Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!
Romy Sommer
‘A gorgeous love letter to Italy’ Kat French‘All I can picture is myself in Tuscany…A book that will sweep you away’ Jo Watson, bestselling author of Love to Hate YouLove grows where you least expect to find it…When ambitious workaholic Sarah Wells discovers she has inherited her estranged father’s vineyard near Montalcino in Tuscany, the last thing she wants is to take time away from her busy schedule to sort out a crumbling mess of a palazzo. But, of course, life never runs smoothly and when she makes a rare error, her bosses decide a holiday is just what she needs.When Sarah arrives in Italy, she learns that she is not her father’s sole heir. In fact, she only has a partial stake in Castel Sant’ Angelo because of a loophole in Italian law. Her father has left the vineyard instead to his business partner, the gorgeous and infuriating Tommaso Di Biasi – and Tomasso doesn’t want to sell.At first, Sarah wants the deal done as quickly as possible so she can get back to her life in London, but it seems Italy has other plans for her. Under the warmth of the Tuscan sun, with a glass or two of the local vino rosso, and brooding Tommaso challenging her all the way , Sarah starts to realise that that there might just be something to la dolce vita…
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Romy Sommer 2018
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
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Romy Sommer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008301149
Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008301132
Version: 2018-06-06
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue363a03b-bc57-5dc0-a671-29265b893955)
Title Page (#ud5fc08c8-00cf-57a1-82a6-bd03838fb0af)
Copyright (#u2de8f22f-9d56-50e3-817c-1011d5051f49)
Dedication (#uef758c01-878e-526b-9982-23221d81c24d)
Epigraph (#uc9187ab4-44af-5e58-b3c9-731986812589)
Chapter 1 (#u2fdbaec8-4efa-5bce-93ff-ab17683ab8eb)
Chapter 2 (#u6888af52-133b-5de8-b2ac-ab6c9e932f2f)
Chapter 3 (#u64f12722-4221-5a12-a26b-ab1df9690c83)
Chapter 4 (#u70af17cf-8cd2-5173-ae10-a336fc0c30d2)
Chapter 5 (#ub6ab07ee-afce-5cac-b2ea-1139c71ffd13)
Chapter 6 (#uec674a57-2339-5460-844d-fa01c4a39e44)
Chapter 7 (#uebb2a368-73a6-5192-ba6b-ddf98404e789)
Chapter 8 (#uccc2cd76-7223-50e1-9f01-2fbbb3970bee)
Chapter 9 (#u01c1c3d9-d235-58ed-9d8d-1102ec452c1a)
Chapter 10 (#u202b11ee-53a6-5c9a-a01e-f33317a6427e)
Chapter 11 (#ufa63fcdc-89c5-56a1-be88-809e2bd23916)
Chapter 12 (#u8b729e8f-ca80-5d28-864f-723cc691c233)
Chapter 13 (#ufc074734-570f-5314-94dc-80fbd14339dd)
Chapter 14 (#u717fc8af-8589-5f38-95a3-c2bba0f1a188)
Chapter 15 (#u05cdd315-b814-5e0e-b68d-2b32e19ab913)
Chapter 16 (#udf94f0f4-5f76-59cf-91f2-1b80d928fa9a)
Chapter 17 (#u141aa299-0970-5a34-86d9-5398fa671cad)
Chapter 18 (#uf9bcc8c0-360d-56ac-ad72-a27c8b483825)
Chapter 19 (#u8c56c010-4671-5be1-a16c-df5857dced5d)
Chapter 20 (#u98eb1029-6126-517e-a17c-8f47e30c2ee1)
Chapter 21 (#ud5ab9970-c611-5bf0-8be8-bc20feadde65)
Chapter 22 (#u7581ae7b-380b-5981-b1e7-7a43be3c515f)
Chapter 23 (#u7bbf3b41-5b66-529a-a589-72eba282587b)
Chapter 24 (#u1f1e251c-549b-5baf-94cf-cb8c871bb671)
Chapter 25 (#ud34f9d14-52ea-5912-b4b2-9846d9670ab0)
Chapter 26 (#ua322f213-320c-5bbb-99ba-91c6b6151696)
Chapter 27 (#ud26a957f-1631-521f-afb1-8411d769d4a0)
Chapter 28 (#u81ac0a5e-e4dd-5b33-9748-c40021f4097b)
Chapter 29 (#ud48f29f6-3503-5ee6-b054-54cbd1259b44)
Chapter 30 (#u6693e412-7fd6-59ff-be3b-04ced1ee52f9)
Chapter 31 (#u9d51c034-907d-5129-91f1-c5d80fc7a28f)
Chapter 32 (#u14d46544-8667-5514-855c-eb0d06ad5cad)
Chapter 33 (#u2a4145d9-3466-5782-b8b2-08dad41fb241)
Chapter 34 (#u60dbc518-1649-5e81-aaf4-9a8f9ebadb61)
Chapter 35 (#u55ef5b7c-81a1-5c3f-82cb-0ea548824321)
Epilogue (#u854b311c-7399-5259-baaa-2d255d5d3ac5)
Acknowledgments (#uade42ac0-69ce-5c89-9005-62202554d8e5)
About the Author (#uc6a83329-6b91-5776-888b-a026fa728498)
Keep Reading … (#ub00ab9fc-e6f2-5eba-bf42-d44d9a641721)
About HarperImpulse (#u3c14a1ef-d96b-5a0f-876d-45026e30ed10)
About the Publisher (#ua98d0e9b-c044-5729-aab9-1c1085effbfc)
This book is dedicated to my mother, who contributed hugely to this novel by keeping the household fed and clean, and who helped me research by sharing with me many bottles (and boxes) of wine.
Also to my daughters, for giving me time and space to write, and for understanding when I am grumpy from lack of sleep – and for telling me that I should ‘volow my hart’.
Finally, I dedicate this book to all those people who devote their lives to making wine: you often make life worth living.
What is the fatal charm of Italy? What do we find there that can be found nowhere else? I believe it’s a certain permission to be human, which other places, other countries, lost long ago.
– Erica Jong
Chapter 1 (#ub473b70d-7760-58f7-a67a-a852e57f29ea)
Chi lascia la via vecchia per la nuova sa quel che lascia ma non sa quel che trova
(Those who leave the old ways behind know what they’re leaving, but not what they’ll find)
I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. Heavy, warm air filled my lungs, tasting of full-blown summer though back in England spring had barely sprung. After the crisp chill of London, the rich scents carried on the breeze were strangely soporific.
‘You don’t want air con?’ the taxi driver asked, his deeply offended tone suggesting he’d prefer air con to fresh farm air.
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes again. But I didn’t close the car window. Since I was paying premium price for this trip halfway across Tuscany, I’d darn well keep the window open if I wanted. I breathed in deeply again, this time not to smell the figurative roses but to calm myself. Breathe in. Count to three. Relax.
It was unbelievable that I was only now learning to recognise the signs of stress in my body and how to deal with it. Too many years driving myself to achieve. Too many years of not taking the time to listen to my own body. All those years focused on a single target, and where did it get me? Exile.
If only I’d gone a little easier on myself. If only I’d taken a holiday once a year like everyone else, instead of clapping myself on the back for my dedication. If only I’d made a priority of a few more hours’ sleep each night, maybe now I wouldn’t be forced to cool my heels here in the middle of nowhere.
Already bored of ‘if onlys’, I slid my mobile out my handbag and glanced at the screen. No missed calls. Not even a text message. Surely someone at the office would have tried to reach me by now. They’d had the big meeting with the CFO of the Delta Corporation this morning. Wouldn’t Cleo at least have let me know how it went?
Breathe in. Count to three. Relax.
On the plus side, I was really lucky I hadn’t been fired. I’d made such a stupid mistake. A stupid, expensive mistake, the kind that required a great deal of grovelling to fix. I’d done all the grovelling I could, but the rest of my team were still having to pick up the slack.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I was lucky to still have a job, a house, a life waiting back in England for me, but enforced ‘holiday leave’ didn’t feel lucky. It felt like a punishment.
Once the legalities of John’s estate were wrapped up, and I’d put his property on the market, what was I supposed to do with myself for another four whole months?
‘It’s not a punishment,’ Kevin had said. ‘It’s every bit of holiday leave you’ve never taken.’
And then he’d given me that look, the one that said, ‘and maybe if you’d taken some of that leave earlier, we’d still be together.’ As if I might actually miss him and want him back. Huh!
I only realised I’d snorted out loud when I spotted the taxi driver’s raised eyebrows in the rear-view mirror.
I turned to look out the car window. We were circling Montalcino now. The medieval hilltop town caught the afternoon sun like a golden jewel, then the wide, provincial road wound away south, carrying us away from the town between undulating hills covered in the verdant green of early summer.
The Delta meeting had to be over by now. No longer able to control my fingers, I dialled Cleo’s number.
‘Did Delta’s CFO yank their business, or has he agreed to let you re-structure the loan?’ I asked, the moment my BFF answered.
Cleo sighed. ‘You’re on leave, Sarah. You’re not supposed to be thinking about work. Doctor’s orders, remember?’
I huffed out an exasperated breath. ‘An actuarial doctorate does not give Kevin the right to tell me what to do.’
‘No. But his being your boss gives him the right.’ Cleo’s voice softened. ‘He cares about you, Sar. We all do. You’ve been working yourself into an early grave. You really need to rest.’
‘I am resting. But do I really need to rest for the entire summer? One week is enough. Two tops.’
Cleo sighed. ‘You’re burned out. You may not appreciate how dangerous that is, but those of us who love you do. You need to find yourself a healthy work-life balance, and you’re not going to rediscover that in a week. Go read a book, or be a tourist, or get a hobby. Better yet, get back on the dating horse.’ She barked a laugh. ‘Not that you ever were on that horse! The only reason you dated Kevin was because you didn’t have to leave work to meet him.’
‘I don’t need a man to have a healthy work-life balance. I’ll sign up for yoga classes. Hell, I’ll even take up meditation if it means I can come back to work sooner.’
Cleo laughed again. She had a fun laugh, easy and bubbly. I wondered what my own laugh sounded like. It’d been so long since I’d laughed at anything.
‘You know what works quicker than meditation? Getting laid! Find yourself a sexy Italian stud and have your way with him. You’ll feel so much better!’
Not. Going. To. Happen.
The taxi driver’s gaze met mine in the rear-view mirror, his one heavy brow rising in a lewd grin. Oh God, he hadn’t heard that, had he?
Not in your dreams, dude. I frowned fiercely at the mirror, and he looked quickly away.
‘I’m burned out, not braindead.’ I dropped my voice so the driver couldn’t eavesdrop. ‘Holiday romances are more trouble than they’re worth.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. That guy I hooked up with in Spain was definitely worth it.’ Cleo’s voice turned heavy with suggestion.
‘Yeah, so worth it you can’t even remember his name!’
She giggled. ‘It wasn’t his name that made the impression.’
I shook my head, though I knew she couldn’t see. No one knew better than I where wild and thoughtless holiday romances could lead – to relationships that didn’t last, to unexpected and unwanted pregnancies, to a mother who flitted around the world trying to recapture her lost youth, and a father I’d barely known. Nope. Growing up the product of a holiday fling, no way would I ever be stupid enough to indulge in one.
One-night stands, brief flings, passionate affairs … they just weren’t my thing.
But the sudden and unwanted memory of serious grey eyes made my stomach contract in a way I’d almost forgotten. I pushed the memory aside. ‘Not. Going. To. Happen.’
‘I know how you feel about holiday romances, but you’re not some impetuous teenager,’ Cleo continued. ‘You’re a sensible woman, and you know all about birth control. You can’t keep letting what your mother did—’
‘Geraldine,’ I corrected automatically. My ‘mother’ didn’t deserve that title.
Cleo sighed. ‘Okay, so no holiday romance, then. But when you get back you could—’
‘If you suggest online dating again, I will have to kill you. Those three days I spent on that app were just too depressing.’
‘We could try speed dating?’ Cleo asked hopefully. She really was a sucker for punishment.
‘Absolutely not! Dating of any kind when you’re over 35 is the most demoralising experience any woman can have. All the decent single guys our age are either taken or gay. No thanks! If I can’t meet someone organically, I’d rather be alone.’
Cleo sighed. ‘You are not over 35. You are 35. And that is far too young to give up on sex.’
I glanced at the taxi driver, but this time his eyes stayed on the road. ‘So did Delta’s CFO agree to the compromise deal?’
‘He did. He’s allocating one of his most senior finance people to work with us to re-analyse their financials and re-structure the loan. Kevin’s put me on it. Everything will be fine.’
I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding. ‘I can’t thank you enough. I know my mistake has put everyone else under terrible pressure.’ Guilt burned a bitter taste in my mouth. How could I not have factored in something as obvious as the client’s cash flow situation? My incorrect calculations had put one of our most valued clients at risk of bankruptcy. If one of my own underlings had made a mistake like that, I’d have fired them on the spot, none of this ‘shame, you’ve been working too hard’ molly-coddling everyone was doing with me. I really was luckier than I deserved to be.
Cleo’s voice softened. ‘We don’t mind. We care about you, and we understand that mistakes happen, especially when someone’s as sleep deprived as you’ve been. Just promise me you’ll catch up on some sleep while you’re there. Enjoy the sun and breathe a little. Work will still be here when you get back.’
I sighed. ‘Okay, I promise.’
‘So have you met your father’s lawyer yet? What’s the castle like?’
I glanced out the window again. After an hour of the same view, of vineyards giving way to patches of dark forest, and then yet more vineyards, the beauty had started to pall. But now the taxi swung off the main provincial road, onto a bumpy, dusty farm road that had once been tarred. It was so rutted the sedan had to slow to navigate the bumps. ‘Not yet, but we’re nearly there.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t be there with you. You sure you’re going to be okay sorting through your father’s things on your own?’
‘Of course I’ll be fine.’ It would be hypocritical to get choked up over someone I hadn’t seen in years, someone I hardly spoke to. After all, it wasn’t as if I’d lost a father. Aside from a handful of summers in my childhood, I’d never really had a father. He hadn’t been involved in my life in any meaningful way; he hadn’t attended any of my school concerts, or netball games, or even my graduation. All his love had been reserved for his vines, with nothing left to spare for people.
Yet when I thought of him, I could still smell red wine, lemons and sunshine. He’d taught me how to drink wine – though he’d hardly approve of the way Cleo and I sloshed down the cheap stuff.
I said goodbye to Cleo and hung up, stuck my mobile back into my bag, and turned to the view again.
The road climbed now between the rolling hills, and I recognised the landmarks – a tiny stone chapel in the fold of a valley to the left, the long low wall of a neighbour’s property, then the shrine at the crossroads with its faded painting of an angel. Just around that next bend, the castello’s gates would appear. I leaned forward excitedly in my seat.
There had been a time, another lifetime ago, when I’d loved this place. Back in those innocent days when the vineyard hadn’t seemed like a rival, but an adventure. And now I was the proud owner of sixty hectares of Tuscan vineyard, and my very own castle – the only thing John had ever given me, aside from unwittingly donating the sperm that gave me life.
My memories of this place had faded with the years, but I remembered the castello as a magical building, complete with turrets and frescoes, and rooms filled with treasure. It was always cool, even on the hottest summer’s day, and the gardens were a paradise too, with banks of lavender and sweet roses surrounded by neatly trimmed boxwood hedges.
The driver turned the car between a pair of high, ornate iron gates, overhung by a sign that read Castel Sant’Angelo. Castle of the Holy Angel. The gates looked rusted, and the sign creaked ominously, but the grand entrance remained just as impressive as the first time my mother had driven me through these gates when I was five.
The long drive was even bumpier and more rutted than the farm road, and the car sent up a billowing cloud of white dust behind us. Tall cypresses lined the road, casting long, dark blue stripes across our path and blocking the view of the house.
Then at last, the trees fell away to reveal the front approach to the castello, and the building rose up before us, its familiar façade warm in the slanting afternoon light. The umbrella pines that dotted the slope above the castello had been kept at bay from the front of the house, allowing the building to bask in sunshine. For a moment, the building seemed bright with colour: from the red-tiled roof, to the mellow apricot-coloured walls, to the powder-blue shutters.
At the end of the drive the road split, the left fork circling behind the house to the back yard then continuing on to the winery, and the right forming a square forecourt in front of the house’s main entrance. A fancy, low-slung silver sports car stood in the forecourt. John’s lawyer was already here.
This side of the house faced west towards Montalcino, and the late afternoon sun washed the walls in golden light. But when the taxi pulled up in front of the entrance and I opened the car door, I realised the sunlight was deceptive. The house looked faded and tired.
Nothing a coat of paint can’t fix.
A man waited on the front steps of the house, beneath the porticoed entrance. He stepped forward into the light, and my heart caught suddenly in my throat. Not in that panic attack way I’d started to feel lately, but in a good way.
He was the kind of man who gave Italian men their reputation for studliness. Not any older than mid-thirties, with a face that was all golden planes and sharp angles. He wore a casual polo shirt and jeans, which fit his lean figure well enough that I could appreciate the toned muscle beneath the fabric.
Oh my word. This was my father’s lawyer?
He descended the low flight of stairs, approaching with a welcoming smile, and my heart picked up its pace in a silly pitter-patter I hadn’t felt in years. Kevin certainly never made my heart go pitter-patter like that.
The lawyer’s eyes were dark and smiling, the colour of chocolate, warm and rich, and just as tempting. I couldn’t help myself. I sighed.
‘Signor Fioravanti?’ My voice sounded breathless. Oh please. Get a hold of yourself, Sarah.
‘Benvenuta in Toscana, signora Wells. Please, call me Luca.’ His voice matched the face, deep, golden, and deliciously accented. Then he smiled, and dimples appeared in his cheeks. Dimples! As far back as I could remember, I’d never experienced actual weak knees over a man. Until now. Maybe Kevin and Cleo were right: I must be seriously burned out.
I reached out a tentative hand, and Luca wrapped both his around it. ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for arranging the cremation and everything.’
‘Of course. John Langdon was well respected here in our little community. He was a good man.’
I blinked away an unexpected blur in my eyes and focused on the man still holding my hand. A man this hot had to be married. I sneaked a look at his left hand. No wedding ring. Okay, so probably gay then.
I retrieved my hand and turned away to pay the driver, then while Luca carried my cases from the car, I wandered around the corner of the building to look at the long front side of the house that faced south over the valley.
It was more than just peeling paint that made the house seem tired. The stucco plaster was coming loose in great chunks, revealing streaky grey travertine blocks beneath. Some of the shutters hung skew on their rusty hinges.
Rapidly, I revised my hopeful estimate of the asking price down by half a million euros. The buyer would need to do a great deal of cosmetic work.
The house also seemed smaller and less impressive than I remembered. There were still towers on either side, topped with the crenelated turrets of my childhood memory, but now I could see they were mere decorations, pretentious additions to make an ordinary villa look more like a castle.
With a sigh, I turned away. The taxi was already halfway down the drive, taking all my childhood illusions away with it, and leaving me stranded in cold, hard reality. At least I had the really hot lawyer to soothe the transition.
I rejoined Luca on the front steps. He held a large ring of ancient-looking keys, and with a flourish, he slid the largest key into the lock, turned it, and gave the big brass handle a twist. The door stuck. I had to lean on it beside him to get it to finally open, and when it swung suddenly open, squealing on its old hinges, we both fell inside.
Oh, great. Trust me to be clumsy and ungraceful in front of the most gorgeous man I’d ever stood within breathing distance of.
‘The wood has swollen a little,’ Luca observed, sounding inordinately cheerful considering the grim welcome.
The hall inside was dark and gloomy, the effect no doubt of all the house’s shutters being closed. Luca set down my cases on the bottommost step of the stone staircase, then followed as I wandered through the downstairs rooms.
Dust sheets covered the furniture, which loomed up out of the shadows, filling almost all the floor space. As a child, I used to play hide and seek in these rooms, and searched for treasure, but viewed though adult eyes it was simply cluttered, as if several hundred years’ worth of inhabitants had collected furniture as a hobby – and never threw out a single item.
‘The house is about a thousand square metres in size,’ Luca said as he trailed me through the rooms. When I turned a bewildered expression on him, he laughed. ‘That’s over ten thousand English square feet.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Feet! Not a very attractive language, your English. But the real jewel, of course, is the land. More than two thirds of the property is arable. There’s a fruit orchard, olive trees, and at least half the land is covered in vines. Mostly Sangiovese, but some Malvasia and Vernaccia grapes too.’
‘Do you know a lot about wine?’
‘Everyone in this region knows at least a little about wine.’ He smiled, and his dark eyes lit up. ‘And you?’
‘I know absolutely nothing about wine – except how to drink it.’
‘That is a good place to start.’
I didn’t plan to get started. I had zero interest in learning anything about wine farming, and was just as happy drinking wine out of a box as out of a bottle with a real cork. I suspected if I admitted that out loud here in Tuscany, I might be deported immediately, inheritance or not.
In the drawing room, the long room which faced down over the valley, I threw open the windows and shutters. The afternoon light streaming in did nothing to dispel the gloom, because now I could see the layer of dust and grime on everything, the threadbare carpet, the peeling burgundy wallpaper, and the dust motes stirred up and set dancing by the inflow of fresh, warm air.
‘How long ago did my father die?’
‘A little over two weeks ago.’
This kind of neglect had taken a great deal longer than two weeks to accumulate.
‘Was he sick for a long time?’ I didn’t really want to know the answer. I felt guilty enough already. I should have known. I should have called. I should have made more of an effort to keep in touch with my own father, even though he made very little attempt to keep in touch with me.
‘No, he died very suddenly. He was in the winery when he had the heart attack. Tommaso found him there.’
He spoke the name as if it should mean something to me, but I only shrugged and turned away. I hadn’t been here in nearly two decades – I could hardly be expected to remember the names and faces of my father’s employees.
The only person I remembered was Elisa, John’s housekeeper. Nonna, I used to call her. Grandmother, though she was no blood relation. But Elisa died a few years ago. That much my father had told me in one of our rare phone calls.
‘He didn’t have any help in the house?’ I asked.
Luca shrugged. ‘After Elisa died, your father never replaced her. He was an old man who didn’t like too much change, and he didn’t like strangers. He only lived in a handful of rooms these last few years.’
That would explain the dirt and general shabbiness. Thank heavens the property still had all those acres of vines to attract potential buyers, or I’d be screwed.
‘I’d like to put this place on the market as soon as possible. Can you handle that for me?’
‘Si.’ He drew the word out, as if doubtful.
‘What price do you think I can get?’
He studied the bubbling wallpaper as if fascinated. Now, I most certainly was not imagining his hesitance. ‘It is a little complicated,’ he said. ‘Your father having been a resident here for so long, naturally he chose to have his will drawn up under Italian law, so the rule of legittima applies. It will take some time to resolve.’
What needed to be resolved? I was John’s only living relative. ‘How long?’
‘That will depend on the circumstances of the successione necessaria, the statutory shares.’
I’d had enough experience with corporate speak to recognise when someone was deliberately hedging.
‘I need a cup of tea.’ I turned away from the scene of neglect and headed down the terracotta-tiled passage to the kitchen.
Luca’s soft chuckle followed me. ‘So like your father. The one part of his English heritage he clung to was his tea.’
The high-vaulted kitchen was at the back of the house, opening onto the back yard which almost seemed cut out of the hillside. The kitchen featured the same terracotta floor tiles as the rest of the ground floor rooms, and the same deep windows. Dusty Delft plates decorated one wall. At least this room looked cleaner and more lived in than the other rooms, though it still felt more like a museum than a home. In the two decades since I’d last been here, the only new appliance to find its way into this kitchen was an electric kettle. And thank God for that.
Dismayed, I eyed the antique wood stove, with its blackened top and grimy porcelain façade. It had been my lifelong dream to own a home with a great big old-fashioned Aga. This vintage stove was nothing like that Aga of my dreams. Surely this couldn’t be the same stove Nonna taught me to bake in?
Beside the kettle, I found a tin of loose leaf tea that still smelled fresh, and a china teapot decorated with delicate pink roses. Setting the kettle to boil, I rinsed out the teapot at the enormous sink, noting the deep crack in the side of the marble, then brewed a strong pot of tea. The comforting, familiar smell in this alien place calmed me. Though I’d been fully prepared to drink the tea black, I discovered fresh milk in the fridge. Someone had anticipated my arrival. Luca?
I poured out two steaming cups, then sat across from Luca at the big wooden kitchen table. ‘Okay. I’m ready to hear it. What haven’t you told me?’
He looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Under English law anyone making a will has the “testamentary freedom” to choose whoever they would like to inherit their estate.’
I nodded. That was easy enough to follow.
‘However, here in Italy we have the rule of legittima, of forced heirship. This means that in Italy, the person making the will cannot freely determine who gets what. Italian law is set up to protect the inheritance of family members who might have been … overlooked.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Here in Italy we cannot threaten to disinherit a family member who has displeased us, since everyone knows the law will decide who inherits and who will not, to ensure that all heirs receive a fair share.’
I sipped my tea. Could he just get to the point, already? I didn’t see how any of this was relevant, since I was John’s only child.
Luca’s expression turned serious. ‘You see, under Italian law it is obligatory for certain immediate family members to inherit a proportion of the estate, regardless of what it says in the will.’
It finally occurred to me where this conversation was headed. ‘You’re saying there’s another heir? Someone else with a claim who might want to contest the will?’
He nodded, relieved I’d got there ahead of him. ‘You are that someone.’
It took a moment for his words to sink in. And an even longer moment for me to shut my mouth again.
Slowly, I drained the last of the tea from my cup and poured another, careful to keep my hand from shaking. Only when I’d added milk and stirred, did I risk looking back at Luca, my emotions once again under firm control.
‘You are telling me that my father did not leave me any part of his estate. He left it to someone else. And it is only because of this law of legittima that I have any claim at all?’
‘Si.’
‘Who did he leave it to?’ My voice sounded astonishingly steady, considering my entire world had suddenly shifted beneath my feet.
Sure, we were never close, but whose fault was it that my father and I were as good as strangers? I was the only child he’d ever had, and this was how little he’d cared for me?
‘He left it to Tommaso.’
That name again.
At my blank expression, Luca added: ‘John’s business partner.’
I didn’t even know my father had a business partner. The last time we’d spoken, at Christmas on one of our semi-annual phone calls, we hadn’t talked about anything consequential. I’d asked after the vineyard, and John told me one of his wines had won some award. He’d asked about my work, and I told him everything was fine, as I always did.
I cleared my throat. ‘So what are my chances of inheriting anything?’
‘The chances are good that you will receive at least half the value of the property. The courts are very fair that way, but Italian court cases can drag on for years, so we should try to settle. Tommaso is a reasonable man and we will talk to him. If we can persuade him to buy you out of your share straight away, then everything can be resolved amicably. Alternatively, the property could be sold, and you and Tommaso can split the profits equally between you once the debts are paid.’
Of course there were debts. There always were. And no one knew better than I how to finance them, re-structure them, and turn them to good use. ‘How much debt?’
‘Several loans, and your father re-mortgaged a few years ago to finance new equipment for the farm. The balance still owing stands at nearly three million euros.’
My breath whistled out. According to my research, properties this size sold for anywhere between three and five million. But they had fully renovated villas. So not only would I have to share the proceeds of John’s estate, I’d be lucky if there were any proceeds.
I sipped my tea. It tasted bitter. Or maybe that was just the bad taste in my mouth. For so many years I’d resented this land because it was the only thing John ever loved. That it had so little value only made it worse. I’d been worth less to him than a crumbling building with grand pretensions and a heavily mortgaged farm.
‘I guess I need to call the taxi back then. If this property doesn’t belong to me, I can hardly stay here.’
‘Tommaso is happy for you to treat the castello as your own until this is settled.’
How magnanimous. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘You sound like your father. Always so practical.’
What else could I be under the circumstances but practical?
Luca pushed away his cup of only partially-drunk tea. ‘We will need to complete the paperwork to prove who you are, and to confirm that you will contest the will. But since it is now nearly five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, there is not much more we can do today. Tomorrow morning at ten, you and Tommaso will meet at my office, and we will discuss how to proceed.’
I walked Luca to the front door, where he handed me the massive set of keys. I took them, feeling like a fraud. This wasn’t my house. My father had chosen to leave everything to someone else, someone he valued more highly than his own daughter.
Luca had to help shut the front door, him pulling and me pushing. It was not the most dignified of farewells, and with the door shut between us I couldn’t even say a proper goodbye. Instead, as his little sports car revved to life and roared off down the drive, I sank back against the big warped wooden door, energy spent.
Perhaps I was more tired than I realised. I was glad I’d only have to face my father’s mysterious business partner tomorrow, because right now all I wanted was to curl up in a ball, with a duvet pulled over my head, and hide from the world.
Chapter 2 (#ub473b70d-7760-58f7-a67a-a852e57f29ea)
Chi cerca, trova, e talor quel che non vorrebbe
(He who seeks, finds, and sometimes finds what he would rather not)
I wrestled my cases upstairs. The stairs, made of stone, seemed solid enough, but the wrought iron hand railing wobbled at my touch. The house needed a lot of work. Maybe this Tommaso guy would be just as happy as I to be shot of the place?
I couldn’t remember how many bedrooms the house had. Lots, it had seemed to my kid self. But considering how impressed I’d been by a few decorative crenellations, maybe not as many as I’d thought. I started with my father’s room, peeking inside, then shutting the door quickly. I wasn’t yet ready to face the tumbled emotions evoked by his personal space.
Instead, I chose the guest room at the opposite end of the long corridor, the same one I’d used as a child. Both the shutters and the curtains were closed. I set my smallest bag down on the bench at the foot of the wooden four-poster bed, dropped the big wheelie bag in the middle of the floor, and hurried to open the windows. Dust motes danced in the light when I gingerly opened the drapes, but the room appeared reasonably clean, and the bed was freshly made, with new bedding; grey and masculine-looking pillows and duvet.
Kicking off my shoes, I climbed under the duvet, pulled it up over my head, and let sleep take me away – away from the strangeness of Italy, this silent house and its memories, back to the only place I’d ever felt truly at home: that sixth floor corner office in Cheapside from which I’d been banned for four interminable months.
When I woke, disoriented, and with my empty stomach complaining, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything since the quickie pain au chocolat and coffee in the airport that morning, the room was in pitch darkness. Silence reverberated in my ears. No distant hum of traffic, no muted sounds of the neighbours’ telly, none of the small, comforting sounds of my housemates moving in the house. I couldn’t remember when last I’d felt so utterly alone. Probably not since the last time I was in this house.
Somewhere in the house something creaked, and I shot up off the bed.
The castello felt very big and very empty. How far away were the nearest neighbours? Was there anyone else on the property at night, any workers, or a night watchman? Would anyone hear if I screamed for help? I hadn’t thought to ask Luca.
Barefoot, I tiptoed to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it, but there were no other sounds. The door squeaked as I opened it, making me jump.
This is stupid. You’re a grown woman. You’re a competent, successful, twenty-first-century woman who can take care of herself. And I was hungry.
The kitchen hadn’t seemed so far away when I was a kid. I made my way down through the darkened house, not switching on any lights. Even if I could remember where the switches were, I didn’t want to turn myself into a target on the off-chance there was an intruder.
The vast kitchen with its high-beamed ceiling was eerily full of looming shadows, and the yellow lamplight spilling from the single overhead lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom. I filled the electric kettle, then rinsed out the teapot to brew a fresh pot. But tea wasn’t going to be enough to silence my grumbling stomach. Had the considerate person who’d left milk and made up my bed also left food?
There was nothing in the kitchen itself, but John always loved biscuits with his tea. That would be better than nothing. So I headed into the pantry, and was still groping for the light switch when I heard a sound that turned my veins to ice. I froze. The outer kitchen door creaked open.
The wind blowing open an unlatched door? Ghosts?
But it was worse than ghosts. The high-pitched creak turned into an ominously final bang as the door shut again, and then there were heavy, booted footsteps across the kitchen floor.
My heart leapt into my throat. It was beating so hard, I was sure I was at serious risk of a coronary. Forget the stress of a corporate job. This was a million times worse.
With my heart thudding loudly enough against my ribs that the intruder could probably hear it on the other side of the pantry door, I clung to the door handle, steadying myself, relieved to be hidden here in the pitch dark. With my free hand, I groped behind me, and my fingers hit cold iron, rounding on a solid, heavy handle.
The door handle twisted unexpectedly beneath my fingers and I squealed, louder even than the handle had, giving myself away.
The pantry door swung open, and all my blood drained to my toes.
‘Sarah?’ He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a bouncer.
He reached past me, and I flinched back, swinging with all my might just as the tiny pantry flooded with cold white light.
In the moment before my weapon connected with solid flesh, I glimpsed the intruder. He was dark-haired, bearded, and terrifying. He grunted and staggered back, clutching his head.
‘What the hell?!’ His accent was thick, not immediately traceable, but he spoke in English without even thinking, I noted, as I gripped the heavy metal object close to my chest.
And he knew my name. Oh heavens.
Probably not a burglar after all.
The man glowered at me, still holding his head. ‘Why are you hiding in here?’
‘I wasn’t hiding. I was looking for biscuits.’
‘In the dark?’ He removed his hand from his forehead and there was a streak of blood on his fingers, and even more on his brow where a long gash oozed.
‘You’re bleeding!’
He scowled. ‘Of course I am. You’re lucky I’m not bloody unconscious, or worse.’
I glanced at the weapon in my hand. I held an old-fashioned iron for pressing clothes, one of those solid antique cast-iron types that opened up to place hot coals inside. A formidable weapon indeed. ‘I am so sorry! I thought you were a burglar.’
He moved to lean against the scarred Formica kitchen counter, as if unable to stand without help, and I hurried to his side to offer support, even though I still felt as shaky as a budding spring leaf.
He brushed me away, irritable. ‘How can I be a burglar when I live here?’
‘You live here?’ Oops. Luca hadn’t mentioned anyone living here. I took a wild guess. ‘You’re Tommaso?’
‘Of course. Who else would I be?’ he snapped. I could hardly blame him for his surliness. The blood was trickling now down his temple, and his face was paler than it had been when he’d loomed over me in the pantry door.
I felt a tad pale too. The bedding upstairs was masculine. Had I pulled a Goldilocks and slept in Baby Bear’s bed? Not that this man could be remotely confused with a baby bear. More like a great big, angry Papa Grizzly.
Until he swayed on his feet.
‘You need to sit.’ I set down the old iron and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. Casting me another annoyed glance, he slid into it. Satisfied that at least he wasn’t likely to collapse on the floor, I hurried to the cracked sink and wet a tea towel, which I used to dab at his forehead until the blood stopped trickling and the wound looked relatively clean. Thankfully it was a shallow cut and shouldn’t need stitches. I just hoped the iron wasn’t rusty enough to cause an infection. ‘You’ll need antiseptic and a band aid, to keep the cut clean. Where will I find them?’
‘Under the kitchen sink.’
I found a first aid box under the sink and set it on the kitchen table, rooting through its jumbled contents for band aids and antiseptic. He flinched when I dabbed iodine on the cut but didn’t make a sound. Done at last, I moved back to the kettle and set it going again. I needed tea more than ever. In fact, I could do with a shot of brandy, but I wasn’t brave – or stupid – enough to ask my host where to find his liquor cabinet.
‘Tea?’ I offered, bringing the filled teapot and two mismatched cups to the table.
‘Yes, please.’
While I poured, I sneaked a surreptitious look. He wasn’t as old as the beard had at first made him appear, nor quite as rough and threatening as he’d first seemed. His thick hair was long, almost to his shoulders, though not as shaggy as I’d first thought.
But even if he wasn’t a terrifying burglar, he still wasn’t Baby Bear. He was the rightful owner of this castello, I was his guest, and probably a very unwelcome one at that – now more than ever.
‘Shall we start over?’ I infused as much good cheer into my voice as my still jittery nerves could manage. ‘I’m Sarah Wells, John’s daughter, and I’m very grateful you’re letting me stay in the house.’
He said nothing, just eyed me with a cool, grey gaze that was more than a little hostile. Okay, so I wasn’t going to get the red carpet rolled out for me any time soon.
I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Luca didn’t tell me you were living in the house.’
He gave me an odd look. ‘I don’t. I live in the cottage.’
The cottage was across the back yard. It had been converted from the old stable block back in the Fifties and was where the housekeeper Elisa had lived.
‘Okay. So what are you doing here in the kitchen?’
‘I saw the light on and came over to say hello. I thought you might want dinner.’ He waved, and I turned to look behind me at the tray he must have set down on top of the old wood stove before coming to find me in the pantry. Only now did I become aware of the aromatic smell filling the kitchen. My stomach pulled tight, and not just from hunger.
He’d been nothing more than neighbourly, and I’d bashed him over the head with the nearest weapon I could find. Not a great way to open negotiations.
I forced a polite smile I didn’t feel. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
His eyes narrowed. An uncomfortable silence filled the room but I refused to show any weakness to this intimidating man, so I ignored it and returned his hard gaze.
There was something oddly familiar about his light eyes, blue-grey, with an emphasis on the grey.
Then realisation struck. ‘Tommy?!’
The discovery that this tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man was my old childhood friend rocked me even more than the fear that a complete stranger was breaking into the castello. ‘You were my father’s business partner?’
His eyes narrowed further. I didn’t even think that was possible. ‘No one’s called me that since my mother died. You didn’t know?’
The mental adjustment took me a long moment. I couldn’t help myself – I stared openly at him now. If I looked hard enough, past the long hair and scraggly beard, I could just about see a glimmer of Elisa’s grandson, the boy I used to play with when he’d come to visit during those never-ending summers so long ago.
I only ever knew him as Tommy, the English-speaking kid from Edinburgh, not as Tommaso, but of course he was half-Italian from his father’s side. His accent, always a convoluted mash-up of Scottish and Italian, certainly leaned more heavily now toward his Italian side. How long had he been living here?
‘I’m sorry about your mother. And Nonna.’
He shrugged, a simple gesture that managed to convey a great deal, a uniquely Italian ability. I’ve never met an English person able to say so much with nothing but body language.
‘My grandmother was old, and it wasn’t unexpected, but my mother … it was nearly nine years ago now. She had cancer, and in the end her death was a mercy.’
I’d never met his parents, but still felt a pang for his loss. Like me, Tommy was sent to Italy alone as a child. In my case, Geraldine had been eager to get rid of me, but for Tommy it had been out of necessity. His parents had both worked, and they hadn’t had time to entertain an energetic youth all summer. And his grandmother had been delighted to have him. He’d been wanted.
His visits to his Nonna Elisa had been the highlight of my summers. Even at the age when most boys would have been horrified to have a younger girl tagging along wherever they went, we’d been friends. We’d explored this big house together, run wild on the farm, gone fishing and truffle hunting and blackberry picking together. And then there’d been that last summer…
Involuntarily, my gaze dropped to his mouth. Tommy always had the most sensuous mouth for a boy, with full lips that tasted of … I blushed, and averted my gaze, but not before he noticed.
His eyes narrowed again as he studied me. ‘Your hair has grown since I last saw you.’
‘Well, it has been twenty years.’ I touched the end of my long braid. I’d been growing it out for years, mostly because I hadn’t had time for anything but hurried trims.
‘Nearly twenty. I like your hair long.’
‘Well, I liked your hair shorter.’
The amused gleam in his eyes was very much the young man I remembered from that last summer. Always full of mischief, needling me, pushing my boundaries.
‘The last I heard, you were still living in Edinburgh,’ I said to fill the sudden, awkward silence.
‘That was a long time ago. I moved here soon after my mother died. Nonna was getting old, and I didn’t want her to be alone.’
Nearly nine years. ‘My father never told me.’ I bit my lip, a habit I thought I’d grown out of. There were so many things John and I never discussed, and now we never would.
‘We have a meeting tomorrow with Luca at ten.’ Tommaso lifted the teapot, offering to re-fill my cup, but I shook my head. ‘We’ll drive together. We should leave at about nine-thirty.’
I nodded, though the thought of spending even half an hour in a car with this man I once knew so well, who was now a stranger, only made me more anxious. I rose to clear away the teapot and cups. ‘In that case, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.’ A shattering day. Half an hour ago, I’d dreaded being alone, now I craved it.
Tommaso rose. ‘You can leave the iron when you go to bed. This is a very safe district. You can sleep peacefully.’ The wicked glint was back in his eyes.
‘Thank you for the food,’ I said, as he stepped out into the back yard. He merely nodded. I didn’t wait to watch him cross the yard to the cottage. I shut the door, flicked the latch, and heaved a sigh. Then, grabbing the tray, I bolted back upstairs, not pausing to see what was under the cloth covering, not even pausing to catch my breath, until I was safely in my room with the door shut and my wheelie case pushed up under the door handle, creating a barrier between me and the rest of the empty, echoing house.
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