“A novel. Interesting,” Mr. Clark said. “I had no idea he was a writer. Does he have a publisher?”
“Not yet,” she replied, “but he’s working on that, waiting to hear back from a couple of agents who requested the full manuscript. He just needs to finish it so that he can send it to them.”
“Good luck to him.”
“Thank you.”
They stood on the carpet in the middle of the gift shop for a few seconds.
“Do you have to go back now?” Mr. Clark asked. “Is he waiting for you?”
Slightly unnerved by the question, Lillian inclined her head. “Um . . . no. Freddie went to Siena for the day. He probably won’t be home until after dark. Why?”
Mr. Clark studied her face. “Because I’d like to show you a few things that we could add to the tour narrative. Maybe tailor it to the Americans. You’re from Florida, correct?”
“Yes,” she replied, “but from Chicago originally.”
“Even better. Do you have some time right now to learn a bit more about wine?”
She pursed her lips. “Will this involve drinking it? Because I’m still on the clock.” She tapped a finger on her watch. “I’m not sure if the boss would approve.”
A slow grin played at the corners of his mouth. “I can have a word with him if he complains. Maybe pull a few strings.”
Lillian laughed. “In that case, I’m always eager to learn.”
“Right then,” he replied with enthusiasm and a strong clap of his hands. “Let’s start in the vineyard.”
She followed Mr. Clark outside, where he took her in a southerly direction across a fragrant rose garden with a stone fountain in the center. On the far side of the garden, they walked up a set of ancient stone steps to a higher terrace, where they looked up at a steep slope containing straight, narrow rows of young vines. The top of the field was nearly two hundred feet higher than the spot on which they stood.
“The vineyard where you start the tour,” Mr. Clark said, “was planted by the Maurizio family. It produces quality Sangiovese grapes. No question. But this one is all mine. It’s new, and it’s a merlot.”
Lillian considered this with confusion. “Merlot . . . isn’t that a French wine?”
“Yes. And I have cabernet sauvignon planted on the southwest-facing field over there.” He pointed. “But what does it matter if it tastes like nothing you’ve ever experienced? And this was the perfect spot for it, with good soil, plenty of minerals, and cool breezes in the afternoons. It was a risk, I admit, but I wanted to try something new.”
He knelt and scooped up a handful of dirt, rubbed it into his open palm, then sniffed it. He stood up again and held it out to Lillian. She sniffed it as well.
“There’s a lot of clay here,” he said, “which is why the family ignored this plot. But we’ll see what we can do. It’ll be an interesting harvest this year. The workers are placing bets about it.”
Lillian chuckled. “Can I get in on that?”
He smiled in return. “If you like.”
The sun touched the horizon in the distance. An evening mist was beginning to roll into the valley.
“You keep referring to the Maurizio family,” Lillian said, “and every day I show their private collection to the tourists, but you’re obviously British. I know that you own this winery, so if you don’t mind my asking, what is your relationship to the Maurizios?”
She and Mr. Clark started back toward the rose garden. “Nothing, really,” he said, “except that I purchased the winery from the last living relative five years ago, after the owner passed away. Sadly, he outlived all his children, so there was no one to take over, except for the employees who had been managing the operation for years. They were happy to have a new buyer on the scene, to keep the business running.”
“You’re not tempted to change the name to Clark Wines?” she asked. “Or to put your own stamp on it somehow?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing with that new vineyard I just showed you. So I will put my own stamp on it, but I won’t change the name. This winery is an important part of Italy’s history.”
They returned to the main parking lot and continued walking up the hill toward the chapel.
“What about your family?” she asked. “Do you have children to help you run things?”
“I do have children,” he replied, “but they’re too young to help out. They’re only two and four years old.”