Tuscany Hearts

A Glass of Chianti and Silence

The next time she saw him, he wasn’t wearing a suit.

It was late afternoon. The sun was beginning to lower, casting long shadows over the hills, and Anindya had taken refuge in the quiet terrace beside the workers’ quarters. Her legs ached from bending. Her hands were sticky with grape juice. She sat with her back against the stone wall, her braid loose, her blouse wrinkled from the day.

In her lap sat a small glass of water. Not wine. Not yet.

Then she heard his footsteps. Crisp. Controlled. Coming closer.

She didn’t move until his shadow reached her toes.

“May I sit?” he asked.

She looked up. He was wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar undone. No jacket. No armor. His hair ruffled by the breeze, his eyes unreadable.

“Do you usually ask?” she replied.

A pause. Then, a faint curve of his lips—almost, almost a smile.

“No,” he said. “But something tells me you’d say no if I didn’t.”

She moved her legs to make space, and he sat beside her on the edge of the stone. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough for the silence to sit comfortably between them.

For a moment, neither spoke.

He offered her a small bottle of Chianti. Red, rich, glowing in the low light.

“From the 2012 harvest,” he said. “My father’s last before he passed.”

She looked at the bottle, then at him. His voice held no sadness, only memory. She took the bottle, examined the label, and handed it back.

“I prefer water.”

He turned toward her slightly, his eyes narrowing.

“You work on a vineyard and refuse wine?”

“I work on a vineyard. I don’t owe it my soul.”

That made him pause.

“And yet,” he murmured, “you treat the vines like something sacred.”

She tilted her head, studying him.

“I’ve seen you,” he said, his voice softer now. “The way you walk between the rows. The way you touch the leaves as if they might bruise under your fingers.”

“I work with care,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I’m in love with the soil.”

“But the soil,” he murmured, eyes on her now, “might be in love with you.”

That silenced her.

Not because it was romantic. But because it was unexpected—from him.

Anindya turned her face away, pretending to watch the hills. A breeze stirred the olive trees, carrying the scent of crushed lavender and distant rain.

“Why are you really here?” she asked.

He didn’t answer at once.

“To settle,” he said finally. “To sign. To sell. To finish what my father left undone.”

She looked back at him, brows raised.

“To sell this place?”

He nodded.

“It’s just land,” he said. “Grapes and old stones.”

She said nothing. The silence between them grew heavy—not tense, but full. A silence that asked for more.

Finally, she spoke.

“Then why are you still here?”

His jaw tightened.

“I don’t know.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t press. She simply turned her gaze back to the golden hills, the vines glowing as if lit from within.

“I think you do,” she whispered.

And then, before he could speak again, she rose.

“Enjoy your wine, Signor Beaumont.”

He watched her walk away—barefoot, hair loose, hands still stained from the day’s labor. He said nothing.

But long after she disappeared among the vines, he remained seated there, with the bottle of Chianti untouched between his hands and the memory of her voice echoing like a prayer in the dusk.