The Gift, page 6
When we’re inside the main room of the museum, I’m drawn to the information on LA’s Little Italy—or should I say lack of Little Italy. “All these others cities have Little Italies, and ours is gone. Only some buildings remain today around this area, even into Chinatown. But everything was basically wiped out by the 1950s changes in the city.”
Christian lovingly knocks into my side. “There may not be a road full of your history anymore, but look at what the Italians created. Did you see this?” He points to a nineteenth century map showing how Olvera Street was called Vine or Wine Street.
“What’s this?!”
He reads aloud from the description card. “The street had so many vineyards and wineries around it from your people that the true name of the street, before being changed to Olvera, wasn’t known. They say wine may have spilled on a map, covering part of the first letter, so it could have been Vine…or Wine.”
“Oh, I can’t love that more.” A smile spreads on my face. “Just imagine how different it looked here back then. Dirt roads, the smell of sweetness drifting through the air…” I breathe in the contemporary air that lacks any hint of the fragrance anymore. “Even though San Francisco was the first place wine was sold and drank, this sign states that grapes for wine were grown here first, in our hometown.”
“I even feel honor for the history here. I’m not Italian, but being an Angeleno, I can claim the history as my own.”
“You have every right to.” I emphasize my words and graze my hand on the side of his chiseled face.
I wish I could bottle us today and slap on a wine label that reads Happy Couple. My man has returned to me, and I wouldn’t put it past this magical ground to have something to do with it. Thanks, ancestors—especially you, Pietro.
Chapter Ten
Sipping on a syrah from the wine flight before me, I ask, “How do you like LA’s oldest producing winery?”
“Not bad, my darling. Not bad at all.” Christian nods then drinks his pinot grigio that he took a risk on trying, adding flavor to his purposely fancy voice.
I respond, “Not at all,” in the same put-on non-accent, giddy that he’s drinking wine at all.
“San Antonio Winery always was on this exact spot?” He looks around the room.
“From what I understood on the tour, yes, the winery’s been here over one hundred years. But the original vineyards are obviously long gone since the LA River is lined with concrete.” The thought makes my heart ache.
“They would’ve been nice to see,” he says.
“For sure. You’ve heard how LA has ‘a history of forgetting.’”
But I won’t forget.
A fabricated image of Pietro comes to mind once again, and as if he’s speaking through me, I shout, “I should open a winery.”
Did that just come out of my mouth and into the air? The air that Christian also occupies… Oh no. Oh God. O—kay.
Christian lurches his head forward as he drinks his wine, nearly spilling it. “What was that?” He has a growing grin as he wipes wetness from his lips.
The wine may be overcoming me more than I think, but here goes. “I’ve been having weird visions since Italy, visions that are starting to make sense today. Would it be so wild to consider…I mean to just entertain the idea of a family winery?” My high-pitched, cutesy tone doesn’t even convince me that this idea could be based in reality, but there you have it.
“Toni, I think you’ve lost me.”
His words pierce my inflated cheer in a possible double meaning.
Christian knocks on my forehead with his fist. “Are you alright in there?” He chuckles and sips from his glass again.
Since the cat’s out of the bag, I may as well run with it, like the time Nala made me chase her down the exterior hall when she escaped. “Well…” I pause, needing to play this right. “What if I can revive the family tradition? Third time’s a charm, they say.” I giggle to add lightness.
“Now you’ve lost your mind.”
It doesn’t work.
“Christian, stay with me on this. It’s not that far-fetched. Wouldn’t it be fantastic to have this for ourselves?” I flail my arms around, motioning to the Riboli family’s empire. Christian’s not the only one to convince of giving this thought any attention, though. What am I saying?
I’m a professional cellist. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done. How could someone stop what they’ve been trained in and do a one-eighty swoop, let alone to a career they know not one iota about? Before my own logic talks me out of my newfound desire, Christian cuts in.
“Of course it would be…if we were rich and could spend money on a whim.”
“I know.” I drop my head in my hands. “I think I’ve been swept up in the idea of a reprieve from my boring job. This is crazy talk. Just forget what I said.”
He has to be right. Who am I to think I could make something like this work? And he’d be involved by default, sinking with me. I take a deep breath and sip my last drop of wine.
“Maybe you’ll find a performance job you love soon. Don’t lose faith.” He pushes his chair away from the table and extends his hand as he stands. “Ready to go home? We can see what new releases are streaming.”
I accept his hand and follow him out to the car. “Sure, a movie with you sounds great.” I try to convince myself my madness will disappear. It’ll be a great night together after a mostly wonderful day, and all wine visions will cease.
Before I hop in the passenger seat of my car, I snatch a flyer from the windshield but throw it at my feet. “Let’s put some good tunes on for the ride home.”
“That’s my girl.”
Chapter Eleven
The bow in my hand moves gracefully along the strings of my cello as my mind takes me away from this gray room in the school where I teach. Improvisation always feels so free, contrasting with the school-approved music I’m mandated to teach. Each note birthed from my body dances throughout the air, and I’m in the zone.
This.
This is the reason I began playing in the first place.
My arm has a mind of its own and speeds up the tempo as my heart races to entrain to my bowing.
With closed eyes, the sight appears once again in my mind’s eye. Running through a vineyard barefoot. But this time, it’s all mine. My feet touch the soft, fertile ground on each downbeat of the cello, combining in a fantastical reality until—
“Hello, Ms. Agosti. Sorry to interrupt.”
I’m back in Glendale, feet on the hard, cold floor under my shoes and looking at the school principal.
“Hello, Mr. Caloosta. No problem. I was just waiting for the student pick-up line to die down before leaving for the day.”
He remains in the door frame of my classroom. “And you were doing it beautifully.”
I smile, still having a hint of my vineyard in the back of my mind that I refuse to release. My toes wiggle in the closed-in flats, and if they could frown from reality’s rude awakening, they would. “Thank you.”
He approaches my chair and says, “I have to tell you about the change in schedule for our arts program next month. We’ll be shifting your Monday period to later in the day and moving your Wednesday period earlier. We also will most likely be needing you to teach your Friday class on Thursdays. I hope that won’t be an inconvenience for you.”
“Oh, wow. That’s a lot of shifting.” I look down at the cello between my legs and grip it with my left hand while I try not to break my bow with my other hand’s squeeze. Rearranging my schedule may not be possible with my private students, but I need this job, so I’ll have to do it.
“Honestly, I’m trying to keep the music program in general, so this is the only way I can make it work right now.” He glances out the window. “You know how the board is always after cutting the art classes to save money.” With attention back on me, he continues, “I hope you’ll be able to stay with us. The kids really love your class.”
I force a grin and reply, “I’m glad they do. And yes, I will be staying. I’ll make it work. We need to keep the music here.” Even if my other jobs have to be replaced. Damn it, back to scheduling—my least favorite activity in the world.
“Alright, then. Good to hear it. You have a great rest of the day.” He vanishes before I can tell him the same.
Wonderful. The arts have been hit once again, and I need to make do. My thoughts fight for solutions to the daily puzzle of time. Maybe my Thursday afternoon person can shift to Wednesday afternoon, and that leaves my Thursday morning person who may be able to take Friday? I rub my face, giving up until I can map it out on paper. Luckily, my community concerts won’t be affected since they’re always at night or on weekends.
After I pack my cello and teaching materials then close my classroom door, David pops around the corner.
“Hey-o. How’s it goin’?”
“It’s goin’, that’s for sure. My sanity is goin’,” I joke.
“What now?”
“I have to switch my schedule around, after I was just getting used to it this school year.” Take me back to my vineyard dream, please.
“That stinks. I don’t know how you do it.” He loosens his thin navy-blue tie that matches his slender physique.
“I don’t have a choice.” My mouth angles to the side. “Who knew the life of a musician would be this hectic? This unstable? Teachers should tell students in high school what it’s like when they talk about going to college to study music.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I slip in my two cents, in a motivational and kid-appropriate-not-angering-parents sort of way.”
We both laugh.
“Well, come on, Toni. I saw this morning that we parked next to each other, and I’m leaving too.”
“Great. So what did you do this weekend?” I adjust my cello backpack strap to move it from my injury.
“I had dinner with my parents.”
“Oooh, what did you eat? I love hearing about the food you have there.”
“I love the food you tell me about too. We should visit each other’s families so we can get cross-cultural meals.” He pushes the release bar on the door leading outside then holds it as I walk through.
“Yes! Why haven’t we thought of that before now? I could go for some authentic Japanese food.”
“Well, we last had miso soup and shogayaki with broccoli.”
My interest is piqued. “I know what miso soup is, but what’s the other thing?”
“Grilled pork with ginger,” he responds.
“Yum.” I let the imagined flavors satisfy my taste buds. “Christian and I went to an old winery this past weekend, and I learned more about LA’s Italian history.”
Christian! His wish for me not to converse with David returns to my memory, and I freeze inside while trying to walk with now stiff legs on the outside. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to David in person since the ridiculous request, and I’ve pushed it out of my mind—I can’t bear not having his friendship.
Let’s see, Christian and I had a great date, and here I am, going against his wishes—a man who’s trying to change for us to work. I’ve turned into the jerk. But…I can’t submit to an unreasonable request either. I’ll just have to ensure that Christian knows David is with Isla and not interested in me.
Can David see the sweat beads on my forehead?
“Sounds fascinating,” he says, not glancing my way, thank God. “I still can’t believe some of the facts you texted me last week—”
I obviously had to share them with him. Don’t judge.
“—And that I’m a history teacher who didn’t know about the local history besides the obvious Spanish and Mexican influences.”
See, that’s why. He loves history, so of course he needed to know what I learned. It isn’t fair that Christian has asked me to all of a sudden stop talking to someone in my life who has never done anything wrong. We have to clear this up, or I’m going to burst from guilt, just for having a friend.
“I don’t think many people know. And—” I anxiously giggle. “Nah, never mind.”
He pokes my side. “You know you can’t do that to me. What?”
I almost tell him my dilemma, but I don’t want to risk hurting his feelings or having him dislike Christian. I sure don’t need that being a two-way street. So, here goes something else. “It’s silly. But…”
“Toni! You’re killin’ me ova he-ya.” David pretends to have a New-York-style Italian American accent, which always makes me smile.
Delaying the sentence I want to reveal, I open my trunk door and lift my cello off my back, sliding it into its usual place. Before lifting the rolling trunk, I turn to face him and spill the goods. “Alright, I can’t get this mental picture out of my head, and it seems stupid, but it may not be, but—”
“Toni!”
“Okay! I want to own a vineyard and open a winery.”
He raises his eyebrows but keeps a straight face.
“I can’t—and don’t want to—get my ancestor, Pietro, out of my mind since Italy.” I spit out the sentence with such force I swear David reacts by taking a step backward. “And I’m sick to death of this job and all that my music career has become.”
“I didn’t see that coming, but you know what? I say go for it.”
“You do?” My previously raised shoulders relax, and I take in a much-needed refreshing breath.
“Yeah, why not? You only live once, and if that’s what you want to do, then you should do it.”
“It’s not that easy, David.” I roll my eyes, trying to keep reality on the stage, but the strengthening vision is approaching the forefront of my thoughts. I don’t want to suppress it, so I exclaim, “I may be cracking up, but I should do it!” His confidence must be contagious.
“Yeah!” He raises his voice.
“Yeah!” I say louder.
“You can at least look into it, you know. I’ll help you if you need.”
“Thanks,” I say while awe exudes from my body in warmth.
I guess he’s right. It doesn’t hurt to research what opening a winery would entail. And Christian doesn’t have to know yet. I’ll just see what I can find out, and if it sounds good, I’ll go from there.
Meanwhile, who am I right now, deciding to explore a new career? Lifting my crate into my trunk then closing the door, I stare into space. An inner voice whispers, “View the vines,” cementing my encouragement.
Chapter Twelve
When I put my car in park, I notice the flyer from the other day on the passenger side floor and lean over to grab it. Oh, yes, Taste of Italy—the food, wine, and entertainment event happening next month in the El Pueblo area. I’ve never been, so maybe this is the year. And maybe Christian and I can make a date of it. I’ll have to ask him later when he gets home.
After getting a glass of water and dropping on the couch, my plants are in eyeline. They look different today—thriving, full, and happy. I do have a green thumb, so maybe it’s in my blood to grow grapes.
Speaking of fingers, my string-of-pearls senecio, a succulent with pea-shaped leaves on a long stem, is calling my name. Grazing my skin along their smooth coating, the tiny green balls remind me of grapes on a vine nowadays. Stepping back to admire my plant babies, I take pride in how I’ve watched them grow, from their birth, as living beings that I nurtured with my own two hands. Tending to them always reminds me of playing cello too, choosing just the right amount of water and sunlight as their notes create a glorious, soaring tune.
“Hey, Nala.” She breaks my train of thought as she intertwines herself in the curtains at the sliding glass doors that I never pulled open for her this morning.
“Let me get those for you, my bambina.” I walk over and push them to one side. “Have a field day.” Seeing the outdoors is the closest she and I can get to nature while cooped up in our apartment—well, that and being near my plants.
She looks up at me with a flat expression, as if saying, “Thanks,” with a hint of, “Finally.”
Taking a huge gulp of water when I make it back to the couch, I set the glass down and open my laptop laying next to me. Adjusting my body to be more comfortable, I begin some needed escape. Napa Valley vineyards populate when I type in California wineries.
I remember having a gig there when I was straight out of college. All of my Cromwell Conservatory friends were jealous that I was able to play for a wedding in a vineyard when they were stuck in concert halls on the frigid East Coast. I knew I was lucky to be able to do it, especially since I lined up another wedding the next day. A lengthy drive for two jobs, yes, but I felt a pull to accept the offer just to be surrounded by such splendor.
I stop in my mental tracks.
Even back then, I cherished being in a vineyard. I recall performing better than ever when I was there too, encircled by sweet, plump little buddies that make the nectar of my ancestors. My bowing was as if Pietro had reached down from heaven to guide my arm, providing melodies from our hearts to the guests’ ears.
Okay, I’m getting sidetracked here. Typing in the search bar, Start a vineyard, will get me back on the right road.
Now we’re talkin’. Looks like I would need to decide what kind of winery property I would want and scout out land as a first step. Who knew there are so many different options? My God, there’s everything from buying the acreage and starting from scratch to getting a winery that’s ready to go full-force business mode tomorrow.
Reading further, I see how starting from scratch can be appealing—you know, making it exactly how I want—yet would take years to be functional. From planting—in the right soil, at the right time of year, with the right care—to drinking my own wine could take three years! Oh wow, I don’t know if I could wait that long. It may kill me.
