an optimum sixty degrees, and pulled out a bottle. “I’ll give you a tour after we eat. Do you like that idea?”
I did. I desperately did, but first I needed to gather some intel, things that needed to be asked in person.
“That would be lovely,” I said. “But won’t your wife or girlfriend mind that you’re touring a former girlfriend around your home?” Yes, I asked just like that because I was the epitome of smooth.
He grinned. Then he shook his head. “I have no wife or girlfriend. Sono single.”
“How is that possible?” I asked. “I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous, and you’re like the grape whisperer of the vineyard, plus you live in a friggin’ castle. Are the women around here blind?” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Marcellino laughed, and the deep dimples that had so fascinated me when I first met him framed the curve of his lips, making me want to press my thumbs into them.
“There is my Chelsea,” he said. “So full of life . . . and questions.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and his gaze moved over my face, taking in the changes the years had wrought. “Honestly, the vineyard is my wife, my mistress, my one true love. I am not the carefree boy you once knew.”
“I’m not who I used to be either. I’ve changed a lot,” I confessed.
“As we do,” he acknowledged.
It was the perfect thing to say. Impulsively, I threw my arms about him and hugged him hard. Oh, I had missed him. He hugged me back and said, “We will spend time together, yes? And then we will talk about these changes, but first we eat.”
We raided the refrigerator, which was amazingly well stocked for a bachelor. Marcellino made us sandwiches with thick slices of cheese and meat, along with fresh greens. He garnished them with olives and pickled asparagus and handed me a plate and a glass of Chianti. He then led me to a sun-filled terrace off the dining room.
We stepped through the French doors and walked to a tall café table with two stools. From here, we perched like gargoyles, looking down at the tourists who were walking from the vineyard to the basement below us, where the casks of Chianti were stored.
Marcellino watched the traffic for a moment, and then he looked back at me. He smiled as if he enjoyed seeing me there. Then he took an olive off his plate and popped it into his mouth. It occurred to me that he looked perfectly at home, just as the lord of the castle should.
I took a sip of my wine, savoring the robust flavor with subtle notes of tart cherry and letting it roll across my tongue, when he said, “Dolcezza, why did you wait so long to come back?”
I choked. I didn’t mean to, but I inhaled some Chianti, and now it was caught in my throat, making me sputter and cough. I put my hand over my mouth to try to contain it, but my eyes were watering and my nose was running, because wasn’t that a lovely picture for a guy who hadn’t seen me in seven years?
“Sorry,” he said. He leaped from his seat and patted my back, gently but firmly, until I had my coughing fit under control.
“No, it’s all right,” I said. “You just caught me by surprise. I didn’t think we were going there right away.”
“I’ve thought so often of the morning you left,” he said. He gazed out across the hills before turning back to me. “The last thing you said to me was ‘I love you.’ It was the first time you’d said it to me, and my heart was so full of you all day I could barely work. I just wanted to be with you, but when I got back, you were gone. When I got your note, I understood your mother was ill, and when she passed, I knew you needed time. But as we kept in touch over the years, I always wondered why you didn’t come back.”
I picked at the thick crust of the sandwich bread on my plate. I didn’t know what to say. Marcellino was the only person I’d kept in touch with from my year abroad. It had begun with me explaining my abrupt departure and then dwindled to Christmas cards over the past few years. He had always said I was welcome to visit,