The wine, of course, was Moscato d’Asti
One day, when I was just old enough to drink (21 in the US), my friends drafted me to help with a thank-you brunch for our favorite professor. I went into a new wine store to buy something to take to the party. Amazingly, the wine expert knew what I meant by “Scattosti” and she brought out several chilled bottles.
At the party, when I opened the first bottle, the scent of flowers and honey wafted up, the sun became brighter, and the memory of Lorenzo appeared so forcefully I nearly dropped my glass. The wine, of course, was Moscato d’Asti.
Some people believe there is no such thing as coincidence, but something very like coincidence (or fate?) happened that very day: when I returned to my house after brunch, Lorenzo was sitting on the stairs, in the bright, late Spring sunshine. More than a dozen years older, but still somehow the same. I was still a little drunk from the party — and I wanted to stay that way, if this pleasant state conjured up a sun-kissed, real-life Lorenzo.
He had been at conference here in the US, and had suddenly decided to contact my parents, who gave him my address. Had he been thinking about me, all these years? I wondered, though of course I couldn’t say it out loud.
Lorenzo was looking devastatingly masculine, mature and polished, but with bewitchingly tousled hair, a shade darker than his golden-brown eyes. When his gaze met mine, I simply grabbed his hand and we strolled down to the wineshop for some more of this magical Moscato d’Asti. And some gourmet bites for an authentic Northern Italian-style antipasto plate. It wasn’t until much later that it occurred to me: what was I trying to create — or re-create — or discover?