The Gift: Vintage Vines, #1

Author's Note

This story contains references to verbal, emotional, and psychological abuse, which may be triggering for some readers. If you suspect that you may be experiencing any type of abuse, please contact:

911 for immediate assistance

a mental health professional

the United Way by calling 211, the national anonymous number, or by visiting https://www.211.org/

the National Domestic Violence Hotline by calling 1-800-799-SAFE (7233), visiting https://www.thehotline.org/ to chat, or texting START to 88788

the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline by calling or texting 988

You aren’t alone.

Chapter One

An urge to run out of this vineyard screaming thumps my awareness as I listen to the string quartet. Musical notes dancing through the crisp Italian air paired with bursting love in the newly married couple’s hope-filled eyes must have that effect on all happily married fellow musicians. There’s nothing wrong with me…or my marriage. Nope.

Look, I want my cousin’s marriage to be the most fulfilling, best decision she ever made. I’m talking about a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, if she wants them, and all that jazz. It’s not her fault the timing of her wedding isn’t perfect for this point in my life or that I can’t forget the way life used to be when I was beginning as a wife. Ten years later, I’m somewhere far from that picturesque stereotype. Now, Christian’s and my anniversary is around the corner, and the impending date pops into my thoughts more than expected.

But it isn’t the time to delve into those reflections right now, especially since he’s squeezing my hand and giving me a grin—contact that’s unusual these days. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything.

Returning his smile, I say, Gorgeous wedding, huh? The thin lining of tulle under my knee-length black dress itches more than the offbeat darkness I can’t put my finger on or shake. Ugh, let me be free—if only my enclosed, sticky thighs.

Yeah, they couldn’t ask for a better day. Christian looks around, prompting me to take in the moment for its beauty.

First of all, there’s his beauty. That glowing tan skin, those small but powerful umber-brown eyes. Oh, how they suck me in like the day I met him.

He catches my glimpse, and I curve my lips upward then swivel my head to take in another scene of beauty—the rolling hills of vines filled with grapes spread out before us, AKA the epitome of romance. Listening to the deep sound of the cellist’s smooth strokes frosts the cake in the trio of contentment. I wish I could eat this place and return to it anytime I need escape.

You’d think I could stay in this zone, but as I sip the pinot noir in my glass and savor its hint of cherry, an ounce of envy enters my soul with the thought that people still love to play their instruments. And I mean love. Those performers look like they’re having the times of their lives. For them, it must be a simple relationship, a simplicity I know nothing about anymore.

Is this tulle ever going to stop itching?! I shimmy my hips and unscrunch my nose. Refocus, Toni. This isn’t a place for anything but joy. It’s a wedding!

Continuing to scan the view, the dry yet silky wine slides down my throat as a wave of calm embraces my body. Being outside has this effect on me, where I can get out of my head. How could it not when there’s no restriction on space? Oh, to be as light as the notes in my glass, embraced by their clear view of nature. Wine’s original home always feels like mine as well.

Directing my gaze on Rocca di Montalino, the fortress on top of the highest hill, the varying sizes of its rectangular windows gleam in the sunlight. The beige stucco walls and red tile roof set against the green land and blue sky spark flowing melodies in my mind. Imagine all the starts of marriages that house has overlooked down below, when couples think it’s only up from here…

Toni, my dad calls out from behind.

Saved by the bell, or…the dad.

Yeah, Dad? I let go of Christian’s hand and turn around to see an accordion strapped to his chest. I’m not sure what’s wider, the bellows on the extended instrument or his smile.

I laugh. Um, Dad, whatcha doin’?

You can’t have a wedding in Stradella without an accordion, he answers.

What was I thinking? I slap my forehead.

Your Great-Uncle Roberto brought his dad’s here today, since it’s tradition.

Well, let’s hear something, Christian requests, angling his head.

Dad whispers in response, Not during aperitivo, Christian. Maybe I can play ‘La Tarantella’ after dinner. Dad’s deep brown eyes light up as he fingers the motion on the keyboard while staring into the distance.

I grip his broad shoulder and say, One bit of good luck from the song and a bonus when you play it for them. Double the pleasure.

That’s right. Just as Dad, right on time, adds, You need to visit the famous accordion museum, my sense of smell alerts me to the salame d’oca to my left.

One sec, I tell him while grabbing a slice of this region’s famous spicy goose meat from the waiter’s tray.

Don’t you think you need a napkin, Toni? Christian asks.

I’m good, I say, throwing the chunk of meat in my mouth.

He should know his wife by now. A wife that doesn’t worry about napkins or getting her hands dirty. I know when I need to restrict myself, but this isn’t one of those times. Is anyone paying attention to my eating habits besides him? Doubtful. Now, if I was at work or shaking hands or something, I’d be more mindful. Give me a little credit, hubs.

Toni, Dad says while continuing to grace the keys of the accordion strapped to him with one hand while pushing away a lone straight strand of thinning light-brown hair with the other brawny hand. If the inventor of the modern-day accordion hadn’t stopped here in his travels and decided to fix his broken accordion back in the 1800s, we wouldn’t have Grandpa’s, made right here in the factory.

I’ve heard this story, oh, only five hundred times in my life, especially when we visit the city of our family’s roots, but its lightness is a welcomed guest. I know, Dad. Mariano Dallapé changed the world, and he deserves all the praise. We’ll see if we can make it there before leaving for Milan tomorrow. I dip my head and quickly lick my fingers from the greasy salame, then look at Christian for confirmation of the possibility.

He half nods but looks away and takes a deep breath before returning eye contact. Can you please stop embarrassing me? he mutters through gritted teeth.

Whoa, he’s in one of those moods. Is it the salame? The proposed schedule detour? I can hardly keep track, and I can’t get pulled into this right now. Well, I can at least try not to get sucked into his pit.

But what I won’t try is to be someone I’m not. He didn’t marry someone different than who he sees now, so what’s with the attitude? I guess I should’ve noticed his shift years ago, but I thought it’d be temporary. Nobody thinks the man they love can make you feel like gum stuck on the bottom of a shoe at all, let alone for years.

The quartet’s performance ceases, and I move on too, though still not escaping flashes of being reminded of the career I’ve come to resent. No philharmonic wants me to play with them. I guess I have to get used to the fact that my cello and I will never be a part of the cool club.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a savior. Olives, I blurt out. Be back. Distraction is key when in denial about life choices.

As I wander over to the staff member carrying my prize, I carefully weave between boisterous guests talking, singing, laughing, eating, and drinking with intense joy. There’s no louder setting than an Italian wedding. Swirling my wine on the journey, the sweetness of the grapes grown right here in the Oltrepò Pavese wine region wafts into my nostrils. Ah, that’s the good stuff—the stuff that’ll make me forget about what lurks at home in Los Angeles and let me enjoy the present.

Grabbing assorted Mediterranean olives on toothpicks from a muted vine-painted bowl, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

You don’t get any for your sister and mom? Flora’s hands are on her hips as she exaggerates annoyance through crinkled eyes.

Yeah, what’s the deal? Mom chimes in to help her daughter tease me.

Seeing their faces works as well as the wine does for my own mood. I only have so many hands, you know? I retort as I hold up each filled hand and smile.

Likely story, sis. Flora smiles in return.

Seems like antipasti is starting, so let’s sit down at our table. Come, come. Mom leads the way with her gathering hand gesture.

Dad and Christian are already seated when we reach our spots, along with Uncle Roberto and more loving family members. I don’t know if it’s the wine, the food, or my typically battling thoughts succumbing to my heart’s desire to enjoy every second of this needed vacation, but I sense an unfamiliar slowness wash over me as I sink into my chair. Is the Italian way of living finally taking over Italian American me, shooting through my DNA straight to this instant? Is there still hope to achieve la bella vita?

I’d love that, but in reality, it’s probably the effect of the wine, which’ll leave my system in the familiar tune of dreams escaping me over the last decade.

Chapter Two

After warming my stomach with a few slurps of zuppa alla pavese, a gratifying surprise that it’s not in the next course as primi, I remember how much I used to crave it every time we visited here in the fall, and today is no different. Toasted, buttered bread in vegetable broth with a poached egg and grated grana cheese on top is our region of Italy’s take on minestrone soup, and it always hits the spot. If only this was an American-sized portion… As I scoop up the last bit of my treasure, Uncle Roberto pokes my side.

Ay, la mia bella nipote. He holds up his glass of wine.

He’s always been my favorite uncle—and not just because we’ve been the same height for as long as I can remember—so hearing him call me his beautiful niece warms my heart as much as this wine. I hold it up to clink glasses with him. Salute.

Sì, sì. Are you having a good time in our city? His heavy Italian accent makes every word waltz between us.

I am. I look to my other side toward Christian, who’s talking to Flora. They always get along well. I wish we could as consistently as them.

What’s this, this…space…—he wrinkles his already creased forehead—distance in your big brown eyes? Placing his fingers under my chin, he gently lifts it to match our eye levels.

How can he tell? Nobody else seems to notice a difference. He’s my great uncle for a reason, I guess.

Distance? Oh, no. I’m just enjoying the dinner. Look, here comes the primi. Can I speak any faster?

The server places a dish of risotto in front of me. I lower my head to take a whiff, holding back my curls from drifting over my shoulders and into the dish I can’t wait to devour.

An uncle knows. But maybe I can bring you back to where you are. Here. He looks around the tent and swipes his hand over his bald head possessing about three hairs. You see those vines out there?

I hear his question but mentally float away by taking a bite of what I know is risotto Pavese—it can’t be mistaken. Not with its Italian borlotti beans, carrots, onions, garlic, tomatoes, celery, and, of course, grated cheese. The Pavia province is all about rice and wine. Wine—

Yes! I come back to the wedding. No, not distant at all.

You are very excited for the vines, sì? Uncle Roberto chuckles.

For sure! bursts out of my mouth a decibel too high. I smile at my exaggerated response, also by glancing beyond my uncle to the vineyard. The clusters of purple grapes within my view, linked to their secure bright-green leaves and whimsical brown vines aren’t a site I can witness in Southern California. We are one lucky family to be here.

And we always have been. You know us Agostis had a vineyard here a long time ago, right?

I do. My parents brought Flora and me to the land the last time we visited Stradella. It’s so sad that it was lost to the phylloxera bug.

He clenches his chest. Oh, you know how to get an old man right here. They called it the Great Wine Blight of the late 1800s. Nobody ever forgets that time because they never want to lose their vineyards to a disease ever again.

I don’t blame them. It sounded awful. Devastating. I soothe the ache of my family’s tragedy with another bite of the buttery risotto.

"Many families gave up winemaking, but not the Agostis. He points his finger in the air. That’s how you ended up living in California, after all."

You know, my dad told me the story in the past, but I don’t remember all the details. Some of us stayed, and some of us came back here, like your direct family members.

That’s right. He moves his head up and down. But do you know what our family did for work in your California?

I swallow, pause my opening lips, and come up blank. I’ve actually never given it thought. How strange. My brow scrunches as I sip more pinot that was just refilled by the waiter.

They opened a winery!

They did not.

They did, la mia nipote. A successful one, in Los Angeles.

That can’t be, Uncle Roberto. There aren’t any wineries and especially not vineyards there. I laugh at the thought of rows of vines existing in place of the familiar concrete jungle.

I do not lie to my sweet one. Our ancestor Pietro made the journey in 1911, all the way from here, to Genoa, to New York City, and on to your city after the family tried and tried to make the vines come back to life. Once they couldn’t have their winery and couldn’t make it in related industries, they decided to give America a try. To bring back the wine in our veins. As he slams his fist on the table, everyone’s heads turn to us.

What’s your uncle filling your ears with over here? Dad asks, leaning over Uncle Roberto and smirking.

Nothing but truth! he answers in the same concentrated tone with his usually tiny amber eyes popping wide open.

The winery our family had in California was in LA? How? Where? I ask my dad.

Yes, it was down by the LA River. A friend from here told our family member about land in California that was similar to this land, so Pietro gave it a shot. Plus, I heard he had a friend who made wine barrels who’d also moved to America. The guy was from the family who used to make them for our family here.

"This is wilddd. Right under our noses, our family has land back home?" I inquire.

Uncle Roberto chimes in, Well, unfortunately not anymore. Once Prohibition came, our winery business died for its final time. Pietro tried to sell the wine to churches for communion, to doctors for medicine, and even as cooking wines, but nothing worked. Nothing was good enough to keep it going. He looks down and shakes his head.

What a shame, Dad adds. I would’ve loved to run a business like that.

My heart jumps at Dad’s statement. Yeah, tell me about it. I imagine walking in harmony with the land through my family’s vineyard, grabbing the thin leaves and palming the plump grapes. I’d be free to wear my sneakers, T-shirts, and jeans…unlike dresses like this that I have to wear too often for performances.

Die, tulle, die.

A winery in LA still doesn’t make any sense, but hey, Pietro made it happen. I could too. The ridiculous, fleeting daydream halts as my attention travels to Christian’s stillness.

Did you hear that story? I ask him.

Yeah, who would’ve known, huh? He voices a normal reaction, but his tone sounds like he can care less. Has the phylloxera bug returned and gone where the sun don’t shine?

All I know is I wish I still had the passion for the cello that Pietro had for winemaking. Would I move across the ocean to a new country to continue my playing? That’s a hard no. I can barely create enough energy to get out of bed in the morning to go to one of my jobs. If only the thrill I used to have for my career would return.

Just as I stand up to grab treats I can’t miss from the dessert table, the best man makes it over to our table to sell us a piece of the groom’s tie.

I’ll contribute to the honeymoon, offers the cheerful Christian I sometimes still capture glimpses of—about as often as Halley’s Comet.

How sweet, babe. I tap his back with unconscious force, and he jolts forward, almost hitting the tray in front of him and knocking off all the pieces of the tie.

My teeth clench. Oops, sorry.

You don’t know your own strength, Mom comments. Unresolved anger? She chuckles while tightening her lightweight shawl and moving the ends of her curly, walnut-colored shoulder-length hair out from underneath it.

Thinking, uh, maybe, I scream, No! instead.

Christian smirks and makes the exchange.

I snatch his tie-scrap-free hand. Come on. I’ll make it up to you.

You’re fine. Don’t worry, Christian says but surrenders to my arm pull. His soft, warm hand has a gentleness to it.

Can I step on solid ground from the typical eggshells covering my path?

Taking a deep breath and remembering this luxury, we arrive at the dessert table. My eyes widen as I witness the sweets awaiting my mouth. "Yessss. Both of my faves from this area. I love those oval shortbread cookies."

What are they called again—off lele Pavia?

I giggle. Close. Offelle di Parona. The city of Parona is in this province of Pavia. I know it’s confusing, but—oh, look at the inside of the torta paradiso. I bend down to examine the interior of the sponge cake. Looks like custard. I’m in.

I think you were ‘in’ no matter what. He laughs.

Another step away from eggshell row. Phew.

Alright, dig in. I’m going to go get some dessert wine to dip cookies in then grab the goods. My eyes don’t leave the target.

No, I’ll get it for you.

My head jerks backward, but I try to play off my shock by not changing my facial expression. Thanks. He doesn’t even like wine, so he’d only be getting it for me. What an unusually thoughtful move.

He leans down to plant a peck on my lips. Will you bring me back dessert, then?

All over it. Meet ya at our table.

Meandering through the dancing guests with my overfilled plates, a tinge of hope for my marriage echoes through my chest. Maybe we will make it to that tenth anniversary after all. Italy may be just what we need to heal whatever the heck is broken with us.

Chapter Three

The morning frenzy alerts my heart that I may’ve been wrong about us last night, but it also tells me the wine wasn’t slowing my pace. As I sit on the hotel bed, sipping cappuccino, Christian swirls around me as if he’s had three to my one frothy jolt. We have time, you know, I say.

Don’t you want to get to Milan? We have a lot to fit into a day and a half. And we slept later than I thought we would.

Sorry. Yeah, I do want to get there, but I also want to enjoy every single second of being in Stradella. I inhale a whiff of my drink. "Then, driving through allll the cities in the Lombardy region until we return to Milan."

Christian places the back of his hand on my forehead and angles his head. Are you okay, Toni?

Yeah, why?

I’m not used to this side of you. He returns to rolling his clothes, making sure to fit them tightly into his suitcase that’s next to me.

I don’t know what happens when I come here. I walk toward the window, finally comfortable again in my red low-top Converse sneakers and jeans, and absorb the dew-covered greenery and sparkling Po River in the distance. Don’t you remember the last time we came?

The crinkling sound of him shuffling his clothes stops, so I turn around.

I guess so. Maybe I just didn’t notice before. You used to complain a lot less about…well, everything. He sneers.

"Well, the last time we came, I also didn’t have three jobs and have to run around like a chicken with its head cut off when we’re home. I thought I’d only have to hustle for a few years at most before getting into the LA Philharmonic, but I kind of have to keep up the pace or there’s a domino effect. My schedule can’t take alterations." Turns out, the beauty of the Po Valley outside of these walls can’t take away the reality that awaits me later this week.

Christian walks toward me and grips both of my hands while he stares into my eyes with his beauties. Slow down. Take a breath.

I do as suggested and exhale with such force that the curled-up ends of the otherwise straight hair tucked behind his ears bounce.

He removes one hand from our grasp and smooths his upper slicked-back hair into place then returns his hand to mine.

God forbid one of those dark-brown babies be out of place.

That’s more like it. The corners of his thin lips curl as if following their neighboring feature. Let’s enjoy the remaining time we have left. And you’ll handle things like you always do when we get home. Or, you know, just think of seeing Nala again for now. She’ll bring a smile to this pretty face.

I let go of his hands to give him a hug. Thanks. I needed a reminder that I’ve got this. His tall, lean body sends familiar comfort through short, petite me. Now, back to today. And remembering our furry feline friend waiting for us at home. She always eases the misery of my life.

When I back away from the embrace, I notice Christian squinting, yet he remains quiet and returns to packing.

Uh-oh. Misery may be a stronger word than needed. Just keep the conversation moving, Toni. I’ll grab the toiletries from the bathroom. That’s all I have left to gather.

A few minutes later, when I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of our rental car, I remember the accordion museum. It’s not worth asking Christian if he minds stopping, because I already know the answer. Dad will have to be satisfied that I’ll return to it the next time I travel here. At least I visited it as a kid.

Christian clicks his seatbelt into place. Let’s hit the road, Jack.

Onward! I point at the windshield as I put the car into drive and push down the desire to see the prized accordions.

Driving out of the city, I make sure to pass through its Piazza Vittorio Veneto, where the Civic Tower has stood solid in the main square for centuries. The only time I’m glad to stop for a traffic light is when I can stare at the giant, red-brick clock tower from early Roman times. Its tan top third above the tapered brick archways and below the round clay roof tiles houses the bells on all four sides. As a child standing at the bottom of the tower, I always felt protected by its stately height.

Toni, the light’s green.

Oh, sorry. I snap back to being age thirty-five, but the momentary reminiscing urges me to change my mind and ask, Hey, what about hitting up the accordion museum before we leave? I think it’s open by this hour.

Without hesitation, he snaps, No way. We already started later than I thought we would today. There’s no time to lollygag.

Um, that’s the best part of coming to Europe. It’s all I can do not to drive directly to the museum this second. Sigh. I should have listened to my first thought. So much for avoiding angering him.

Stop being an idiot. Just keep driving—if you can even handle that part of the plan. He grunts as he fires the last few words, shifting his attention to the side window.

"Excuuuse me? I make a simple request, and it’s straight to bash Toni time." Who the hell does he think he is, talking to me that way in the homeland? I mean, it’s never okay, but come on, have some respect. For something. For someone. We can’t even function here, in sacred Italy.

You always try to veer off course, and I’m tired of it. Can’t you ever be normal? His voice fills the car with heat.

I mumble, Maybe I don’t enjoy being trapped in a clock, analyzed every second of the day and for every move I make.

He slams his fist on the dashboard. Someone has to keep you on track, and that will never be you, buzzing here and there in fantasies of living the artist dream while I sacrificed my screenwriting dream and took a stable job for us.

I jump in my seat and shout, I didn’t ask you to do that! My God, this endless topic can rear its ugly head anywhere in the world.

You didn’t have to! That’s what grownups do. Someone has to have health insurance for us, he huffs.

"I knowwww! I’m trying to get in LA Phil and have one job. That’ll give me my own insurance, and I won’t have to use your plan. Oh, the cost for two people versus just you—I’ve heard it enough, Christian."

That’s just how it is. He inhales a huge breath and places his hand on my lap.

My body flinches in response.

Look, he continues, I know you’re trying to reach your goal, and I support that, even when it seems like I don’t. But I know what’s best for us. I’m the brains of the operation.

My gag reflex warns me of my true feelings, but Christian’s mixed message signals guilt for causing an issue as well. I should’ve known better than to act on impulse. Try to focus on the support part of what he said, Toni. He means well.

Not realizing I’d been gripping the steering wheel so tight that my hands are clammy, I loosen them for some sense of relief. I don’t want to upset you. I just want to have a good vacation, and I guess I wasn’t thinking about honoring the itinerary we agreed upon. Mostly you, Christian, but whatever. I’m sorry.

Tone Tone, we’ll go to the museum next time. He rubs my thigh.

Okay, one, he only calls me by his self-proclaimed genius musical pet name when he’s trying to appease me. Two, he does see a next time of us coming here, so that’s optimistic for our future together.

Stop.

Where did that thought come from? Like my marriage is in shambles? I think not! All couples go through rough patches. We’ve just been scatting instead of bopping to a pop song. We’ll get back in our groove.

I grin and glance at my husband, who’s making puppy-dog eyes back at me.

Fine. Next time. You have to promise.

Pinky swear. He holds out his little finger to seal the pact.

Maybe some time alone in Milan will do us some good. Family time is wonderful, but a chance for a little romance may be just what we need to kickstart us again, to return to how we used to be. Ah, the good old days.

As we turn onto the road leading us out of Stradella, I mentally say goodbye to the surrounding vineyards lining the hills in all directions. Sure, there’ll be more on the way to Milan, but they won’t be Stradella vineyards—the land of my ancestors. I breathe in the fresh September air and drive, but not without thinking of Pietro once more.

Chapter Four

As we approach the outskirts of Milan, I adore the mustard-yellow buildings with matching orange shutters that always alert me we’re nearby. The reddish-brown Mediterranean clay roofs glisten in the bright sun so much I wish I had my sunglasses accessible. Taking a swift glance at the floor of the backseat—if you can call it that in this toy car—I see I won’t be able to reach where my handbag slid. My SUV at home must be three times the size of most cars in Italy, but I usually keep my bag in the front seat for easy access. I could use that towering machine that makes me feel tall and powerful right about now.

Do you need something back there? Christian asks.

Oh, yeah. It’s okay. My eyes strain to open to their usual width.

No, what? I can get it, he offers.

Well, someone seems like he’s in a better mood. Maybe his catnap did the trick.

My sunglasses, I say, pointing. In my bag.

He reaches behind him and whips them out, even cleaning them with the cloth from the case before handing them to me.

See, this is what’s so confusing about him. The varying between the solid Christian I used to know and the fluctuating Christian he’s been more and