Page 36 of Fallen Hearts

“He’s Italian,” I said, by way of an explanation.

“I’m aware.” Mason’s dry tone was very much in line with his current mood, which seemed to be on the surly side. His eyes suddenly widened. “I just realized, you guys have the same last name.”

Emilio and I locked gazes. “Russo?” I asked.

“No,” Mason answered, even though I wasn’t looking at him. “Your other last name.”

I gave him a look.

“You are a Russo,” Emilio asked. “From where?”

As he talked, I could detect a slight accent. Unless I was mistaken, he was first generation but had been in the States for many years.

“My great-great-grandparents on my father’s side were from Matera. You?”

“I was born in Bari. My wife and I came here nearly twenty-five years ago.”

“Isn’t Bari the one with the white houses?”

“It is,” he replied. “Have you been there?”

“I wish. I’ve never even been to Italy before.”

“Un peccato,” he said. Though I didn’t know the phrase, he was clearly disappointed. “You must go someday.Belissima.” He kissed his fingers.

Emilio’s boisterous and gregarious greeting made me feel instantly at home. “I would love to, especially Matera. I’ve heard Sicily is beautiful.”

“Not nearly as beautiful as you.”

“Grazie.” I accepted the compliment.

“Who is this beauty, Pia Russo?” Emilio asked Mason.

“Heritage Hill’s new manager. She’s from Oregon, moved to Cedar Falls last week.”

“Very good,” he said. “Do you drink wine?”

“Do I drink wine? Is that even a question?”

Emilio laughed. “You’ll come back and sample a new vintage Barolo wine a childhood friend of mine produces in the Piedmont region. Northern Italy,” he said, as if the two words were ash in his mouth. “But he is a good guy. The wine is made in a small batch from an obscure grape clone with exceptional terroir. I’ll have it by the weekend. You’ll come to try?”

“Of course,” I said. “So this place is yours?”

Though I spoke with Emilio, every nerve ending in my body hummed with awareness of Mason. I couldn’t smell his signature cologne today. Instead he smelled like soap. The visual on that one almost had me shaking my head to clear it.

“Sì, signorina. My wife’s family owns a small vineyard back home. We spent many years there, winemaking, and now have it shipped here.”

“That’s incredible. So some of this wine is yours?”

“Indeed. And others, by some friends back home. I even have local wines,” he whispered, leaning forward as if telling me a secret. “For the folks who like the ‘s’ stuff.”

I made a face. “Sweet wine. No thank you.”

“I don’t use the word here since every other lake in the region produces the stuff. But you’ll find Keuka has more dry than most. Have you done a tour of the region’s wineries yet?”

“Nope.” I shook my head.

Emilio put his hands on his hips. “Mason. Your manager is a dry wine drinker and you haven’t taken her to Ravines? Or Keuka Springs?”

---