Crushed Grapes and Kisses

The Tuscan sun shouldn't have been shining. Not today.

Lexi Thompson stepped out of the sleek black Mercedes, her heels crunching against the gravel of the old churchyard, and blinked behind her oversized sunglasses. The sky was too blue, the cypress trees too still. The air smelled like rosemary and earth and grief. She hated how beautiful it all was.

She hadn't been here in over a decade, not since her parents had divorced and whisked her off to Manhattan, leaving behind the vineyards of her childhood like a forgotten fairytale. Now, the fairytale was ending-without warning and without ceremony. Her grandfather, Giovanni Moretti, was dead.

The village chapel hadn't changed. Same crumbling stone façade, same iron bell tower, same blooming vines creeping up the side like nature refused to be kept out. She swallowed a lump in her throat as she adjusted her black dress, pulled her cardigan tighter, and took a hesitant step forward.

The locals had already gathered-graying men in pressed suits, women in black with scarves and red-rimmed eyes. Lexi felt the weight of their glances. Foreign, curious, cautious.

"That's Giovanni's granddaughter," someone whispered in Italian.

"The American."

She kept her head high. She didn't owe them anything.

Inside the church, candles flickered under stained glass windows, casting jewel tones across the worn pews. The scent of incense and aged wood wrapped around her like a memory. She slid into the back row, hoping to stay unnoticed, but a familiar voice startled her.

"Alexandra."

She turned. Don Marco, the village priest, wore his white robes and a gentle smile. His eyes crinkled with warmth, though they were damp with grief.

"It's Lexi now," she said softly, managing a smile.

"You look so much like your mother." He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He spoke of you often."

Lexi wasn't sure if that was meant to soothe her or guilt her. Either way, it didn't work.

The service was short and solemn. Italian hymns she barely remembered. Stories of Giovanni's generosity, his dedication to the vineyard, his stubbornness-God, so much stubbornness. When they carried out the casket, Lexi stood but didn't follow. She stayed seated, alone, watching the dust swirl in the shafts of light until the chapel was empty again.

Outside, the sun still refused to go away.

---

She found herself standing at the edge of the vineyard just past noon, her heels sinking into the soft ground. Rows of vines stretched out like soldiers in formation, their leaves trembling in the breeze. This land-this legacy-had once meant something to her. As a little girl, she'd run barefoot between the rows, her grandfather's laughter echoing behind her.

She clenched her jaw.

Those memories were buried now, like him.

A throat cleared behind her. She turned.

A man stood there-tall, lean, impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks. He had the kind of face that looked like it belonged in a cologne ad: chiseled jaw, tousled dark hair, piercing grey-blue eyes. And yet, something in his expression said trouble.

"I'm Étienne Dupont," he said, his French accent curling around the words. "I work for the vineyard."

Lexi blinked. "Since when?"

"Since your grandfather hired me. Four months ago." He offered a hand. She hesitated, then shook it. Firm. Confident. Slightly too warm.

"I didn't realize he needed help."

Étienne gave a small, unreadable smile. "He needed more than help. He needed saving. The vineyard is in trouble, Miss Thompson."

Lexi's stomach turned. The idea that her grandfather-strong, proud, invincible-had been struggling? Alone? She hadn't known. She hadn't asked.

"I'm only here for a few days," she said coolly. "Then I go back to New York."

Étienne raised an eyebrow. "Then you'd better decide quickly what to do. Because the harvest waits for no one."

He turned and walked back toward the house, leaving her standing among the vines-confused, irritated, and just a little intrigued.

---

That night, the house was too quiet. The walls whispered with echoes of the past, and the scent of olive oil and dust hung in the kitchen like an old secret. Lexi poured herself a glass of wine-the last bottle labeled with her grandfather's signature-and took it out to the terrace.

She sat on the edge of the wooden bench, watching the stars blink awake. A cicada buzzed somewhere in the dark. The weight of the day pressed into her chest.

Her fingers traced the lip of the glass, and a memory rose uninvited.

---

She was nine. Giovanni had just bottled the season's rosso, and the cellar was heavy with the scent of fermenting grapes. Lexi crouched beside a crate, her fingers sticky from stolen sips, her cheeks flushed with laughter.

"One day, this vineyard will be yours," he said in Italian, kneeling beside her. His voice was rough but fond. "Even if you live in America, the vines will always know your name."

She had wrinkled her nose. "But I want to be a fashion designer, Nonno! Not a farmer."

He laughed, the sound echoing off the stone. "Even a fashion queen needs wine, tesoro."

---

Lexi blinked, pulling herself back to the present. Her glass was empty.

She leaned back against the cushion, staring at the sky.

She had spent years running from this place. But somehow, it had waited. And now it was calling her back-through vines and grief and unfinished promises.

Whether she liked it or not.

---

The next morning began with the crackle of dry leaves and the smell of warm bread. Lexi was startled awake by a knock at the door and the sound of chickens fussing in the courtyard. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then she blinked at the beamed ceiling and the terracotta tiles.

She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and shuffled downstairs. A note had been slid under the door.

"Come to the tasting room. 9 a.m. - É.D."

Typical, she thought. Not even a full day had passed, and the handsome oenologist was issuing orders.

Still, she went.

The tasting room smelled of cork and old wood, with dusty sunlight filtering through high windows. Étienne stood at the table, uncorking two bottles.

"You're late," he said without looking up.

Lexi crossed her arms. "You're French. I thought you'd appreciate fashionably late."

Étienne smirked. "In wine, timing is everything."

He poured two small glasses. One deep ruby. One pale gold.

"What is this?"

"A test," he replied. "To see what you taste."

Lexi stared at the glass. Then she took a sip. Berry. Spice. Sun.

Another memory crept in.

---

She was fifteen, moody and sunburnt, forced to spend the summer in Tuscany while her friends vacationed in the Hamptons. Giovanni had handed her a notebook and said: "Taste. Describe. Even if you hate it, write the truth."

She'd rolled her eyes and scribbled: "Too sour. Smells like socks."

He'd laughed for ten minutes straight.

---

Lexi blinked again and met Étienne's gaze.

"It tastes... honest," she said.

He tilted his head. "That's a start."

They stood in silence a moment longer. Something was shifting. Not just in the air-but inside her.

Lexi didn't know what it meant yet. But she had a feeling that her return to Tuscany was just beginning.