The road connecting the two villages of the Ionian Riviera seemed to have shortened that evening, as if the asphalt itself recognized the urgency of this return to origins. Belinda drove with the windows down, letting the crisp October air—heavy with the pungent scent of woodsmoke from the village chimneys—toss her light hair. On the passenger seat, secured with the care reserved for an honored guest, sat a bottle of Nero d'Avola. Not just any wine, but a reserve chosen with the instinct of one who knows that tonight they were celebrating not just a meeting, but a survival. It was a proud wine, born from lands scorched by the southern sun, capable of staining the tongue a burgundy so dark it looked like the ink of ripe cherries.
She parked in front of Arianna's house and for a moment remained motionless, her hands still on the wheel. That wrought-iron gate, surrounded by jasmine vines now devoid of flowers but heavy with dark leaves, smelled of a lost era. For one night, they were girls again. No husbands, no distant partners, no children demanding attention, no ghostly shadows or ancient tomes to decipher. Just the two of them, as they were when they were single and indomitable, with ranks of suitors buzzing around their villages without ever truly measuring up to their wild nature or the bond that no stranger could ever sever.
Emma, Arianna's mother, met her at the door. Belinda was struck by her: the woman was still beautiful, an intact beauty that time had only polished, making her akin to a river stone smoothed by the water. A former kindergarten teacher, Emma carried with her that luminous patience typical of those who have spent decades looking at the world through the pure lens of childhood. She was elegant, still graceful, with the same fierce spirit and sharp features as her daughter, but softened by a more mature poise and a smile that seemed to know every secret of the human heart.
"Beli, my child, come in! I can almost see you turning the corner right now with your backpack on your shoulders," Emma exclaimed, pulling her into an embrace that smelled of Marseille soap, flour, and rosemary.
The table had been prepared with a care that bordered on perfection, despite its extreme simplicity. At the center, a single lit candle diffused a warm, flickering light, making shadows dance on the cream-colored walls and rendering the atmosphere intimate, almost sacral. The Nero d'Avola was uncorked with a sharp, liberating pop; the scent of the wine, intense and fruity, immediately expanded into the room, mingling with the aromas wafting from the kitchen.
"It's a sin to let this wine breathe too long, Beli. It has a craving to be drunk, just as we have a craving to laugh," joked Arianna, who wore a dark tunic that made her mahogany hair stand out with an almost supernatural glow. The exhaustion of the previous days—that veil of melancholy linked to her children in Como—seemed to have vanished, replaced by an infectious euphoria.
Emma moved among the burners with the confidence of a master alchemist. The centerpiece of the evening was already on the embers, sheltered by a small indoor hearth that spread a reassuring heat. They were involtini—meat rolls—an absolute institution of their region, the kind you cannot find anywhere else with that same taste of home. Six wooden skewers, loaded with thin slices of beef rolled with surgical precision, stuffed with a mixture of savory breadcrumbs, local pecorino cheese, and an abundance of finely minced fresh basil. The smell of the fat slowly dripping onto the coals, combined with the scent of the basil released by the heat, was something timeless, capable of awakening primal instincts.
"Here they are, hot as the August sun," Emma announced, bringing the steaming tray to the table. "Eat them now, before the soul of the meat returns to the heavens."
Dinner was a triumph of flavors that spoke the language of the earth. The involtini were tender and succulent on the inside, protected by a golden, crispy crust of roasted breadcrumbs. A side of fresh salad from the garden, dressed only with good oil and lemon, cleansed the palate with every bite, while slices of homemade bread, cut as thin as durum wheat wafers, ensured not a single drop of that precious juice was lost. There were also "scacciate" olives—savory and fleshy—which accompanied the wine like old traveling companions.
And the wine, indeed, did its duty. One glass followed another with a dangerous and beautiful ease. The Nero d'Avola went down warm and full-bodied, leaving a lingering aftertaste of wild berries, licorice, and volcanic earth. The conversation flowed freely, stripped of the filters of prudence or duty. Emma told stories of her years spent in the classroom; the tantrums of the children, to hear her tell it, sounded incredibly like the rebellions Belinda and Arianna used to stage as girls between one village and the next.
"Do you remember when you tried to 'dye' Nonna Anna's cat with blackberry juice because you wanted a magical animal?" Emma asked, bursting into laughter as she poured the final round of the bottle.
"Yes, and we were grounded for three days, cleaning burgundy stains off everything!" Arianna replied, laughing heartily, her tongue visibly stained by the dark wine.
The bottle finished much sooner than expected, leaving the three women in a state of pleasant intoxication. That lightness had removed every barrier. Arianna spoke of her Marco and her children with a new tenderness, less burdened by guilt, while Belinda finally felt the weight of her role as "Guardian" slip from her shoulders. They were three indomitable women who, gathered around a candle now drowning in its own pool of wax, celebrated the gift of life that continues despite the shadows, despite the distance.
"You know," Emma said, her eyes misty and her voice softened by the wine, "seeing you like this reminds me why I loved teaching the little ones so much. To see them become women like you. Strong, capable of suffering in silence but also of laughing thunderously over a plate of meat and a good glass of wine. You are my most beautiful victory."
The wine had fulfilled its mission: flushed cheeks, burgundy tongues, and that sense of universal sisterhood that only the dinner table can provide. The candle was now a faint glow, but the light shining between them had never been so vivid.
That night, Belinda didn't just drive home to the next village. She returned to being the girl of the Riviera, aware that as long as there were women like Emma and Arianna, and involtini to share under the moon, no shadow could ever truly claim their joy.
What is the next step for our characters? Should we see Belinda returning to her workshop the next morning, perhaps discovering that the "talisman" she embroidered for Arianna has started to glow or change? Or should we follow Arianna as she finally makes the phone call to Marco in Como, speaking from a place of newfound strength?