Читать книгу Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read! - Romy Sommer - Страница 10

Mangia bene, ridi spesso, ama molto

(Eat well, laugh often, love much)

Luca’s office was in the wide road that circled around the old part of town, but behind it lay a maze of twisting, narrow streets that rose to the town centre on the crown of the hill. As we climbed uphill, Luca’s hand lingered against my lower back to guide me, infusing my body with unaccustomed warmth. Hello, Dorothy. We’re not in Kansas anymore.

My gaze was everywhere, absorbing the myriad details that reminded me that I was indeed in a foreign land – the ornate door knockers, the flower boxes at the windows, the Madonnina shrines high up on the walls of the old houses.

‘I doubt Montalcino has changed much since you were last here,’ Luca observed.

Since the town hadn’t changed much in five hundred years, that was pretty much guaranteed, but still I shook my head. ‘I don’t remember much of the town. I was only a girl last time I was here, and John didn’t leave the farm very often. I remember Elisa bringing me to the market, though.’

Luca showed me the Palazzo Pieri, the civic museum, the Chiesa di Sant’Agostino with its high rose window, and then we circled around to the Piazza Garibaldi, which was not much wider than a street, and nothing at all like the big piazzas of Rome I remembered from a long ago trip, back in the days when I’d still taken holidays. At one end of the piazza lay the austere, smaller church of Sant’Egidio, and on the other the tall, slender clock tower of the palazzo.

The subtle touch of Luca’s hand on my back, neither intrusive nor casual, sent waves of warmth through me as we wandered the narrow, cobbled streets. It had been a very long time since a man had touched me like this, with such care and attention. So long, I couldn’t even remember. Kevin hadn’t been touchy-feely, and even in those rare moments when we’d been intimate, his touch had never thrilled me as Luca’s now did.

The piazza was busy with tourists and shoppers, with laughing, talking people, and with music.

‘But watch,’ Luca whispered. ‘Here more than anywhere in the town you can see that there are two Montalcinos. There’s the tourist hotspot that outsiders see, and then there’s our little village, where everyone knows everyone else.’

He was right. While the tourists and locals walked side by side in the same streets, it was as if they existed in two separate worlds, brushing against each other, but not merging. Neither local nor tourist, where did I belong?

He led me to a restaurant on the square, where he was welcomed effusively by the staff who clearly knew him well, and we were seated at a prime table on the pavement, sheltered by a white awning and a hedge of potted shrubs. Luca ordered a bottle of local wine, the Brunello di Montalcino, for me to try, and we both ordered the house specials.

‘You are sure you don’t want to keep the vineyard?’ Luca asked, as the restaurant’s owner himself poured our wine. ‘Even when you go back to London you could be a partner in the winery, if you wanted.’

I shook my head. ‘Absolutely sure. What would I do with half a vineyard?’

‘You do not want to be a part of your father’s vineyard?’

There was that old pain, making me feel like a wounded child again. ‘There was a time I’d have done anything for John’s approval, but it’s too late for that now.’

Luca’s eyes filled with sympathy, as if he understood the feeling. ‘Then as purely a business proposition? If Tommaso is right, the vineyard will be profitable soon. Half those profits could be yours.’

I shook my head even more emphatically and reached for my wine glass. It was a deep-flavoured red, heavier and less sweet than what I usually drank.

‘If you are quite sure, I can arrange a real estate agent to give you a valuation on the castello,’ Luca offered. ‘I have a friend who is with one of the best agencies in the province.’

‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’ Then, because it was too beautiful a day to waste thinking about the castello, I changed the subject. ‘Tell me about this wine.’

Luca’s face lit up with boyish enthusiasm, as if I’d asked him to show off his favourite toy. Oh, please don’t let him be one of those bores who can’t shut up once they start talking about their favourite sport. ‘The Brunello is made from the local clone of the Sangiovese grapes, the same that grow in your own vineyard.’

My chest did an excited flutter at the words ‘your vineyard’, and I quickly squashed it. I wanted no part of this vineyard, remember?

‘The Brunello grape has a higher alcohol level than the average Sangiovese, so our wines have ripe, full-bodied, concentrated flavours, and a rich lingering after-taste.’

He swirled his glass delicately and breathed in the aroma deeply before taking a sip. ‘The Brunello di Montalcino is a mature wine, well-aged, which makes it expensive, both to make and to buy, but it is worth every cent.’

I took another sip, more slowly this time, breathing it in as he had done, then savouring the wine on my tongue before swallowing.

He grinned. ‘Can you taste the Montalcino air in the wine? The hazelnuts, the dried fig, the anise? Younger vintages are much fruitier, but this wine is not so bold.’

Long ago, my father taught me to taste wine, explaining the flavours and encouraging me to name them. But those memories were as fleeting as the time we’d spent together. I took another sip, rolling the wine around on my tongue before swallowing, surprised when I identified the flavours Luca described. ‘Wow!’

He laughed, throwing his head back, an open and infectious laugh. ‘We will send you home a wine connoisseur. Do you have a man waiting for you back in England?’

Wow, he certainly wasn’t shy! ‘Only if you count my boss.’

‘And your job – what is it you do?’

‘I’m a financial analyst with an investment banking firm in the City of London.’

‘They don’t need you back?’

I looked down at the tablecloth, tracing the silver threaded pattern in the white cloth with my finger. ‘They tell me I’ve been working so hard that I need to take a really long holiday.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Apparently I need to find a healthy work-life balance.’

Luca took my hand in his. ‘È perfetto. Italy is the place for that. We work hard, but we also play hard.’

His thumb stroked my palm suggestively, and I pulled my hand free, fighting a blush. Geez. I was too old for a schoolgirl crush, and too young for hot flashes, so what was going on with me? I covered my awkwardness with a flirtatious smile. ‘I’d much rather talk about you. Tell me about Luciano Fioravanti.’

Like any man, once given the opportunity to talk about himself, he did. But I needn’t have worried he’d turn into a bore. Luca had the legendary Italian charm, and our conversation flowed almost as easily as the wine. Too easily. I felt none of the usual constraint I felt when out on a date. But this wasn’t a date. Just a lawyer taking out his client for a business lunch, right?

We nibbled at the platter of bruschetta and fiori di zucca, fried zucchini flowers, which the owner himself brought to our table, and I soon felt lighter than I had in months. I had the undivided attention of a gorgeous man, the heady taste of a rich wine, the divine flavours of Italy, and sultry June air on my skin.

See, I can relax. I know how to have fun.

After the antipasti, came an asparagus risotto. I’d clearly had too much wine already, because the flavours hit my tongue like an explosion, and I closed my eyes, sighing, making Luca laugh again. I liked his laugh, so open and uninhibited.

‘Everything tastes better in Italy,’ he said, a teasing spark in his eyes.

Oh no. There was that hot flash thing again. Thirty-five was too young for menopause, wasn’t it?

I basked in the golden glow of the envious glances sent my way by the other women in the restaurant, including our Polish waitress. Or maybe it was the golden glow of the wine. I didn’t care which it was. I was more relaxed than I’d been in forever. Cleo would be so proud of me.

After lunch, Luca walked me to the co-op and pushed my trolley as I shopped for groceries. He even waited patiently as I scoured the shelves for baking ingredients. Since I had all this time on my hands, it wouldn’t hurt to use some of it making something sweet and decadent … something to sate my suddenly rampant hormones.

When we finally strolled back to Luca’s office, Tommaso was already leaning up against his car, a compact vintage Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint that didn’t suit the big bear-like man at all. At our approach, his perpetual scowl deepened. Like Papa Bear finding his porridge bowl empty.

‘I take it your errands didn’t go well?’ I asked brightly. ‘Or is that scowl permanent?’

He huffed out his breath as he pushed away from the car. ‘I was waiting. I feel like some part of me will always be waiting for you. Like if I’m old and blue-haired, and I turn a corner in Istanbul, and there you are, I won’t be surprised.’

Luca’s confusion was comical, but that wasn’t the reason I laughed. The laughter bubbled up, a sudden and unfamiliar sensation, and Luca’s confusion turned to concern.

‘You’re quoting Buffy at me?’ I managed.

Though Tommaso’s expression didn’t change at all, I caught the flash of amusement in his eyes, gone so quickly I’d have missed it if I blinked. ‘Strictly speaking, I’m quoting Willow. I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten.’

Luca looked even more lost, and I smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s from a TV show we used to watch, about vampires.’

Luca pulled a face, as if he couldn’t imagine anything worse than vampires. Tommaso took the shopping bags and placed them in the tiny boot of his car.

‘Thank you for showing me around,’ I said politely to Luca, burningly aware of Tommaso listening to every word.

‘It was my pleasure.’ Luca raised my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles in an old-fashioned gesture that made my legs go weak again. I really should channel Buffy and behave more like a kickass vampire slayer than a silly schoolgirl.

Tommaso held the car door open for me, and I had to resist behaving even more childishly and sticking my tongue out at him. Really, could he be any more obvious trying to hurry me away from Luca? What was the man so afraid of?

But Luca took no notice of Tommaso’s rudeness. With a cheerful wave, he headed into his office building, and Tommaso climbed into the car beside me. The interior suddenly felt three times smaller with him in it.

As he eased out into the street and down the hill, taking the winding corners a little too fast for my comfort, I faced him. If there’d been any space in the small car, I would have set my arms on my hips. ‘You don’t have to act like a dog with a bone. It was just lunch, not a conspiracy to steal away your precious vineyard.’

‘It’s not the vineyard I’m worried about.’ Tommaso’s voice was almost a growl. ‘Don’t put too much faith in Luciano Fioravanti.’

‘John must have trusted him since he chose Luca as his executor. Or are you suggesting my father wasn’t a particularly good judge of character?’

Tommaso pressed his lips together. ‘Luca might have to abide by a code of ethics as a lawyer, but he’s still a lawyer, and he’s still a Fioravanti.’

What did that mean? I crossed my arms over my chest and turned away to look out the window. Tommaso was just jealous because Luca was everything he wasn’t: personable, charming, easy-going.

The roar of the 1960s engine was hardly conducive to conversation, or at least that was my excuse for maintaining radio silence the rest of the way back to the castello. That and Tommaso’s grim expression.

He parked in the back yard, carried my bags of groceries into the kitchen, then took off along the dusty drive that circled behind the house.

‘And goodbye to you too,’ I shouted after the little blue car as it shot off towards the wine cellar in a cloud of dust.

With a sigh, I returned to the kitchen and looked around. If I was going to be staying here a while longer, I needed a usable kitchen – a clean kitchen, with uncluttered surfaces and clean utensils – so I set to work, starting with the walls, the windows, the floor. It was well into the afternoon before I moved onto the pots and pans hanging from racks on the walls.

I left the ancient wood stove for last. On hands and knees, I scrubbed away years of accumulated grime, unable to suppress a pang for the beautiful, modern cooker in the house I shared with Cleo and Moira, another of our uni friends.

It took a couple of hours of elbow grease to get the stove clean, but beneath the layers of dirt, it was a thing of beauty, its green and ivory porcelain undamaged. It would make some antique dealer very happy.

The hard labour, while not as therapeutic as yoga or meditation, or whatever other faddy hobby Cleo had in mind for me, at least kept my thoughts occupied, and by the time the shadows through the tall windows started lengthening, the kitchen looked almost cheerful.

In the overgrown patch behind the house that had once been Elisa’s herb garden, I rescued some terracotta pots, re-planted into them a few of the smaller rosemary, basil and arugula plants which hadn’t yet grown woody, and set them on the kitchen window so their aroma could fill the room. I found a bright blue and yellow cloth that might once have been a rug, and once I’d beaten the dust from it, and washed it, it made the perfect tablecloth to brighten up the room.

The kitchen might not pass a food hygiene inspection, but it was liveable. And I’d hardly thought about work all day. Well, okay, two or three times, but considering my Saturdays were usually spent at the office, that was an achievement worth celebrating.

Not that there was anyone to celebrate with. I sat alone at the kitchen table to eat a simple dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches and tea, and wondered where Cleo and Moira were right now. Down at the pub? Out at the movies? On dates?

The castello was deathly quiet once again, and I hadn’t heard the car return. Tommaso couldn’t still be working at the cellar, could he?

I was tempted to knock on the cottage door to see if he was in, just to have company, but then I remembered his forbidding expression. An empty and echoing castello was infinitely preferable to re-opening hostilities.

It was only as I lazed in the big, ugly avocado-coloured plastic bath tub, up to my chin in water which had gurgled so slowly out of the pipes I’d managed to make another cup of tea while waiting for the tub to fill, that I allowed myself to remember the Tommy I’d known and played with so long ago.

Like me, he’d been a serious child, shy, and too much on his own, yet he’d smiled a lot too. He’d had a dry sense of humour, and we’d laughed a lot together. Not only had he been a Buffy fan, but he’d collected trivia, which probably made him a nerd back in school, just like me. He’d been Xander to my Willow. These days, though, he was more like the brooding vampire Angel. Did that make me Buffy? I didn’t feel particularly kickass right now.

Somehow the two pictures, the one of the laughing boy and the other of the grim man, would not fit together. What had happened to replace his laughter with that furrowed brow and brooding expression? And was my old friend still buried beneath all those layers, or was he gone forever?