Читать книгу Under a Tuscan Sky - Karen Aldous - Страница 16

Chapter 6

Signor Ricci, the estate agent, arrived at her door before Olivia got back to the kitchen to sweep the crumbs away.

‘I’ve had a walk around the grounds and the accommodation, so now the villa,’ he told her as he clambered in through the door with a large digital camera fixed with flash in one hand and a briefcase in the other. ‘The sun won’t last today, so I’ve taken some outside shots first and hope it stays bright enough for the internal. The pictures will look better with the natural light in the rooms.’

‘Yes, please, feel free to have a wander,’ she said, grateful she had managed to shower.

He put down his case on the hall tiles and wriggled out of a rain jacket one-handed. ‘Signor St. James is running a little bit late. He got held up at the market, he says.’

‘No problem. I’ll put some coffee on.’ Olivia hung his jacket on a hook in the hall, and glanced at a large belly protruding from his beige suit. He swept a hand over a stripy-grey head, wiping beads of sweat.

‘Thank you,’ he said as he lifted his camera and pointed to Nonna’s sitting room. ‘I’ll start in here.’

She nodded and returned to the kitchen, leaving the flustered man to it. She added fresh water to the coffee percolator, arranging three cups and saucers on a tray. Pausing, she grabbed another, in the likely event Signor St. James was viewing with someone else. Signor Ricci hadn’t mentioned a wife or partner, but it was better to be prepared – at least in some way, because she didn’t feel it where the house was concerned.

She only hoped Signor St. James didn’t have too many questions, as she didn’t feel equipped to answer them. If only she had thought to make a list of some obvious ones and had asked Gabriella – or she could have tried to contact her mother. If only she had taken more interest over the years. Having only yesterday discovered files with Nonna’s bills and papers relating to the house, she hadn’t had a chance to even glance at them, let alone read them.

She was just sweeping off the croissant crumbs lurking on the worktop when, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something running past the window outside. Hurling herself in front of it, she peered out and saw a large golden retriever sniffing in the lawn area.

‘Hmm strange,’ she uttered, craning her neck to the side of the drive. It was unusual not to hear a car’s tyres approaching on the shingle. However, at the top by the entrance was a large black 4x4 vehicle with its rear door open and a British number plate. Unable to see any owner of either the car or dog, she ran across the hall to the study.

From the window, she could see the driver door open too, and the car – a right-hand drive, informing her that whoever it was, was sure to be British. Of course, the name St. James was a clue, but never a certainty. She calmed herself thinking the potential purchaser must have taken himself for a look around the grounds.

She headed back to the kitchen but the thought of a dog potentially living in the house moved her. It would make it much homelier. Not that she would be there but it made her think of Charlie, the little Westie her gran Nora and grandad Ronnie had bought her for her eighth birthday.

She’d loved the way he rushed to the front door and jumped up to lick her when she came home from school every day, his tail thrusting around in excitement as she knelt down to his level. It was such a warm, if somewhat wet, welcoming. He was the only one to ever make her feel loved unconditionally, and not like she was living in limbo, and she’d loved him so much. He was her family.

Gran had insisted she was to be responsible for him, however. Not totally, of course, but she made her save her pocket money for his grooming every six weeks and for any treats. Feeling choked, she swallowed a tear. She’d practically lived in that pet shop at times, taking with her a small list each week of his favourite chews and doggie sweets.

He was such a character and always getting himself covered in mud in the local park or in Gran’s garden. He continually had to be bathed. She missed him still, but when he died at seventeen years of age, she vowed she would never replace him. It was impossible. He was irreplaceable and locked in her heart for ever.

The aroma of coffee evoked her senses. It was drifting through the air as far as the study. After vaulting back through the hall to the kitchen, she was just about to pour herself a cup when the doorbell sounded. Assuming it to be Signor St. James, she headed back to the hall. Signor Ricci was still upstairs, so checking herself in the mirror, she scooped back some stray long hairs, twisted her hair together, and tied it up before pulling back the door.

Eyes as blue as the sky, framed by dark lashes and brows, took her breath away.

‘Ah, Signorina Montague?’ The man spoke in posh tones but was casually dressed.

Staring with her mouth open, Olivia rocked on her heels, and attempted to speak after clearing her throat. ‘Y … yes.’

From his old green Barbour sleeve appeared a hand. ‘Hugh St. James.’

Feeling the strong grip of his hand, her eyes remained fixed on his. Like buses, she told herself. Her insides babbled before what she imagined was a thick steel coil suddenly unleashing inside her, sending blood pulsing to every nerve. She stood rooted to the spot barely able to believe she could be struck in the heart twice in as many days. A loud bark close by stole her attention, bringing her out of the trance.

Peering at the car momentarily before blinking back at him, she said, ‘Dog,’ under her breath.

‘Yes, that is a dog,’ his voice mocked.

‘Bring the dog in.’ Her voice monotone, still under his spell. ‘You can’t leave him in the car.’ She watched as he pulled his head back as if surprised by the command, and a dimple appeared on one of his cheeks as his eyes widened.

‘He’s fine. The car is ventilated; the window’s open – or he could lie out here in the shade.’

‘No, really, he’s very welcome, Mr James, sorry, St. James.’

‘Hugh. Please, call me Hugh.’

Blinking hard again to gather her senses, she urged him, ‘Hugh, bring him in.’

As he scrunched across the gravel, Hugh removed his coat before tossing it in through the rear door of the 4x4.

‘Come, Boris.’ The sprightly bundle leaped out, but then braked at his master’s soft command. Tongue out and tail wagging, he strode elegantly at his master’s knee, his mane moving swiftly in rhythm, reminding Olivia of an Arab thoroughbred.

‘Oh, he’s so beautiful. Was that Boris you called him?’ Olivia said, immediately bending to greet him.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Stroking his soft head, and then cupping his chin, she instantly warmed to him. ‘Hello, Boris. You are a handsome boy aren’t you. Come on in.’

‘Yes, he has it all.’

Like his owner, Olivia immediately thought, as she stepped back and let him in, feeling unnerved by such a gut-wrenching and overwhelming presence.

‘Perhaps you’d like to wait in the sitting room. Signor Ricci will be down soon I believe. Would you like a coffee?’

As he gazed around the walls and ceiling, his focus rested on her briefly. ‘That’s very kind of you, yes please.’ He tentatively sauntered in towards the sitting room. ‘Thanks.’

‘Yes, through there, Boris too. Would Boris like some water?’

‘He has just had some, but thanks.’

‘Well, help yourself to a seat or a look around. I’ll get the coffee.’

Placing the coffee on the tray, Olivia couldn’t decide whether she should pour it out beforehand; her limbs trembled so much she couldn’t trust herself. What on earth was going on? Two gorgeous men suddenly entering her life?

Walking with the tray into the sitting room, she saw Hugh squatting by her grandmother’s bridal chest whilst Boris had settled, lying down on the hearth rug. She placed the tray on the stand and began pouring two fresh cups of coffee, managing to keep her hand steady. Glancing over, she watched Hugh. He rested one hand on the top of the chest whilst running the fingers of his other over the intricate carving along the front.

‘It’s an impressive piece. Nineteenth century?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure of its age exactly. It was my nonna’s. She died recently.’

Hugh raised an eyebrow as he sucked in his breath. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It was possibly her mother’s then, grandmother’s even. It’s beautiful, a little damage here and there, but …’

‘I know. I’m thinking of having it restored. It’s one of my favourites, which I’d like to keep.’ She pursed her lips. ‘You seem quite knowledgeable.’

He stood back and folded his arms, sliding back sleeves of what looked like a cashmere sweater. ‘I’m in antiques. I’m a dealer. That’s why I’m seeking a base in Tuscany.’

‘Oh, right. That must be an interesting job?’

‘Yes, I’m a sucker for the antique and flea markets around here,’ he said, his tone more casual, ‘and they often come up trumps for furniture, even pieces of art occasionally. I know a brilliant restorer here too, if you need one. Not far from here either. He would do a great job on this.’ He gave the side of the chest a closer inspection and wiped his little finger along a bead of wood.

Enthusiasm brimmed from his eyes and Olivia licked her lips with cautious hope. ‘Maybe you could leave me his number?’ she said.

Hugh raised an arm and swept a wedge of his hair through his hands. ‘It might be better if I speak to him first. It’s just that he’s getting on a bit and is choosy about what he takes on.’ Lifting his phone from his trouser pocket, he scrolled down. ‘I’ll see him later, so you could give him a call tomorrow.’

Olivia clambered with excitement to the sideboard and opened a drawer. The bridal chest, or cassone as Nonna would call it, had always intrigued her. When she was young she remembered Nonna telling her it was a special box because it contained all the gifts for a bride from her husband and his family, including clothes and jewellery.

Nonna had shown her inside it once. All it contained was linen and lace household items. No beautiful jewellery or clothes. It was such a romantic idea though, and one that had captured Olivia’s imagination when she was just seven years old. As she riffled through the drawer for the pad and pen, she turned at the patter of footsteps nearing.

‘Ah, Signor St. James.’ Signor Ricci trotted into the room swiping his damp brow. ‘You’ve met Signorina Montague I see.’

Hugh held out his hand to the Italian agent. ‘Yes, I’m delighted to say.’

Standing by with pen and pad in hand, she said, ‘Olivia, or Liv. It’s easier. Yes, he arrived on time after all.’ Hugh passed her his phone and she took the restorer’s number. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Signor Nasino, but he’ll prefer Cesare.’

‘Thank you. You two need to get on. I’ll leave you to it, and I’ll pour you a coffee, Signor Ricci.’

‘Thank you, yes. I’ll finish the photos later.’

Olivia left them chatting in the sitting room and Boris comfortably snuggling close to the heat of the fire.

Not sure where to place herself, after making the third cup of coffee for Signor Ricci and delivering it, Olivia picked up her own and took it through to the study. There, at least, she could have another look for the chest key. She sat down behind the desk, looking out across rows of vines that climbed the hillside under a now hazy sky. It was a shame because the brightness from the sun added such a romantic charm to the place, but the thought of someone taking her nonna’s house made her skin prickle.

Her mind switched to the brief but often fun times she’d spent as a child with her mum and Italian grandparents, as well as Gabriella and Nico and several workers on the farm. She remembered especially the Whitsun break, when – after her mamma had gone home – she and Chiara would continue their stay at Nonna’s and help thin the vines. Those days were long and drenched in sunshine and laughter as Nico and the local lads – Giuseppe, Manelo, and Tom – mocked her not only because she was only allowed scissors, but being so small, she could only just reach the bottom leaves.

But she’d had so much freedom there, however brief her stays were. She’d felt like she had wings, like a bird; she’d been able to take flight and run around with no concept of time, rules, or routine. Even up to their twenties, she and Chiara continued their visits and spent lazy days in just jogging bottoms and T-shirts. No rigorous discipline or racing to get somewhere like her life in London. They were days when she could be herself – casual and pleasurable days. Her Italian nonno Angelo was so laid-back compared to her grandfather Ronnie in London.

Hugh St. James certainly had that laid-back appeal – young as he was – and could potentially make a good owner. He had a gentlemanly manner, but a casual quality about him she liked. She thought him well suited to country living. He was certainly alluring.

She rubbed her chin. Alberto also had a gentlemanly manner, but not one she could imagine fitting on a farm. He was more cosmopolitan and enjoyed the city. Not that he was looking to buy the farm like Hugh.

One thing was troubling about her about Hugh, however, and that was why he would want to take on the farm. Surely another business would be too much if he was running his own antiques business and going back and forth to England. She took out her phone and swiped the screen to create a new list: ‘Questions for potential buyers’.