The Sicilian's Bride by Carol Grace

studied it. “Look at this. The label doesn’t say anything about your wine. And it’s dated as well. You need something that tells the customer about your product. Something fresh and new. This is old.”
    “So is the wine,” he said.
    “It would make a big difference in customer perception. I could design something new for you if you like.”
    “Thanks, but no thanks. This is the Montessori label. It’s what people know. What they’re used to. And what they look for when they want a fine wine. May I remind you you know nothing about our wine or our tradition?”
    “Maybe not, but I know something about labels and what sells.” She leaned across the table, her eyes glowing, an intensity in her gaze he hadn’t seen before. She was all earnest and eager to share her knowledge with him. She had confidence in herself, he gave her that.
    “How are your sales?” she asked.
    “Fine,” he said brusquely. He would never admit to her they could be better. Why risk changing a label and bucking tradition on the slim hope sales might be improved? A gold medal would improve their sales. Nothing else.
    “Then keep your labels,” she said, “but when I bottle my wine…”
    He felt as though a cold wind had blown across the table all the way from the Alps. She’d said when not if. She was a dreamer, and dreamers are not easily convinced to do the right thing. The practical thing. If he didn’t find her a house to buy today, he’d promised to help her harvest her grapes. He’d better think of something irresistible to show her.
    She was cut off in mid sentence when the waiter brought the appetizer he’d ordered, a small plate of gnocchi in gorgonzola-and-pistachio sauce. Her eyes widened and she inhaled the aroma of the rich sauce. She took a bite and nodded slowly. At least she appreciated good food. Maybe even good wine too, though he doubted it. How could she when she hadn’t been around it all her life?
    After the waiter served them a salad of vine-ripened tomatoes garnished with fruity olive oil and fresh basil,Angelo, the owner came by to slap Dario on the back and tell him it had been a long time, and he’d missed him. Fortunately he didn’t mention Magdalena. Even though he surely knew what everyone knew—his fiancée had dumped him to marry his cousin. The gossip and rumors were one reason he’d avoided the restaurant and every other restaurant he used to frequent. Maybe there was a new scandal to occupy everyone’s mind by now. If there was, Dario hadn’t heard it.
    He introduced the owner to Isabel. What else could he do? By the way he looked at her, Angelo was clearly sizing her up, comparing her to the beauty queen Dario used to bring to the restaurant. The owner turned on the charm, asking Isabel how she liked Sicily.
    “It’s beautiful. And I’m just learning some of the fascinating history,” she said.
    “Dario can teach you more than any guidebook,” Angelo said with an approving smile. “About everything. Wine and food as well as history. Yes, you’re in good hands.”
    Dario wanted to tell him she was not in his hands at all. But all he could do was to sit there hoping the man would quickly move on to greet other customers.
    But Angelo was just getting warmed up. He told Dario he should stop working so hard and come more often to the restaurant the way he used to, and bring the lovely American. He suggested various dishes she should try and sights she should see in the neighborhood. A few minutes later he finally left them to their food.
    “He’s very friendly,” Isabel noted. “Is he right about your working too hard?”
    “In our business there’s no such thing as working too hard. We suffered some losses during the drought and the fungus over a year ago, then grandfather got sick and frankly, I have no choice but to work hard. I’m in charge and it’s the seasonof the crush. Everyone in the wine business is working hard.” No one had as good a reason for hard work as Dario.