"Death lies on her like an untimely frost

Upon the sweetest flower of all the field." 

 (Romeo and Juliet Act IV, Scene V, Line 33) 

I remember the summer of 2010 as though it was a heartbeat away. I was nineteen then – lingering between being a man and being stuck in the folly of youth.

I grew up in the summer-sweetness of an Italian village, one rich in canopies of red and white grapes which grew to unimaginable sizes for they were blessed by the honey rays of the sun.

My father wanted me to take over our vineyard, to become a well-to-do businessman in a town so tiny it reminded me of a thimble. But my mother said my dove soul was too big for this piccolo villaggio and I needed to spread my wings and fly far...far...away where I could compose my music and play the piano for crowds who appreciated my God-given talent and not simply for the grapes and the bees that buzzed around them.

All I wanted to do was not think about whether or not I would pick learning my family's wine-making business over escaping to other places – as my mother said I should.

After my mother and I, the vineyard was my father's joy. He fawned over his bottles of wine like a parent does over a newborn. He had been given the vineyard by his own father, who had received it from his father. The Caglierie Wines were a respected sort and we sent out truckloads to all of Italy and most of the European Union. I knew it was my father's desire to one day be welcomed into North America and Australia. I knew he wanted me to be a part of this project.

But I was a dreamer. A poet. I loitered around the house during the day and when night came, I was brought to life.

My parents had bought me a piano on my sixth birthday and I became enthralled with each and every key. I was schooled by the best tutors they could find, yet I also spend many hours on the ivories on my own. They never had to say to me, "Gianni, study your piano lesson." because I always was. By the age of thirteen, I was composting my own songs. Marring my two great loves, music and poetry, I found euphoria.

When my parents slept in their room upstairs, I would creep downstairs and play till three or four AM. Sometimes I would steal a glass of wine, my teenage fingers tenderly holding onto the stem of my mother's crystal glasses as though I were a noble sort. It was never a huge amount, never more than a sip or two. It made me feel older, grander, a true Caglierie.

I still dream of the summer of 2010. It's never far from my thoughts. If you ask me to recite that moment in time for you I easily could. It was as though it was yesterday, a heartbeat away.

My parents had been married for thirty years then and a lavish celebration was to take place.

Hired help buzzed around feverishly. Tables were polished, rugs were cleaned. Silverware was made to shine. In our garden, tables were set up. Huge rosebushes were planted and the flowers made the air fragrant with their perfume.

Our living area had floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the yard. The French doors were pulled open and the chiffon curtains fluttered like a bride's veil in the summer breeze.

My grand piano had always sat in the middle of the living area as regal as a prince. Some of the other pieces of furniture had been rearranged or moved into storage so that velvety chairs could be placed in a semi-circle around the piano. I had promised my mother and father I would play for them and their guests and I wanted everything to be perfect. I had been working feverishly on a new piece for the occasion.

When I looked at the nearly-ready party area, I smiled. From our kitchen came phenomenal scents. Three of my aunts had been working since dawn. When my mother told them we'd be getting caterers, they nearly fainted.

"Italian women do not get caterers." They tutted to my mother who just laughed and thanked them after reminding them they had the same blood.

Meat dishes cooked. Fishes were fried. There were platters of fine cheese to company the family wine. There were pasta dishes, rice, fresh garden salads, and for dessert three kinds of cake and homemade gelati.

I was in a state of divine Purgatory as I anticipated eating my aunts' delicious food. I did try to sneak into the kitchen and steal a few bites, but I was swatted away by my aunt Bianca who came after me with a tea towel.

I felt as anxious as a child on their birthday as I anticipated the party. But, ah, when it did come, it was beautiful because it was the day I fell in love.

As I bathed and dressed, I daydreamed about enchantment as my parents' parties were always quite the affair. Putting on my blue suit, I regarded myself and thought I looked pretty smart and much older than my nineteen years. In my full-length mirror, I held up a burgundy tie then a dove gray one against my white shirt. "Burgundy is a winter color," I heard my mother say in my own voice.

The gray brought out the vividness in my blue eyes. Satisfied with my outfit, I lifted my hand and brushed my fingertips through my hair until I got it to look presentable, rather than flop over my face as it usually did. I believed I wasn't vain and took more pride in my art than my looks, but tonight my mirror gave me courage and told me I looked beautiful.

I brought my wrists to my nose and inhaled the sandalwood scent of my cologne. Ready, I headed downstairs.

I saw him talking with my father as I descended. The man that would build me into a castle, then tear me down. The best person I would ever meet.

He was nodding and smiling politely at something my father was saying but all I could think of was his beauty was almost unholy. His blonde hair curled around his face – around skin that appeared to be made of marble. He was a Boticelli creation. Too perfect for this world. He was in a pair of dark gray slacks with a gray suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder. Under his well-fitting black shirt, I could make out the shape of his torso.

There must have been about forty people in the room and in the garden. Everyone faded away until all I could see was him. His face was vivid against a backdrop of blurred faces. I stopped suddenly – just before my foot touched the last step. I am sure I gasped loud enough for the grapes outside to hear.

"Ah, Gianni!" As my father called my name, the other man's eyes moved to me – paralyzing me.

My father gestured for me to come closer but I could not remember how to move. Until he called my name a second time, I had not realized I was standing mid-step like a fool. Red-faced, I walked to them.

"Nikola is a man of music as yourself, my boy." My father smiled as he draped his arm around my shoulder. "Nikola, this is my son, Gianni. Nikola's father and I go way back to when I was in boarding school in America."

Nikola shook my hand and I nearly died in the depths of his dark eyes. His hand was warm. His handshake was curt. He was poised and elegant.

I must have looked like a beetroot compared to him. My face was burning and my palms were sweating. As my father spoke I simply nodded and tried not to look foolish as I managed a smile.

"Nikola is the son of my old schoolmate, Franko. Do you remember, Franko, Gianni?" When I shook my head no my father tutted. "Ah, never mind. The last time you saw him you were maybe seven years old." My parents were not able to have children until late in their lives. I, compared to many of their friends' off-springs, was at least ten years younger. Looking at Nikola, I was certain he was in his mid or late twenties.

"My father had mentioned you many times, Gianni." When Nikola spoke my name, I heard angels. "He remarked about the little boy glued to his piano bench, even when the weather outside was glorious and your friends were banging on the windows for you to come and play football with them. It had perplexed my father as to why such a young child would spend so many hours practicing. He even had a word with your father thinking he or your mother were keeping you locked inside the house to study your music for hours on end against your will. When he finally found out how attached you were to your piano, he tried to understand. But my father was never a musical man. He preferred numbers."

My father nodded. "An accountant. That was all he ever wanted to be."

Nikola shrugged. "I never understood that sort of love. Perhaps that was how father perceived music, as some sort of dull collection of nonsense that did not resonate. Luckily, he saw my gift for what it was too, and allowed me to continue my own studies."

"Y – ou," I croaked. I cleared my throat, embarrassed. "You play the piano?"

Nikola paused, but then he nodded in a way I could only describe as melancholy. It was a look I wanted to preserve. Little did I know, years later, I would long for it with an ache in my soul.

My father did not catch Nikola's sorrow-filled nod. When a newly arrived guest caught his attention, he excitedly lifted his hand from my shoulder to wave –a bit too quickly in fact. "Forgive me." He rubbed the spot on my head he bumped and excused himself. "Gianni, I am certain you will keep Nikola company." With that my father took off, leaving me alone with each other.

"Enzo is quite a man. He made sure our home was never without a bottle of Caglierie wine. It helped me create many times." The corners of his lips curled a touch. "When life made playing hard, a glass or two always did the trick."

"I used to sneak a few sips here and there before they formally allowed me to drink last year."

Nikola raises a brow, then chuckled softly. "I must admit, I used to do that too. Not enough for my parents to notice, mind you, but it's not something I would share with them, even now that I'm twenty-eight." He leaned toward me. His skin smelled of enchanted gardens and of the way the air smells before it rains. "If you keep my secret, I shall keep yours."

I drew in a breath. I wondered if I could breathe him in and keep him inside forever. "I promise never to tell." When he pulled back, I winced. I wanted to crawl under his skin, under breast and bone where he kept everything dear. I wanted to know everything about him. "Tell me why you love to play."

"I have always loved the piano. I believe the melody it creates is something divine." There was a longing in his eyes as he gazed towards my piano. "Since I have come to Italy, I have not played."

"You are not from here?" His accent was perfect. I never would have guessed.

Nikola shook his head. "I am Finnish. I live in Helsinki. I have come here to –" His gaze trickled away from the piano. It moved to me briefly before slipping in the direction of the garden.

"Vacation?"

Looking back at me, he replied in a hush, "Something of the sort."

I wanted to protect the melancholy in his voice and keep it somewhere safe and warm. I felt like he was lying, but I didn't press the subject further.

Some lady I did not know rushed towards us with two glasses of red wine in my mother's fine crystal. Giddily, she thrust a glass in each of our hands – nearly spilling some of the precious red. "Drink!" She said and chuckled. "Drink to this beauty called life!"

Before I could utter a thanks and a You nearly spilled wine all over my sleeve, the woman vanished leaving me and Nikola once again alone.

"This is my father's newest," I said as I picked up the richness of the Cabernet Sauvignon overpowering everything else. "For years my mother had been requesting a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon. Something dryer than dry. In my father's true nature, there's also a touch of Merlot to sweeten the dryness. I can smell everything in here – even the barrels this vintage rested in. He used smaller barrels which allow more contact with the wine, thus there's a more intense flavor." I bowed my head to the glass and swirled it carefully. My eyes closed partially as the aroma floated like a happy ghost.

When I looked up, I saw a delicate smile playing on Nikola's lips. "There is more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?"

For a moment, I had been lost in the aroma of the wine, I'd wanted to touch the liquid to my tongue. When he interrupted my thoughts, I looked up in a gentle daze. "I am but a simple boy," I replied.

He smiled. His lips, his lips... I could write a sonnet for them, compose heavenly poetry, dip every word and every note in my father's wine. I could create something melodious and bittersweet, something between music and the way it feels when you are drunk.

"Simple boys do not compose their own music. Besides, Enzo mentioned you were nineteen, no longer a boy but a man."

"A simple man then," I chuckled.

His gaze held mine. He appeared uninterested in anything but me, my piano, and the wine he kept touching to his lips. "Perhaps you could play for me. I've heard praise drip from your father's lips more than once. Would you be so kind as to spare me a melody once the night is through?"

"I..." A private audience? I will die a million precious deaths if I am alone with you!

When I hesitated, he took my hand and held it as though it were a cherished thing he longed to obtain.

Inside me, my whole existence exploded and I was reborn.

"I will get on my knees and beg if that is what it takes," he pulled me close and leaned in to whisper in my ear. "I implore you, Gianni."

Then die these precious deaths I will. Saying no was not something I'd be able to do. With a faint wisp of a voice, I replied, "Yes, I will play for you. I would be honored."