Under a Siena Sun (Escape to Tuscany Book 1)

by T A Williams

  Lucy was genuinely surprised. Somehow she had always assumed that elite sportspeople just lived and breathed their chosen sport, to the exclusion of all else. ‘How fascinating. Anyway, thank you for the invitation, I’d love to see the castle. Just tell me when’s a convenient time for you. I wouldn’t want to disturb you.’

  His smile returned, but it was bittersweet. ‘Nothing to disturb. I don’t have a social life these days. Any time’s good. How about this weekend? Tomorrow afternoon, maybe, if you’re free? If that suits, why not come up at the end of the afternoon when it starts to cool down a bit.’

  ‘Terrific. I could walk up at, say, half past five or six o’clock?’

  ‘That’s fine. So, I’ll see you then.’ He held out his hand. ‘Anyway, professionally, this is it for now – hopefully – so thanks again for sorting me out.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’

  As he turned and headed for the exit, she was left with mixed feelings. On the one hand she was sorry she would no longer bump into him here from time to time, but on the other, the prospect of visiting the ruined castle was enticing. She had no idea how long the visit to the Castelnuovo might last. She might well be in and out in a matter of minutes. Alternatively, he and his wife might even invite her in for a drink and she knew she would love to see the inside of the villa. This reminded her of the other invitation she had received from Tommy. She pulled out her phone and started typing.

  Hi Tommy. Thanks again for the other night. Afraid I’m tied up on Saturday. Lucy.

  He replied almost immediately: How about the day after? T

  She gritted her teeth and decided she had no choice but to take refuge in a little white lie. To be quite honest, I’m seeing my boyfriend this weekend so it isn’t going to be possible. Thanks for asking. L.

  All she got back were three words. Okay. No problem.

  Hopefully, this time he had finally got the message.

  * * *

  At half past five the next day she set off and walked up the road to the gates of the villa. She had passed these hefty wooden gates numerous times before without stopping, but today she went over and pressed the bell set in one of the stone gateposts. A few seconds later a metallic voice answered from a brass grill. She immediately recognised it.

  ‘Hi, Mr Lorenzo, it’s me, Lucy, Lucy Young.’

  ‘Hi, Lucy. Come on up.’

  As he spoke, a yellow light on top of the gatepost began to flash and the gates started to open automatically. She heard them close behind her as she walked up the gravelled drive towards the distant villa. The drive curled its way up the hillside, flanked by a regular succession of the iconic Tuscan cypress trees. Some were as high as three-storey buildings and they had clearly been planted many years ago. As she walked in and out of the shade provided by the trees, a strong scent of resin filled her nostrils and she became aware of the incessant twittering of little birds high in the dark green branches. At one point, a pair of red squirrels appeared above her, leaping from tree to tree, engaged in an enthusiastic game, and she stopped to admire the antics of these sweet little animals. It was a delightful walk, not least as the view opened up more and more behind her and she was forever turning her head to check it out.

  As she neared the top, she heard the crunch of gravel ahead of her and saw the Labrador come racing round the bend towards her, having somehow worked out that he had a visitor. He bounded up to her, stood up on his hind legs and scrabbled at her with his paws, covering her and her shorts in dust – fortunately bone dry. She had agonised about what to wear but had decided to stick with her usual shorts, and as the dog jumped up at her she was glad she had resisted the temptation to put on the new pink and white dress she had recently bought. White cotton and dirty paws don’t mix.

  She was still bent down petting Boris – and brushing the dust off – when she heard another set of feet on the gravel and looked up to see the dog’s master coming towards her.

  ‘Hi, Mr Lorenzo. Boris appears to be pleased to see me.’

  ‘And I’m pleased to see you, too, Lucy. And please stop calling me Mr Lorenzo. It’s David.’

  He came up to her and held out his hand. As she took it and shook it she once again felt that little spark of attraction she had sensed before. Growling at herself in annoyance for having such thoughts about a married man, and a rich one to boot, she searched for something suitable to say.

  ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?’

  Her internal growl intensified. Talking about the weather? What was she, a tongue-tied teenager? She was a bloody surgeon for crying out loud.

  David appeared to stifle a grin so maybe he had noticed she was sounding a bit awkward. ‘It certainly is. The castle’s up this way, if you feel like following me.’

  He turned off the drive onto a narrow but clearly defined path and they both followed the dog who ran on ahead of them. The path wasn’t wide enough for them to walk side by side so she had no opportunity to talk to him for several minutes as they climbed through the trees. On reflection, this was probably just as well as it gave her time to come up with a few other conversation topics apart from ‘it’s a lovely day’. Really, what had she been thinking? It also gave her the opportunity to observe his broad shoulders and the strong muscles in his legs as they flexed in time with his steps. From a professional point of view she was glad to see him moving almost normally. As a woman, the rear view of him was disturbingly appealing.

  ‘Here we are.’

  She was shaken out of her introspection by the sound of his voice and the fact that he stopped so abruptly she almost bumped into his back. Recovering her balance, she looked in the direction of his pointing finger. There, ahead of them in the thinning undergrowth, was the distinct outline of the remains of low stone walls, a few rising almost to waist height, but most barely reaching her knees. Beyond them was the cream-coloured side of the villa and, in the distance, what was unmistakably a tennis court, but she felt it tactful to avoid making any mention of this in view of his ligament problems. Anyway, for now he appeared to be in full archaeological mode.

  ‘It takes a bit of effort to make it all out, but it’s pretty clear the castle consisted of a rectangular outer wall running from here to that big clump of rosemary over there and then across almost to the side of the villa.’ She followed his finger as it indicated the outline of the base of a sizeable fortress. ‘And inside that was a circular tower or keep. See?’

  Sure enough, this, too, was just about visible amid the bushes. She glanced across at him.

  ‘Would you mind if I take a closer look?’

  ‘Help yourself, but just be careful. Some of those little bushes have vicious thorns.’

  She went across to one of the taller bits of ruined wall and studied it closely. As he had said, the bushes were very thorny and she felt them scrape her bare legs. She hardly noticed, captivated by the ruins. The stones, some of them as big as packing cases, had been very precisely cut and jointed and it was easy to imagine how impenetrable a defence the finished construction would have formed. She made her way slowly around the outside rectangle, noting the location of a wide gateway and what might have been the vestiges of a moat, or at least a ditch. The circular structure inside the outer walls was clearer to make out and she was able to create a good image in her mind of what must have been a formidable fortress.

  She turned and looked back down the hill through the trees. There was no question it occupied a fabulous defensive position and she wondered, yet again, who or what might have been responsible for its downfall and destruction. Had it maybe been taken by treachery, rather than full frontal assault? She felt even keener to try to discover the truth. As she stood there thinking, Boris trotted up and nudged her with his cold wet nose. She glanced down at him and ruffled his ears.

  ‘You’re a lucky dog to be living here, Boris. But you know that already, don’t you?’

  She received a lick in return while his master came up and answered for him. ‘He’s a v
ery lucky dog, but I’m very lucky to have him. There’s no question about it: he’s my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’ Although serious, his tone wasn’t dejected and Lucy felt sure Franz, the psychiatrist, would be pleased to hear this if she decided to relay the news to him when she next saw him.

  ‘You know what they say about man’s best friend… Oh, I met his sister the other night in the local restaurant. She’s the spitting image of him.’

  ‘The Cavallo Bianco? What’s the restaurant like? I’ve never been there.’

  ‘It’s really good. I had an excellent meal.’ She went on to tell him what she had eaten.

  ‘Did you go there by yourself?’ He stopped and hastily corrected himself. ‘I’m sorry, that’s no business of mine.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t know if you have plans this evening, but maybe I could offer you a cold drink?’

  ‘That sounds perfect, thank you, and no, I wasn’t on my own. I went there with a friend. It’s his aunt and uncle who own the place and they’ve got the Lab.’ For a moment she felt very tempted to specify that Tommy was just a friend and no more, but then rejected the idea as sounding far too needy. Instead, she returned the conversation to a less contentious subject – or so she thought. ‘Does this mean I might get to meet your wife?’

  She couldn’t see his face as he had already turned towards the villa, but his voice sounded strained as he replied. ‘She no longer lives here.’

  Lucy wasn’t sure what to say in answer to these few curt words, so she just offered a simple, ‘Oh, I’m sorry’ and left it at that. Her mind, however, was churning as she followed him round to the impressive stone stairway at the front of the villa.

  Seen close up, the villa was charming. It was obvious that it had been redecorated recently as the light cream walls were still bright and they positively glistened in the evening sun. The louvred shutters had been painted a delicate light lavender colour and the whole place – which was quite a bit bigger than she had anticipated – looked like something out of a Millionaires’ Homes television programme. But of course, she reminded herself, the owner of the house was without doubt a millionaire many times over.

  He led her up the sweep of steps to the fine sculpted front door and into a large marble-floored entrance hall. The temperature in here was noticeably lower than outside, either as a result of the villa being insulated by massively thick walls or, more probably, air conditioning. Whatever the reason, it felt very refreshing after the cloying heat outside. In spite of her predictions to Daniela earlier in the week, no rain had come and it was getting more and more humid as the end of July approached and the potentially even hotter month of August dawned.

  ‘If you don’t mind climbing a few flights of stairs, I thought we could go up to the dovecot.’

  Lucy remembered seeing the little tower that protruded upwards from the centre of the roof of the villa.

  ‘Do you still keep doves?’

  He shook his head and started to walk up the fine wooden staircase to the first floor.

  ‘No, we converted it into a little lounge, seeing as the views are so great. Armando and Fioretta keep chickens round the back, but that’s all the livestock we have here at the villa – apart from my four-legged friend here.’

  ‘Do Armando and Fioretta live here with you?’

  ‘Close by. We converted the old stables as a home for them. It’s just behind the villa. They’re lovely people and they’ve been invaluable to me. Armando looks after the gardens and, more importantly, the olives and the vines.’

  ‘How wonderful to produce your own oil and wine. I might plant a vine against my back wall, but somehow I don’t think it would produce enough grapes for me to venture into wine-making.’

  ‘The red Armando produces is pretty good wine, but there were no white grapes here when we first moved in. The new vines are chardonnay and they went in three years ago so we’re hoping to start production – at least on a small scale – next year. Tuscany’s predominantly a red wine area and my wife preferred white, so that’s why we planted a couple of acres of white grapes. Armando tells me the plants are coming on well so fingers crossed for next year.’

  But now his wife was no longer here to drink the wine. Had she left him? Had he left her? Were they divorced? Had something happened to her? From what he had said, she was presumably still alive, but where was she if she no longer lived there? So many questions Lucy knew she would love to ask, but of course she shouldn’t – at least not until she knew him a good deal better.

  From the first floor landing he led her up another staircase to the second floor and then up another, narrower one, to the dovecot. Boris clearly knew his way around and hurried on ahead. He was waiting for them, tail wagging, as they reached the top.

  The view from the little tower room was spectacular and Lucy stood wide-eyed and admired the panorama that opened out all around. From up here she could see over the next range of hills to the red roofs of Siena itself and, beyond that, the distant Apennines, shimmering in the heat haze. Everywhere she looked there were rows of vines, olive groves and ancient red-brick buildings and occasional light-coloured villas dotting the hillsides, with white gravel tracks – the famous strade bianche of Tuscany – weaving between them. Golden fields of ripening wheat, almost ready to be harvested, formed a checkerboard effect alongside rich brown patches of recently ploughed earth. She was entranced and she barely heard him as he offered her a choice of drinks.

  ‘What would you like to drink? Something non-alcoholic, or a cold beer or, if you like champagne, I’ve got a cellar full of the stuff. One of my sponsors used to send me truckloads of it.’

  She noted his use of the past tense but didn’t comment, determined to keep the conversation light. ‘I’m not sure I could handle a truckload of champagne, but I’d love a glass if you’re sure.’

  He opened a little door set low down in the wall beneath one of the lovely arched windows and revealed a fridge built into the wall. He hadn’t been joking. The shelves were packed with gold-topped bottles stored on their sides. He pulled one out and made short work of opening it and filling two exquisite long-stemmed flutes. The wine was so cold that tears formed on the outside of the glass and ran down the stem. She took one from him and raised it in his direction.

  ‘Cheers, David. Your very good health. Thank you so much for inviting me up here and letting me see your historic ruined castle.’

  She found herself wondering if he made a habit of entertaining women up here now that his wife was no longer around. No sooner did the thought occur to her than she dismissed it. He was a secretive recluse, after all. He could hardly invite women home if he wanted to remain undiscovered. And, she reminded herself, he hadn’t said where his wife was. From his tone she had inferred that the marriage was over, but this assumption might be completely wrong. Maybe his wife had merely moved elsewhere to look after her aged parents, or she might have a job that kept them apart – like being an MSF medic for example.

  What was unquestionable, however, was that as views went, this one was very, very romantic. What if he had invited her up here today because he was interested in her? And if so, supposing that his wife was out of the equation, how did this make her feel? She was prevented from any further conjecture by the clink of his glass against hers and the sound of his voice.

  ‘Cheers, and thanks again. I must confess I did have an ulterior motive in inviting you up here.’ This very definitely attracted her full attention but it turned out his ulterior motive was anything but romantic. ‘I thought you might like to see this.’

  He opened a drawer in a fine old sideboard set against the back wall and pulled out what looked like a handful of rags. Parting them, he exposed a sinister-looking pistol, the black metal covered in a light sheen of oil. As she stared down at it, he explained.

  ‘This is the culprit. It’s a World War Two German Luger. It’s all right, you can pick it up if you like. It’s harmless now. Armando had the firing pin r
emoved.’

  She declined his offer to handle the weapon with a little wave of her fingers. ‘Thanks, but I’ll leave well alone. I hate guns. I’ve seen too much of what they can do to people. So how come you have it, and how did you manage to shoot yourself?’ Hopefully this indicated that he hadn’t tried to commit suicide, in spite of her original fears. After all, he would hardly show her his chosen weapon, surely?

  ‘As somebody with an interest in history, you might enjoy the story. During the war, the villa was commandeered by the Nazis for six months or so from autumn 1943 until spring 1944 as a rest home for officers injured in the fierce fighting further south. Presumably one of the officers dropped his pistol over the banister up here and it landed down the back of a statue and he couldn’t reach it. Here, look.’

  He guided her over to the little landing at the top of the staircase, from where they could look down to the floor below. Standing on plinths protruding from the walls were three charming marble statues of scantily clad nymphs. He pointed down at the first of them.

  ‘That’s the one. We discovered the pistol jammed down between her buttocks.’

  Lucy giggled at the thought. ‘When did you find it?’

  He looked shamefaced. ‘Back in May. The day you had to come to the clinic and sew me up.’

  ‘So what exactly happened?’

  ‘Fioretta spotted the gun, and she went off to ask Armando to fetch a long ladder. While I was waiting here, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. I dug out an old fishing rod and line and managed to hook the pistol and jerk it free. I reeled it in and it was as I dropped it into my lap that the damn thing went off. Who’d have thought it would still work after seventy years or so?’