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Ganymede

in I Do Two from MLR Press, an anthology to support marriage equality

Summary:

California winemaker Michael Vincent has worked his way to the top of a tough industry. A perennial student by nature, he's always looking for a new challenge and fresh inspiration. He finds just that in Carlo Vennetti, iconoclast and winemaking pioneer. When Carlo turns down Michael's request to come visit him at his family estate in Italy to learn the natural winemaking techniques he's experimenting with, Michael goes anyway, certain he'll find what he's searching for there.

This proves truer than he ever could have imagined. From the first moment Carlo levels his piercing gaze on Michael, the sparks fly. Michael spends a day working alongside Carlo, going from uninvited guest to student to possibly something more. When Carlo agrees to let him stay, this Ganymede has everything he could hope for.

How to Buy:

Available from MLR Press

Reviews:

Joan/Sarah F at Dear Author said:
The story is told in present tense, which threw me, but the language is evocative and exciting, and the characters are brilliantly detailed snapshots of two deeply imagined, beautifully written men. I think the relationship happens a little too quickly, but the lushness of your language and the richly layered characterization and motivation mostly make up for that. I also loved that these men were both (?) older. Certainly the Italian was over 60 probably. The story is just?different, but in such a good way that it makes me excited about your future stories as long as you keep writing. Grade: B+

Excerpt:

The road twists through the Italian Piedmont, a dusty, time-scarred ribbon, past fields nearing harvest and rolling hills that look as if they?ve been worn down by the steady pressure of millennia. The map lies open on the car seat, a route traced in orange highlighter. Michael carefully picks his way along in the tiny, rented Fiat, dodging potholes and sheep that have no concept of right of way. Occasionally, he spots outcroppings of stone, crumbling and forlorn, the remnants of foundations and fortress walls, pale reminders that life has been going on here for thousands of years. Michael has never been more aware that he comes from a place as new as a plastic cup on a Walmart shelf.

He turns down a road that is even narrower and more rutted than the last. At the end of it is the house, rough stone walls with a tiled roof, a distant relative of those ruins along the way. He parks in the shade of a cypress tree and hauls himself out of the car, his knees protesting the last three hours spent folded up like an accordion. His eyes are gritty, and he rubs at them. His body feels unnaturally light, as if his relationship to gravity has gone slightly off kilter, a sure sign of exhaustion. He didn?t sleep much on the flight from L.A.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and fingers the paper there, creased with much rereading, a thread of emails, a question asked and answered.

To: carlo_vennetti@vennetti.com
From: michaelvincent@nathansonvineyard.com
Re: Possibly an impertinent request?

Dear Mr. Vennetti,

Let me introduce myself. I?m Michael Vincent, the master vintner here at the Nathanson Vineyard in Sonoma. I?ve studied your career since I was in college, and I?ve followed your recent experiments with great interest. I realize you?re ostensibly retired from winemaking, but there?s so much we could learn here in California from the personal work you?re doing. I was hoping I could visit you at your home to discuss it and perhaps even to undertake a brief apprenticeship.

Please let me know if that would be amenable to you.

Yours very truly,
Michael Vincent

In response, he?d received a quote by Julius Caesar, in Latin no less:

?Ut est rerum omnium magister usus.?

Experience is the teacher of all things, Michael discovered after much frantic googling. He?s pretty sure it was a cryptic way of saying no to his impertinent request. He?s chosen to ignore that.

He heads up to the house and knocks at the door. No one comes, so he calls out, his voice echoing in the stillness. There?s no answer. He cocks his head, listening, but the only sound is the wind. Michael can?t imagine a more lonesome place. Carlo Vennetti wanted to get away from the world. He appears to have succeeded admirably.

Michael starts around the side of the house. In the distance, he sees the winery. His heart stutters a beat, and he has to hold back the impulse to run. Carlo Vennetti has been a winemaking genius, a true iconoclast, longer than Michael has been alive. Most people in the industry thought he?d lost his mind when he sold the vineyard he?d built to retire to his family?s estate and experiment with ancient methods of winemaking. But Michael recognized it as the instinct of genius. The only things new are old.

There?s a trail worn in the ground, and Michael follows it to the winery?s workshop. The door is a heavy, thick oak plank, and he has to put his shoulder to it, the door opening with a groan of ancient hinges. The temperature goes down ten degrees just crossing the threshold; the walls and floor and ceiling are all made of stone. Michael stalls inside the doorway. Carlo Vennetti bends over his work, his thick snowy hair in sharp contrast to his sun-weathered face. He wears a loose white shirt over worn khakis, his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows. Michael can?t help noticing the flex of muscle in his forearms as he picks up a beaker of rose-colored liquid in one broad palm.

?I see you have not chosen to heed the wisdom of one of history?s greatest strategists,? Carlo says, not looking up from his work. His English is flawless, with just the slightest softness at the edges of the words.

Michael?s guidebook Italian dies on his tongue. ?I?? he stammers, and then he lifts his chin determinedly. ?We can do work like this in California. I want you to teach me.?

Carlo glances up, and Michael isn?t prepared for piercing blue eyes, for the feeling that this man can see right through him. It?s like being punched in the stomach, a collision of panic and attraction, heat curling around his spine. He blinks, dazed. He didn?t expect this. It?s not why he came.