wishing Rose carefully, with the sharp mind you’re known for, and you’ll find what you need.”
Aunt Ro drifts away, and Mr. Cartwright hungrily throws back the entire glass.
Before moving on to the shy girl’s mothers, Ro tosses me and Ben a twinkling glance. Maybe I’m narcissistic, but I think her speech to Mr. Cartwright was meant to do double duty for him and me. As if I’d ever go near that rose again with a wish in my heart.
One by one, the glasses are divided among the of-age guests. Invidioso to the dark-haired girl and middle-aged lesbian couple (Ro, your envy radar is a little homophobic), and Grato is delivered to the French woman and the middle-aged straight couple. Finally, Ro and Paul reach Ben and me with two glasses left—one Invidioso and one Grato.
The winery has become so humid, I have my eyes squarely set on some chilled Invidioso.
So does Ben.
Ro wags her finger, takes the Grato, and empties it into the Invidioso until it’s a fine, pinkish rosé. She raises it to her captive audience. “The color of a heart.”
Envy and gratitude.
With that, she gives Uncle Paul a quick kiss and drains the glass herself in one gulp.
Ben, Mr. Cartwright, and I burst into applause that spreads through the awestruck group. Aunt Ro curtsies in her Sicilian grandmother frock, gleefully accepting praise after such a long day—and a very long five years—of keeping Vero Roseto afloat.
The setting sun casts sharp beams into the window-paneled doors of the winery’s shop, a generously sized room with back walls stocked with all varieties of the Wishing Rose label. Next to the register, Uncle Paul mans a small refrigerated counter of jams, artisanal cheeses, and charcuterie. He, Ro, and Ben laugh heartily as they snack on marinated olives. Almost instinctively, the tour has separated into Invidioso and Grato groups. The Grato folk—the French woman and middle-aged straight couple with their sons—converse pleasantly over fuller glasses of red, while the Invidioso group—Mr. Cartwright, the lesbian couple and their shy daughter, and the sullen, dark-haired girl—chatter over their glasses of white with a more relaxed air.
I’m on my way over to Aunt Ro when Mr. Cartwright and the woman with the butch haircut wave me over. “Team Invidioso!” the woman crows. “We won’t bite!”
My stomach drops. They’re going to want to gossip about my video, and I’m not in the mood. I’ll probably never be in the mood, but my duties today are as host, so once again, it’s grab-my-ass-and-go time.
I drag a spare seat over to their bistro table—the view from our window is of the torn-up lawn reaching all the way to the rose garden. It’ll do for now. Thankfully, the sunset makes even mud look stunning.
“I’m sorry for my aunt,” I say in a low whisper.
“What for?” Mr. Cartwright blurts, almost offended. Sim-ilar confusion spreads over the rest of the table.
“You know, she gave all the gays the envy glasses.” Quickly, I glance over at the young dark-haired girl. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“I am.” The girl laughs, taking another sip.
I roll my eyes. Ro. Always stepping in it. “You see?” I ask. “She’s honestly really—”
Mr. Cartwright lands his palm softly on the table, interrupting, “I’m going to stop you before you dig yourself any deeper.” He grins. “Your aunt is a peach. And whether she realized it or not, she was right.”
“We were all just talking,” the shy daughter of the lesbian couple speaks up. “I don’t want you worried that we’re gonna bother you about your Wishing Rose video or…anything else you posted about. I mean, I’m sorry about all that, but we’re here for the rose. Promise.”
I swallow hard. It feels like this girl just took ten heavy bags of groceries off my hands. I slump back into my chair with relief. “Thank you. I’ve been stressing.”
Mr. Cartwright unspools the ascot from around his throat. “But, Grant, you should know, Invidioso was spot-on. Envy is wanting something someone else has. Queer people live with that all the time. It’s part of our journey. If you’re going to date, you’ll have to conquer it over and over.”
Exhaustion slaps me like waves on a beach.
Over and over? The envy. The want. The churn. Forever?
My gaze drifts to Ben, who is leaning against the counter with my uncle. Ben’s pants ride low, his shirt rides high, and the small of his back appears—muscled, taut, and dotted with hair.
Do I want Ben? Yes. Do I envy his easy charm and unburdened heart? Yes.
There’s just one question I can’t answer.
“Is it worth the struggle?” I ask, not taking my eyes from Ben.
The others at the table chuckle, but Mr. Cartwright sighs. “You’re asking the wrong people.”
“Um…” the dark-haired girl speaks up. We pivot to her. “My name’s Thomasin. I was reading a wine-making pamphlet in the train station.” Her eyes dart about the room. “Um, about how the grapes ripen. They have to rot first. They get sweeter as they rot.”
“Yes, my dear, I believe they do,” Mr. Cartwright says.
“The rot creates sweetness.” Thomasin nods as she digs through her satchel. Finally, she smooths out a crumpled scrap of notebook paper and reads, ‘Rot creates sweetness like innocence decays. I’m not a grape anymore. I can’t ever get that back. But as I rot, I sweeten, and the more pressure you put on me, the stronger I become, until finally, I’m no longer a rotten grape, I’m something very expensive.’ ”
Finished, Thomasin looks up at my stung, heartbroken face. Her mouth broadens with a nerdy, toothy smile. “I wrote that waiting for my Uber,” she says.
As the others quietly applaud, I can’t move a muscle.
It’s me. A glass of wine mourning the little grape he used to be.
Why is it so hard for me to see my value?
Hours later, the guests have gone to sleep in their East Wing rooms, which has left me without a bedroom while the West Wing’s renovation finishes. Ben, my uncle, and I gather in the downstairs parlor attached to the kitchen. This room is just for family, and it hasn’t changed since the eighties. Thick brown carpeting, heavy furniture, heavier drapes, and framed pictures of family members cover every surface. Paul lights a fire and opens the sliding door onto the patio to let in a breeze. Crickets and river frogs sing us into a dreamy haze as our long day finally ends.
Paul collapses into an armchair. Ben strips off his damp socks and curls into a ball on the arm of the sofa. He’s one sleepy kitty. His eyelids have turned purple with exhaustion. Not me, I’m wired. I pull off my socks, unbutton my shirt all the way, and flop onto the other side of the sofa.
We did it.
A minute later, Aunt Ro joins us. Out of her Mama Bianchi outfit and into her usual bathrobe, she carries in a coffee tray, then shuts us inside the parlor with a folding woven divider. As soon as we’re alone, Ro moans like she can finally stop holding a gargantuan rock.
“We did it!” she whispers, collapsing next to her coffee tray.
“You were Mama Bianchi,” I say, bowing my head.
Ro kisses two fingers at a framed picture of my great-grandmother. “You boys saved the day.”
“You really did,” Paul moans from the chair, his eyes already shut.
“I wasn’t gonna give you wine in front of the guests,” Ro says, spinning the coffee tray toward her, “but I think you’ve both earned a nightcap.”
Ben bolts upright like he’s been stuck with electrodes. He and I lean curiously over the tray to inspect our supposed adult prize: not wine; it’s four ceramic teacups, no bigger than shot glasses, lined with silver filigree. The cups are empty except for shaved pieces of lemon zest. Beside them on the tray is a silver Bialetti espresso pot and a bottle of Romana Sambuca. Without waiting, Ro begins mixing. A splash of sambuca over the lemon zest, and a boiling pour of espresso on top.
My heart jumps.
Grandpa Angelo made this all the time. I never got to taste it, but the sambuca bottle always smelled like licorice. Us kids badly wanted whatever was in those cups. Ben and I eye each other with excitement as Ro finishes pouring. This was something neither of us have thought about in years, but as soon as it’s presented to us, it’s all we can think about. Ben wets his lips, and I wet mine.
Wow. Adulthood. We made it.
“Vero Roseto, salud,” Ro says, raising her cup. Ben and I raise ours. Paul’s cup sits forgotten as hearty snores float from his corner of the room.
Salud, Grandpa.
We drink. Heat, sourness, and bitterness assault my tongue from all sides.
POISON.
Ben and I look at each other, and at the same time, our faces collapse in disgust, our tongues explode out on a pahhhhh sound, something close to a retch.
This is DREADFUL.
Full-body shivers strike me as the stinging licorice and burned black coffee rattle my central nervous system. Ben doesn’t look like he’s having any easier of a time with it. Meanwhile, Ro downs her cup, followed by Paul’s. Her eyes shut in ecstasy.
“BUGHHHHH,” Ben spits, coughing roughly. “Italians like this?”
“NO,” I say, revolted. “Ro, this is what you all drank so much? It stinks!”
Ro can’t stop laughing. Flat on her back, spent from the day, she shakes, tickled at how nastily she’s pranked us by giving us what we’ve always wanted.
The three of us celebrate our wins for a bit longer until sleep finally takes Ro, and she climbs into the armchair opposite Paul. I shut my eyes for a moment, the nasty licorice liqueur pulling me closer toward sleep. Everything has felt so chaotic for so long…
But somehow, today, I briefly forget to hate my life.
I actually might like it. The summer wind. The sound of frogs. My family portraits. The fireplace. Knowing that I helped turn a day at Vero Roseto into something unforgettable for other people. It all melds into a memory, something from my present-day life that I wouldn’t mind keeping. That’s so rare.
A soft and cool sensation presses down on my foot. I open my eyes…
Ben has slid his bare foot onto mine. Strong, smooth, and tenderly stroking mine.
I don’t hate it. What’s happening?
I groggily look up at him, and his exhausted, bloodshot eyes sway. Neither of us smile. It’s too intimate for that.
“Don’t drive home,” I whisper. “It’s so late.”
“Okay,” Ben says.
“There’s a sleeping bag in the game room. Next to my cot.”
Ben’s chest rises and falls grandly on deep breaths. He strokes the top of my foot, gently and methodically, like an otter swimming. “Okay.”
That’s when he reaches over. My back twinges painfully as I tense at the uncertainty of his intentions. But he just laces his fingers into mine. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I promise. I just want to know you again.”
“Okay,” I whisper. Finally, my back relaxes.
Then I do the thing I promised I’d never do. I drop my guard.