“Whenever my mother told my father that everything was fine, my sister and I knew it was anything but.”
Tara smiled, and I couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I pulled her back into my arms. “It’s very difficult for me to be around you and not kiss you, not touch you.”
“I feel the same way.” Tara finally looked into my eyes.
“So, what about going to the farmhouse?”
“I need to change my clothes.”
“If you’re tired, I could help.”
That got another smile out of her. However, not from me since she didn’t take me up on it.
“You have your car,” she said when we walked outside.
“I was in a hurry to see you.”
She smiled a third time, and as much as it made me want to kiss her, I wanted to get us to the farmhouse more. That way, when I did bring my lips to hers, I wouldn’t have to think about stopping.
The only thing I didn’t consider is how I would explain why I hadn’t offered to bring the groceries I’d picked up on my way back to Valentini into her casina and make dinner for her there.
When I parked and went to fetch the bags, she offered to help, but otherwise, didn’t say anything.
“What can I do?” she asked as I unloaded the bags.
“Are you interested in wine, or are you getting tired of it?”
“I’d love some,” she said, walking over to where several bottles were stored. I watched as she studied them. “Oh, you have a Biondi Santi.” She pulled the bottle out and held it up. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all. A favorite of yours?”
“I’ve never tried it, but I’ve been dying to. It’s said that the family invented Brunello.”
“How does one invent a wine?”
“Well,” she said, pouring two glasses after she ope
ned the bottle. “The story goes that in the mid-19th century, a local farmer, named Santi, nurtured a certain vineyard where he planted Sangiovese vines in a way he hadn’t any other. The soil, the sun, the rain—he believed—were as perfect a combination as there could ever be. He made wine from that vineyard only and aged it for several years. When Santi was given the opportunity to share it with the prime minister of Tuscany, the man declared it the best in all of Italy.”
She swirled the wine and inhaled, whimpering in that way I loved. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and I smiled.
“Santi named it Brunello, and since his vineyards were in the Montalcino region, Brunello di Montalcino was born.”
“Did you learn all that from Pia? That’s the wine they make, right?”
She took another sip. “Yes, and no. Or no, and yes.”
I cocked my head.
“No, I didn’t learn that from Pia, and yes, Valentini is known for their Brunello di Montalcino.”
“She wasn’t exaggerating when she said you know a lot about wine.”
“Wine and art,” she muttered. “I’m an expert in useless information,” she added under her breath.
I set down the knife I was using to chop vegetables for our dinner and walked over to her. “Not useless,” I said, putting my arms around her waist. “Pia picked up on that right away.” I leaned forward and kissed her. I couldn’t help it. When she was in my arms, I was powerless not to. I touched the tip of her nose with my finger. “If I keep kissing you, we’ll never eat.”
“I have to admit, I am hungrier than I thought I’d be. I was so exhausted when I got back to the casina tonight.”