Whispers in the Vineyard

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rolling hills of Sonoma Valley as Elena Rossi's rental car wound its way up the familiar gravel drive. Ten years. It had been ten years since she'd last seen Villa Rossi, the vineyard her grandmother had built from nothing but determination and a cutting from the old country. Ten years since she'd fled this place, her heart shattered into as many pieces as there were grapes on these vines. The main house came into view as a sprawling Mediterranean-style villa with terracotta roof tiles and walls the color of aged parchment. Bougainvillea climbed the western wall in an explosion of magenta, just as it always had. Elena's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Everything looked exactly the same, frozen in time, as if the decade she'd spent building her career in New York had been nothing but a dream. But she wasn't the same. She'd left as a girl of twenty-three, running from heartbreak and the suffocating expectations of a family legacy she'd never asked for. She was returning as a woman of thirty-three, a successful wine consultant who'd made a name for herself advising vineyards from Napa to Bordeaux. The irony wasn't lost on her; she'd spent ten years helping other people's family vineyards thrive while her own grandmother's legacy had languished. Elena parked in front of the house and sat for a moment, gathering her courage. Her grandmother's lawyer had been clear: Nonna Maria had left the vineyard to Elena alone, bypassing her father entirely. But there was a condition. Elena had to live on the property and manage the vineyard for one full year. If she left before the year was up, the entire estate would be sold, and the proceeds donated to charity. One year. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five days. She could do this. Elena stepped out of the car, her heels sinking slightly into the gravel. The air smelled of earth and ripening grapes, of lavender and rosemary from the herb garden her grandmother had tended with such care. The scent hit her like a physical force, and suddenly she was twelve years old again, following Nonna through the rows of vines, learning to check the grapes for ripeness, listening to stories about the old country and the art of patience. "You can't rush wine, piccola mia," Nonna would say. "You can't rush love, either. Both need time to become what they're meant to be." Elena had thought she understood. She'd been wrong. "Elena?" The voice came from behind her, deep and achingly familiar. Elena's heart stopped, then started again with a painful lurch. She turned slowly, knowing what she would see but still unprepared for the reality of it. Marco Santini stood at the corner of the house, a pair of pruning shears in one hand. He was taller than she remembered, broader through the shoulders. His dark hair was longer, curling slightly at his collar, and there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before. He wore work clothes, faded jeans and a gray t-shirt that had seen better days and his forearms were tanned and muscular from years of physical labor. He was, impossibly, even more handsome than he'd been at twenty-five. "Marco." His name came out as barely more than a whisper. "What are you doing here?" Something flickered across his face hurt, maybe, or anger. "I work here. Have for the past eight years." "You... what?" "Your grandmother hired me as vineyard manager after old Giuseppe retired." Marco's jaw tightened. "She didn't tell you?" Elena shook her head, unable to form words. This couldn't be happening. Of all the scenarios she'd imagined, all the challenges she'd prepared herself to face, this hadn't been one of them. Marco Santini, the man who'd broken her heart so thoroughly she'd fled across the country to escape the pain, was the vineyard manager. Which meant if she stayed and she had to stay she'd be working with him. Every single day. For an entire year. "I should have known," Marco said, his voice flat. "Maria mentioned she was leaving the vineyard to family, but she never said who. I assumed it would be your father." "Dad didn't want it. He never did." Elena forced herself to meet Marco's eyes, those dark eyes she'd once known better than her own. "Nonna left it to me. With conditions." "Let me guess. You have to stay and run it for a year, or it gets sold." "How did you " "Because I know knew Maria. She was a romantic, but she was also practical. She wanted to make sure whoever inherited this place actually cared about it." Marco's expression softened slightly. "She talked about you all the time, you know. She was so proud of what you'd accomplished." The words hit Elena like a blow. She'd called her grandmother regularly, visited when she could, but it had never been enough. She'd always been too busy, too focused on building her career, too afraid of coming back here and facing the memories. And now Nonna was gone, and Elena would never have the chance to tell her how much she'd meant to her. "I should go inside," Elena said, blinking back tears. "It's been a long drive." "Elena, wait." Marco took a step toward her, then stopped. "We need to talk. About how this is going to work." "Tomorrow," Elena said. "We can talk tomorrow. I just... I need some time." She didn't wait for his response. She grabbed her suitcase from the trunk and walked toward the house, her vision blurring with tears she refused to let fall. Not here. Not in front of him. The front door was unlocked of course it was; this was still the kind of place where people didn't lock their doors. Elena stepped inside and was immediately enveloped by the familiar scent of her grandmother's house: beeswax polish, dried lavender, and something else, something indefinably Nonna. The interior was exactly as she remembered. Terracotta floors covered with worn Persian rugs. Whitewashed walls hung with family photographs and paintings of the Italian countryside. The massive stone fireplace that dominated the living room, with Nonna's favorite chair positioned beside it, a basket of knitting still sitting on the floor as if she'd just stepped away for a moment. Elena set down her suitcase and walked through the house in a daze. The kitchen with its butcher-block counters and copper pots hanging from the ceiling. The dining room with the long wooden table that had hosted countless family dinners. The library with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the desk where Nonna had managed the vineyard's accounts. Everything was clean and well-maintained. Marco's doing, probably. Or maybe he'd hired someone. The thought of him caring for her grandmother's house, preserving it exactly as it had been, made Elena's chest ache. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and found her old bedroom. It, too, was unchanged. The same white iron bed with its handmade quilt. The same dresser with the mirror where she'd practiced putting on makeup as a teenager. The same window seat where she'd spent hours reading and dreaming about her future. A future that had once included Marco Santini. Elena sat on the bed and finally let the tears come. She cried for her grandmother, for the years she'd lost, for the girl she'd been and the woman she'd become. She cried for the dreams that had died here ten years ago, and for the impossible situation she now found herself in. When the tears finally stopped, Elena lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The sun was setting, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. Through the open window, she could hear the evening sounds of the vineyard: birds settling in for the night, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant sound of someone Marco, probably closing up the equipment shed. One year. She could survive one year. Even if it meant working alongside the only man she'd ever loved. Even if it meant facing the past she'd spent a decade trying to forget. Elena closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but all she could see was Marco's face, the way he'd looked at her with those dark eyes that held too many memories. Tomorrow, they would have to figure out how to work together. Tomorrow, she would have to be professional and distant and pretend that her heart wasn't breaking all over again. But tonight, in the privacy of her childhood bedroom, Elena let herself remember.