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The road stretched ahead of us, flanked by rows of cypress trees and endless vineyards—a landscape that felt like it had been painted by time itself. The rolling hills were a patchwork of olive groves, golden fields, and sunflowers swaying lazily in the breeze. Everyso often, a centuries-old stone farmhouse peeked out between the greenery, its terra-cotta roof warm under the afternoon sun.
The Tuscan sun bathed everything in a golden haze, and the scent of sun-warmed earth drifted through the car's open top.
“I feel like I’m in a scene from an old Italian movie,” I told him.
“Si. Like…Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow. And you’re just like Sophia Loren laughing in the passenger seat, hair wild in the wind.”
I didn’t mind at all that my husband compared me to the Goddess of Italian Cinema.
“I feel like I need to breathe slower and deeper…and never leave,” I marveled.
“That’s what a good holiday is. You want to stay forever.” He then glanced at me. “But if you want to move to Florence or Tuscany, I can make it happen. I’ll just work from one of our hotels here.”
I grinned, my heart warm because I knew he’d do it if I asked.
When had I become so confident in my husband? Sometime over the past few months, as he made it his life’s mission to win me back. And he had, hadn’t he? Because I was more in love with Dante than I had ever been. And this time, it was real because I loved him not just for the moments of passion or the way he made me feel but because I truly knew him. Understood him. And he knew and understood me.
“As you said, it’s a good holiday when you don’t want to go back home, but you have to; otherwise, you can’t enjoy the holiday.” I twirled my wedding ring. It was back on my finger, along with the diamond he’d given me as an engagement ring. He’d never taken his wedding band off. “So, where exactly are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. A good one. Perfect for a sommelier.”
I colored with embarrassment. “I’m not really a somm, Dante.”
“Sure you are,bella mia. Being a sommelier is not about getting degrees and passing exams; it’s about knowing wine, and you, Elysa, know wine.”
It was a compliment that touched my heart because it wasn’t just flattery—it was recognition. It meant something, coming from him. He wasn’t just humoring me—he believed in me. And that was worth more than any formal title.
Dante pulled into a family-run winery outside San Gimignano. Its stone façade was draped in ivy, and the smell of ripening vines was rich. Rows of Sangiovese stretched toward the horizon, their leaves deep green against the rich brown soil.
A broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin stepped forward.
Dante greeted him like an old friend, clasping his hand firmly. "Giosuè, quanto tempo."
"Ithasbeen too long!" Giosuè clapped him on the back before turning to me, his eyes twinkling. "And this is the wife?"
"Yes, this is Elysa. And you’ll want to pay attention, Giosuè. My wife knows her wine,” Dante said smoothly, with pride, which made my breath hitch. “Bella mia, this is Giosuè Neri, and this is his vineyard.”
“I’m no expert, Signor,” I deflected as I shook hands with Giosuè.
Giosuè grinned. "Ah, allora, vediamo! We’ll see, yes?”
He led us to a shaded terrace overlooking the vineyards, where glasses of deep ruby-red Chianti Classico were already waiting. This was my version of heaven.
Giosuè lifted his glass and expertly swirled it, watching the wine's legs slide down the sides like slow-moving silk.
“This,” he announced proudly, “is our pride and joy. Aged two years in Slavonian oak barrels, just enough to round out the tannins without overpowering the fruit.”
Even though French oak had become the gold standard for fine wines in most winemaking countries, many regions in Italy still favored traditional large-format Slavonian oak and had been since the early nineteenth century. Due to their tight grain and largersize, these barrels minimized oxygen exposure, allowing the wine to develop complexity while imparting more subtle flavors and softer tannins compared to the smaller French oak barriques.
I mirrored Giosuè’s movements, lifting my glass and swirling it. The color was deep garnet, almost velvety. I brought it to my nose, closing my eyes as I inhaled.
Dark cherries. Sun-warmed plums. A whisper of leather and tobacco. The faintest trace of violet.
I took a slow sip, letting the rich, structured flavors unfold on my tongue—blackberry compote layered with warm spice, a hint of earthiness, and a touch of balsamic depth that spoke of the sun and soil of Tuscany. The tannins were firm but elegant, holding everything together like a perfectly tailored suit.
I swallowed, savoring the lingering finish before setting my glass down.
Giosuè watched me with amusement. "Well?"