Page 95 of Sinful Temptations

“Correct, Lydia. But do you know why?”

Her high ponytail flopped onto her shoulder as she shook her head.

“The folks in Siena chose a big healthy white rooster and fed it a hearty meal the night before the race, priming it for an early morning rise. The clever people in Florence did the opposite. They chose a scrawny rooster and didn’t feed it for a couple of days. The well-fed rooster was so content, it slept in.”

“I know how it feels.” Natasha, the athletic Aussie woman a few rows away, patted her non-existent belly and pulled a face implying she was full.

I chuckled. “Yeah, I agree.” I’d eaten way too much at breakfast. Maybe I was subconsciously trying to impress Roman with my extraordinary eating prowess.

“Anyway,” I continued, “the black rooster started crowing as soon as twilight appeared and as a consequence, the Florentine knight got a huge jump-start on his competition. He was just twelve kilometers from the Siena border when the two riders met. So, Florence claimed control of nearly the entire Chianti territory and the black rooster has been hailed a hero ever since.” I pointed at the photo. “When you see a black rooster emblem on a bottle, you know it’s from the Chianti region.”

“Today we are going to a beautiful village called Volpaia. Roughly two-thirds of the village properties are owned by one family, the Stianti Mascheroni family. Their winery and olive groves have kept nearly the entire town employed in production for over nine hundred years. The first vines were planted here in 1172. Can you imagine how different this continent was back then?”

I continued talking until Roman parked the bus in the only parking space big enough for us. This winery was tiny compared to the many enormous producers dotted all over the region.

However, this was one of the few that was inside a walled village with a medieval layout and with buildings that were very well preserved.

Once the group had all stepped out of the bus, I led them up the main street of the tiny town. “You are in for a real treat today.” I raised my voice so they could all hear. “The building where we’ll be doing our wine tasting was originally a church, built in 1443, and its preservation is extraordinary.”

We strolled up the deserted paved street that virtually divided the town in two. Both sides were completely lined with back-to-back buildings and the only greenery were the ancient vines that crawled all over the brickwork. It was typical of the fortified towns in this region.

Every one of the buildings looked to be deserted. And they probably were. At this time of day, every available pair of hands would be working at the winery or in olive groves and production sheds.

I led the tourists to the top of the street where a disused well marked the center of town. As a reminder of how unfit I was, I was huffing by the time we neared the cellar door. Roman, however, looked like he could run up and down that hill till sunset.

Maybe when I got a normal job, I could take better care of myself. A normal job . . . I had no idea what that was. But the idea of me working in an office with four walls and no windows would have me dying on the inside all over again.

My shoulders sagged. What the hell was I going to do when I left Europe?

The only skill I had was the ability to remember a shitload of useless facts about Europe.Lot of good that’s going to do for me in New Zealand, or Canada, or wherever the hell I end up.

Oh, God. This shit was starting to get real.Tick. Tick. Tick.

Daisy, focus.

After giving my group a brief history of the town, I ledthem to the ancient church that for nearly one hundred years had been serving alcohol rather than sermons.

Stepping over the stone-lined entranceway, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Everything about this building was a homage to its Tuscan heritage—the steepled ceiling, the giant wooden crossbeams, the cobblestone floor.

Even Mario, the staff member behind the bar looked like he was ancient. His head of gray hair was thick and shaggy, his bushy eyebrows were equally gray, but the lines around his eyes and mouth confirmed his life had been blessed with laughter.

“Ciao, Daisy, è bello vederti.” Mario greeted me with open arms and a kiss on each cheek.

“Ciao,Mario. It’s lovely to see you too.”

Mario had to be at least in his sixties. He was a seventh-generation Volpaia resident who, like many of the town occupants, rarely left the village walls. This was their home, and they were happy and content enough to live, work, and occasionally play.

The contrast to me couldn’t be any more different. I didn’t even have a place I called home. My flat in London had been a place to put my things, but I never really thought of it as home.

Roman rubbed his hands together as he sidled in next to me. His boyish exuberance was what I needed to cast my negative bullshit aside and concentrate on here and now.

“Okay, guys, grab a seat anywhere along here.” I waved my hand across the enormous slab of wood that served as a counter and stretched the length of the room.

The fourteen of us spread out. And as I nestled in beside Roman and tried to focus on Mario, rather than how good Roman smelled, Mario explained all about the vision, history, and inspiration behind Castello Di Volpaia and their wonderful wines.

Like most Italians, Mario spoke with his hands, and he was very entertaining. He was a bit of a flirt, too, and had all the women giggling. The more he spoke, the more I enjoyed it, and the more I grew furious that I’d stopped visiting Volpaia. I’d wasted so much time.

And now it was running out.

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