A Glass of Red Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  By Sam Carlson

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  A Glass of Red

  By Sam Carlson

  When nerdy art student Noah Andrews turned his love of wine into a way to make money during grad school, he didn’t anticipate it would lead to a summer gig cataloguing the cellars at an aging Tuscan estate.

  He definitely didn’t expect to be rooming with the hunky contractor fixing up the villa.

  Ostensibly, Christian Caravalli is in Italy helping his grandfather run his restoration business. In reality, he’s avoiding his parents’ divorce and the fact that he has no direction in life. When Noah lands in his lap, his summer gets a lot more interesting.

  Noah’s attracted to Christian, but the man tests his boundaries. He can’t cook, he walks around half-dressed, and Noah’s bathroom, which was supposed to be ready when he arrived, is still a shambles. But what Christian lacks in direction, he makes up for in heart, and when they start capitalizing on each other’s strengths instead of focusing on their differences, the attraction blooms into more.

  Unfortunately, this summer fling has an expiration date. Neither Christian nor Noah can afford to stay in the villa forever. Will their love grow into something lasting, or is it destined to be only a sweet memory?

  For Chris, who believed.

  Chapter 1

  NOAH FIDGETED as he stepped up onto the first, then the second, then the third step of the entrance to the villa. The steps, he noticed, were comfortably shallow and easy to climb: wide spans of what looked like pleasantly yellow sandstone reaching up to the front door. Pleasing to the eye mostly because of how well they accompanied the general orange-to-yellow tones of the villa itself, despite the dark brown shutters and the vivid red door.

  Finally, he noticed that the main reason he’d taken in so many details about the stone steps was because he was staring at his feet.

  Breathe, he told himself, just breathe. How bad could it possibly be?

  The interview for the job had been harrowing, at least at first. He’d gone to meet Chester Cunningham at Mr. Cunningham’s work as requested, but having only moved to New York a short time prior, he didn’t really know his way around the city yet and failed to recognize the address. Standing in front of a skyscraper and taking the elevator up to a prestigious law firm that bore two separate Cunninghams in the name told him how far out of his element he was. The shy art student gulped as a secretary showed him into a big conference room with a beautiful window view.

  What put him back at ease wasn’t Mr. Chester Cunningham but rather his wife, Eloise. Where Mr. Cunningham had been insistent and even a little brusque, she was charming and kind. Mr. Cunningham had reined in his icy demeanor by “discussing” a schedule he expected Noah to follow while at the villa instead of “mandating” one. Eloise had done the opposite, reining in her politeness to try to be professional. Despite her efforts, though, Noah sensed that mothering was in her nature as she offered him chocolate chip cookie after cookie.

  “Eloise, don’t let the boy fill up on cookies,” Chester Cunningham said, giving her a knowing wink. She smiled at Noah one more time as she set the plate down, leaving him wondering what a comment like that foreshadowed.

  “We dearly love the house,” Mr. Cunningham said, “but it needs work. There’s a lot of hard work to be done, a lot of hard work.”

  “I’m not afraid of a little hard work, sir,” Noah said. “I mean… I don’t know what you had in mind, but….”

  “Oh, none of that, dear,” Eloise said reassuringly. “We’ve hired a handyman to fix up the place, Signor Caravelli, an older gentleman in the village nearby. He’s been in and around the house through its last two owners, and he was really just a fantastic find. He says he’ll have it ready for us by the fall and we can go for the holidays!”

  “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Cunningham.”

  “Please, call me Ellie,” she said through that beatific smile.

  “Mrs. Cunningham and I,” Mr. Cunningham said, emphasis clearly on his preferred way for Noah to address his wife, “do plan to spend the latter part of the summer there, possibly the holidays as well. The work we’re interested in you for has to do with that, but not exactly with the house itself.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re studying art history at NYU, yes?” Mr. Cunningham asked in a voice that said the old lawyer already knew the answer. “Graduate student? Waiting tables on the side, I’m led to understand?”

  “Yes, sir. If the house has artwork you need inspected or appraised, I can help, but I’m sure—”

  Cunningham waved that notion away. “Professionals have already been through what the previous owners left behind. But I’m told that you’re also studying wine.”

  Noah nodded. Waiting tables was just a way to make the ends meet between classes, a lot of grad students did it, but he’d been taking evening classes with a sommelier because waiters who knew wine inside and out were hired at better restaurants, and for better pay.

  “Oh, yes, sir. It’s been a hobby of mine for a long time, and I’ve been taking classes. I’ve learned a lot. I don’t want to wait tables all my life, but I figure if it’ll pay better, then why not turn a hobby into something more?”

  “Well I’m glad to hear that,” Eloise said with a cheery look and a triumphant clap of the hand on the tabletop. “I like someone with ambition, no slouching your way through life.”

  Mr. Cunningham vigorously nodded agreement. “I feel the same.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Cunningham shouted, “Enter!” Noah, still a little on edge, though the talk of wine had relaxed him, jumped in his seat. Neither of the Cunninghams seemed to notice, or if they did, they were too polite to say anything.

  The secretary that Noah had seen before entered the conference room, still smiling and wheeling a tray. On the tray were three covered dishes, silver cloches hiding their contents.

  “Lunch!” Mr. Cunningham said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Noah, I trust you’ll join us?”

  The not-quite-but-almost starving art student’s mouth had already begun to water, so he nodded. Even if he didn’t get whatever job it was they wanted him for, at least he might get a free lunch out of the meeting.

  “That’s very kind of you, sir. Thank you.”

  When the trays were served and uncovered, three chicken dishes were revealed. Eloise leaned over her dish and took a deep breath in, smiling over the plate of roasted bird with vegetables, and Mr. Cunningham did practically the same. It occurred to Noah that as a lunch meal it was a bit elaborate, but who knew? Maybe this was how rich people ate.

  “Excellent!” Mr. Cunningham declared. His secretary handed him a sheet of stiff paper before leaving, which he read and then passed over to Noah.

  “Noah, would you care to recommend a wine to have with lunch?”

  Oh, now I get it, Noah realized as he took the sheet. It was a wine list. This is a test.

  “Sure,” he said and considered the sheet. Six vintages were listed, three whites and three reds.

  There’s a nice-looking Pinot Noir here, but that’s a trap. You can serve Noir with roast chicken, but you’d want to do it with a heavy gravy or a sauce, and this little guy looks like he was roasted in his own juices.

  For the same reason he immediately rejected the Côtes-du Rhône, as well as the Shiraz. All would be too heavy for the bird as it was presented.

  There go all the reds, then, he thought with a sigh, preferring red himself when given the option. White it is.

  He ignored the Zinfandel completely. While it was a fine enough wine, one he enjoyed himself when he had whites, its reputation of “going well with everything” wasn’t one he felt would impress obvious connoisseurs like the Cunninghams. There was a Viognier on the list, and he almost picked it, knowing its aromatic qualities would introduce a whole new dimension to the lunch, but at the last second he changed his mind.

  “Well, sir, there’s a good-looking white Burgundy on the list, a 2003 Meursault les Chevalières. It’s a mature wine with some savory complexity to it. I see there are mushrooms and truffles in the lunch, so it’ll probably bring those out.”

  A look passed between the two Cunninghams that Noah couldn’t quite read, and he got nervous.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Cunningham finally said. “There’s a nice Viognier there too, from Paso Robles. Why not that one instead?”

  “I considered it,” Noah said, nodding, “And it would be an excellent choice too. But the truth is that Viogniers are so aromatic and floral, I didn’t want to overpower the chicken.”

  “You don’t think it would’ve added a new dimension here?” Eloise asked.

  We must watch the same shows on the Food Network, Noah thought.

  “It would have, of
course, Mrs. Cunningham. But that wasn’t my goal. I picked a wine that I think will enhance the dish and the eating experience. Not one that would substantially change it.”

  Eloise’s face changed into a smile of triumph, and the look she gave her husband was pure “I told you so.” Mr. Cunningham’s smile was more restrained, but he nodded and ordered the bottle of white Burgundy that Noah had recommended. When it arrived Mr. Cunningham poured, a glass for himself and one for Noah. Eloise took only half a glass. As they all tucked into their lunch, they sampled the wine and resumed the professional discussion.

  “No doubt about it, Noah, you know your stuff,” Mr. Cunningham said as he cut. Eloise nodded and agreed around a mouthful of chicken.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve only been studying for a while, but it’s always been a hobby.”

  “Would you pursue it professionally?”

  Noah paused and looked up from his meal. “Well, I mean, there is… there’s my work in art that I love, it’s a passion, not just a hobby—”

  Mr. Cunningham waved him off. “I didn’t mean like that. This is about the villa we were talking about, the one in Tuscany that needs work.”

  “Oh?”

  “The previous owners had to vacate in a bit of a hurry,” Cunningham said abruptly, as if he didn’t wish to discuss their reasons, “which is why there’s so much to be done. One thing they left behind, for us to take on at an impressively low price, was what we’re told is a rather marvelous wine cellar. We’re looking for someone to catalogue it, inspect for spoilage or other damage, and give us some sort of a reference document that we can give to our insurance company.”

  “And also for our own use,” Eloise chimed in, “when we’re at the villa trying to choose a bottle.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Cunningham agreed.

  “Well, sir,” Noah began, coughing to clear his throat, “I’m… I’m flattered, but surely you can afford someone a little more experienced?”

  “What more experience do we need?” Cunningham countered. He finished a big bite of chicken and pushed his plate away. “It’s a big job, I admit, lots of bottles down there, but not a difficult one. It’ll be good experience that you can use in your field, and we’ll pay you, of course. Two months room and board at the villa, with a cash amount at the end.”

  Eloise nodded.

  Noah had thought about it… for maybe a full nanosecond. Waiting tables sure did suck, and while his parents did help out with tuition a little, it was never enough. He’d applied for a couple of grants but had no hopes that any of them would pan out. Now here he was with an offer of two months during the summer when classes were out, in Tuscany, room and board at a gorgeous villa included? And all he had to do to get a paycheck on top of that was write about wine?

  Finishing his own chicken, he beamed back at both of them. “Where do I sign?”

  “That’s the spirit!” Mr. Cunningham said. Eloise tried once again to press a chocolate chip cookie on him, insisting he deserved dessert.

  Now, three weeks later, his apartment sublet and his feet on the doorstep of the Cunninghams’ new real estate, he was a little nervous. After all, the only person he was likely to see in the near future was old man Caravelli. He’d have to walk down to the village for any other human companionship.

  The whole plane ride over, though, he’d been reminding himself that it was an adventure. Something to tell his grandkids, spending two months in Italy… if he ever got around to finding a husband and some kids to start with.

  Clearing his throat and pushing his glasses firmly up onto his nose, Noah knocked on the door.

  --

  “Granddad, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but I’m just not interested. Thanks.”

  Christian got up off the couch and headed for his bedroom, hoping that would be an end to the conversation, but no such luck. His grandfather followed him.

  “I won’t have you lying about the house like this!” he shouted. Christian shut his bedroom door behind him, but Granddad was no respecter of doors. He burst through and continued to admonish him. “This is the prime of your life!”

  He pursed his lips at the old man. “Granddad, what am I, thirteen? Don’t just barge into my room!”

  “Christian!” The old man threw up his hands and sighed. He sat down on the bed. In an effort at being conciliatory, so did Christian.

  “When your father told me that he and your mother were discussing divorce, my heart broke,” old Silvio said. He took Christian’s hand. “I could not believe it. They were always so much in love.”

  Christian nodded. “I still don’t believe it, Granddad. They’ll figure it out.”

  “Which is why, when he asked if I would take you in, I said yes in a moment.”

  Christian knew that was not, strictly speaking, the whole truth. Granddad had been a little put out. But he also knew that to interrupt the old man would get him a paternal smack in the back of the head, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “They love you so much. You know this,” Silvio said in his heavily accented English. “They want only for you to be happy. To see you out of school but unsettled, bouncing from this to that and this to that….” He gestured with one hand, waving it back and forth. “It bothers them.”

  “Granddad, I liked my life!” Christian said. “I like Miami, all my friends are there, I was—”

  “Bah!” the old man dismissed him. “You were a bum, a ‘beach bum’ like your father says. Even with your fancy degree!”

  Christian opened his mouth but found he couldn’t argue. His grandfather resumed his softer tone.

  “Your mother and father, they love you,” he said again. “They want only for you to find a nice job, maybe a nice girl or a nice boy, and to be happy.”

  “But they didn’t want me living on their couch while they were trying not to get a divorce, is that it?”

  His grandfather made a face. In the oldest and purest tradition of Italian Catholicism, “divorce” was still not a word he liked to hear.

  “They send you to me while they figure things out,” he finally said. “And they will! But while you are in Tuscany, you will make your living. You will make your way.”

  “Can’t I just make gnocchi?” Christian asked, a mischievous little smile beginning at the corner of his mouth. Silvio smiled and laughed.

  “Rascal! Here is what you can make: you can make an old man proud and uphold the family name. What do you think of that?”

  Christian sighed. It looked like he wasn’t going to be getting out of the summer job after all. He felt like a high school kid being thrown out of the house to go “build character.” In his twenties with a bachelor’s degree under his belt, it felt degrading. Not to mention that a job from his grandfather would necessarily include manual labor.

  Old Silvio slapped one hand on his leg where the cast was still fresh. “I cannot work, cannot fulfill an obligation. You know this. That mean old horse knew just where to wound me so that he would injure both my leg and my pride. I cannot restore the old Mattioli villa on one leg. At my age, I am lucky I survived the fall.”

  “Granddad, you’ll survive anything.”

  The old man laughed again, but the sound was far from light-hearted. “We’ll see, eh? One day, not so much. One day.”

  A silent moment passed between them.

  “A man must fulfill his obligations,” his grandfather finally said, “or he is no man at all. Until I am healed, someone must do for me, si? Someone must uphold the Caravelli name. The family honor. You understand.”

  Christian sighed yet again. “Yeah, I get it, Granddad. I understand.”

  Chapter 2

  NOAH FELT that knocking on the door was a little redundant, given how it pushed open a half inch at his touch. It was an old wooden door, painted bright red, with a dozen or so square panes of glass set into it, a white curtain billowing loosely on the other side for some small measure of privacy.

  Which feels a little pointless if they don’t lock their doors around here, he thought.

  “Hello?” he called into the house. “My name’s Noah, I’m… I’m the wine guy? I’m… allowed to be here?”

  Through the translucent curtain, he saw a figure approach, and he instinctively took a step back. Noah believed in first impressions, and who knew what to expect from an elderly Italian handyman?