Christmas Secrets at Villa Limoncello

by Daisy James

  Christmas Secrets at Villa Limoncello

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Villa Limoncello Recipes

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Tuscan Dreams

  Copyright

  To my amazing family for all their help and support, and for taste-testing the Christmas recipes – I know it was hard work but someone had to do it!

  To my sister Hazel, and my friends Elaine, Gill and Sue for listening to my story ideas and providing such fabulous, unstinting encouragement.

  Chapter One

  A tiny attic flat in Clapham

  Colour: Psychedelic blue

  ‘Is that the smoke alarm, again?’ asked Izzie, reaching for a mistletoe-bedecked tea towel to flap at the safety device that had squawked at her with increasing regularity all afternoon.

  ‘No, it’s the doorbell this time!’ Meghan giggled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it. Jonti mentioned that he might pop over after work to bestow us with his gastronomic wisdom.’

  ‘Great. Just when I thought the day couldn’t possibly get any more stressful, Mr Parisian Patisserie himself decides to grace us with his presence!’

  While Meghan ditched her apron and skipped off to answer the door, Izzie cast an eye around the kitchen, surprised that she, the supposed Queen of Control and Neatness, had presided over such culinary clutter. The place looked like a scene from the Great Christmas Cake Explosion!

  Cooking utensils and baking ingredients littered every available surface, from whisks to wooden spoons, from sultanas, raisins and cherries to oranges with their zest removed and miniature bottles of brandy that she’d bought to add flavour to the home-made mincemeat but which had ended up in their coffees as the stark reality of what she had agreed to hit home. Not only had that day’s variations on the humble mince pie been a disaster, but yesterday’s attempt at making gingerbread snowmen had looked more like a brigade of zombies in the middle of a world apocalypse, and Wednesday’s stab at a luxury twist on an English trifle had tasted like toxic washing-up liquid. Wherever her talents lay, they were not at the end of the artistic spectrum labelled ‘culinary’.

  She turned her back on the mess and slumped down onto her over-stuffed leather sofa and sighed. Last Christmas blared from the radio Meghan had insisted should accompany their Christmas bake-athon when she’d arrived to injection a dose of much-needed optimism into Izzie’s festive cake-baking fiasco. She hoped that now Jonti was here he would offer his advice on how to produce at least one batch of mouth-watering Christmas goodies before she left for Villa Limoncello the following day, where she’d promised to partner Luca on the Snowflakes & Christmas Cakes course.

  Ah, Luca.

  Her stomach performed a delicious somersault of pleasure as a snapshot of his smiling face floated across her vision and she relived a few delicious moments of her summer sojourn in the terracotta-roofed villa in Tuscany. It was exactly that image that had caused her to jump at the chance to go back, to take her place at his side as he demonstrated the intricacies of Christmas-themed Italian patisserie – whilst she tried to do justice to the British version – for a group of avid foodies.

  Except, judging from her efforts so far, she feared disaster. She glanced down at her hands, covered in plasters where she had scraped her fingers on the grater or whilst slicing a lemon. Who would have thought that baking a few festive treats could be so dangerous! Give her a square of fabric, a pair of pinking shears and a glue gun any day! Why couldn’t she have suggested that Luca handle the patisserie part and she demonstrate the intricacies of handmade Christmas decorations? That way she could have slipped into her comfort zone of all things fabric- and sequin-related, and spent her days guiding their discerning guests in the art of wreath-making, table decorations, home-made advent calendars, glass bauble painting. But she couldn’t renege on her promise now, because this might be the very last course Villa Limoncello was going to offer.

  ‘Darling!’ exclaimed Jonti, leaning forward to hug Izzie and place two regulation air-kisses on her cheeks. ‘Oh my God! What’s happened to your hair? Am I missing something? Is extreme bouffant the new Christmas craze? I’m sorry, Izzie, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a copper-headed Medusa on speed!’

  Then, before he had chance to draw another breath, his bleached blonde eyebrows shot up his forehead and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  ‘What’s that awful smell?’

  ‘That, Jonti, is the fragrance of Christmas – cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, orange zest…’

  ‘No, I think you’ll find that is the aroma of a kitchen catastrophe. Mmm, caramelised pastry with a side order of seared sultanas…’

  ‘Oh my God! The mince pies!’

  Izzie rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the oven gloves and yanked open the door to the oven – her previously pristine, still-packed-with-polystyrene oven that hadn’t been sullied with any kind of food preparation in the eighteen months she had lived there until that week. A baptism of fire, you might say! She still had to get to grips with the controls which looked more like the dashboard of the Starship Enterprise than a cooker – with an instruction manual it would take a professor in engineering to understand.

  She pulled out a tray of burnt-to-a-crisp mince pies and dropped the whole chargrilled mess onto the wire cooling rack, sending a cascade of dried cranberries to the floor. How could she have so seriously underestimated her skills as a pastry chef?

  ‘Grab a seat, Jonti, I’ll make us some coffee.’ Meghan smirked, reaching for the kettle as though Izzie couldn’t be trusted to even boil water.

  ‘What festive treats were you aiming for here?’ asked Jonti, peering over the top of his multi-coloured glasses at the mince pies as though they were lumps of smouldering dynamite.

  ‘Today is the Marvellous Mince Pie Marathon,’ said Meghan, spooning coffee into three mugs. ‘They’re Izzie’s St Clement’s Sizzlers, with orange and lemon zest in the pastry.’

  ‘And these?’

  ‘Mince pies with a custard and crumble topping.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Jonti sarcastically, prodding the blackened tartlets. ‘I’m not sure what Luca was expecting from a woman who lived on toast and coffee for two years! And what, may I ask, is in this bowl? It looks like something those guys from Avatar would eat for breakfast.’

  ‘It’s frosting. I was going to use it to decorate the gingerbread stars I made yesterday, but I think I might have used too much blue food colouring. I thought it said four tablespoons.’

  ‘How many Great British Christmas bakes have you said you’d showcase?’

  ‘Five – one for each day of the course.’

  Izzie stretched her lips into a smil
e and surreptitiously crossed her fingers behind her back as Jonti took a sip from the skinny latte Meghan handed to him, then ran the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip as he contemplated the enormity of the task ahead. Despite his quirky sartorial appearance – faux snakeskin trousers, orange winkle-pickers and the craziest Christmas jumper Izzie had ever seen – she noticed that his immaculately styled, bleached-blonde quiff was wilting, and there were smudges of tiredness encircling his piercing blue eyes.

  Guilt nipped at her heart – working in the most famous cathedral of consumerism in London during the festive period would take its toll on even the most energetic of personalities. It was Friday night and there was nothing Jonti liked better than to relax with a Dirty Martini and have a good old gossip with Meghan about the shenanigans of their various Harrods colleagues. It was testament to their friendship that he’d sacrificed his night out on the tiles in return for one of her famous limoncello cocktails and a slice of overcooked pizza.

  ‘And this… this concoction of loveliness?’

  Izzie giggled. Nigella she was not!

  ‘Erm, that’s supposed to be a traditional trifle with a Christmas twist,’ she said, crouching down so that the ornate glass bowl was at eye level. ‘This is a layer of orange jelly with fresh cranberries and crumbled gingerbread – which I made myself – then there’s a layer of custard infused with cardamom and vanilla, and it’s finished off with whipped Chantilly cream and a generous scattering of these lovely holly leaf sprinkles. I think the cream might have been off, though, or else it could have been the splash of lemon juice I added, I’m not sure?’

  ‘O… kay,’ muttered Jonti, upending his lips as he exchanged a glance with Meghan. ‘So that’s three recipes? What are the other two?’

  ‘A yule log with lemon drizzle sponge and limoncello curd, covered in thick white chocolate buttercream, then dusted with this gorgeous silver-coloured edible glitter. And look! I’ve bought these cute sugar-paste penguins and igloos to go on the top.’

  ‘So you’ve at least perfected a passable Swiss roll?’

  ‘Erm, no, not exactly…’

  ‘But Izzie, you’re flying out to Florence tomorrow!’

  ‘I thought I’d practise it when I got to the villa – the kitchen is so much bigger than mine. All the patisserie sessions are scheduled in the mornings so the five participants can take what they bake to their choir practice in the studio in the vineyard afterwards. That means I’ll have every afternoon free to run through the next day’s recipes. Did Meghan tell you our guests are part of a community choir from York who are rehearsing for their Christmas concert?’

  ‘A community choir of five?’

  ‘Oh, no, there’s fifteen of them. Five are booked on our Snowflakes & Christmas Cakes course, five are doing an art gallery and museums tour, and another group are going skiing in their free time.’

  ‘Skiing? In Tuscany?’

  ‘That’s what I said when Gianni told me to bring my snowsuit when I fly over next weekend,’ said Meghan, flicking her raspberry-tipped hair from her eyes as she licked the icing from a gingerbread snowman, turning her lips an electric shade of blue. ‘Apparently, there’s already a covering of snow on the hills, and he’s promised to take me snowboarding, then to spend some time relaxing at the thermal baths afterwards. Heaven knows I’ll need all the pampering I can get after the awkward, baring-of-the-soul dinner I’ve got coming up with my parents on Wednesday night!’

  Meghan gave a humourless laugh before quickly changing the subject.

  ‘Do you think you’ll have time to enjoy the snow, Izzie?’

  ‘I think I should concentrate all my spare time and energy on making sure this course is a success, don’t you? Especially after what happened with the Wine & Words course in September.’

  ‘But that had nothing to do with you, or with Luca, or Villa Limoncello!’ declared Meghan loyally.

  ‘I know, I know, but I still feel guilty that the course didn’t go ahead. Luca lost a lot of money – although not as much as he would have done if he’d had to pay cancellation fees to a professional wine connoisseur and a creative writing tutor. Thank God for Gianni and Riccardo!’

  Izzie saw Meghan’s eyes sparkle at the mention of Villa Limoncello’s vineyard manager, who had ridden into her world on the back of his rust-blistered quad bike and turned her life upside down. Since then, every spare weekend she got, she’d hopped onto a plane to spend time with the man who made her heart skip a beat after years of unsuccessful Internet dating.

  ‘Gianni was gutted he didn’t get to impart his knowledge of Tuscany’s world-famous Chianti and Brunello di Montalcino, but still, there was one good thing to come out of the whole debacle.’ Meghan smiled, reaching for a second gingerbread zombie to dip into her coffee. ‘At least he and Riccardo are no longer mortal enemies – Riccardo was equally devastated that his debut as a creative writing tutor didn’t come to fruition.’

  ‘Did I tell you that Isla, the woman who booked the Wine & Words course, sent me and Carlotta a gorgeous bouquet of sunflowers and yellow roses as an apology for all the trouble their group had caused?’

  ‘Did you find out any more details about what happened?’

  ‘Not much, but she did say their book group had folded, and that Sue’s husband had started divorce proceedings citing Phil as a co-respondent.’

  ‘It’s great material, though, isn’t it?’ Jonti smirked; he had been transfixed by the unfolding story of adultery and skulduggery when the gossip had materialised. ‘A clandestine affair played out under the noses of fellow book group members, blasted into the open by careless whispers, the battle lines drawn as each member takes sides – who knew, who didn’t, who provided the alibis. I still think they should have sucked it up and followed through with the Wine & Words course – there’s a fantastic story there if romantic suspense is your genre.’

  ‘I think Isla was worried that, mixed with copious amounts of the local wine, there was a serious risk it would have turned into a murder mystery!’

  Izzie experienced a kaleidoscope of emotions as she thought back to the shambles of the previous Villa Limoncello course. She’d hoped so much that it would be a success and that there would be an avalanche of subsequent bookings which would allow her to stay on in Tuscany, a place that had been instrumental in healing her heart after the vicious grenade that life had thrown into her path.

  Renovating the careworn villa had reignited her passion for interior design. She had jettisoned the mantle of gloom that had smothered her creativity, and her artistic sprites now danced with exuberance as she created projects filled with colour and sparkle, things that had been in short supply after the loss of her twin sister to a brain aneurism. Her frozen emotions had thawed under the Tuscan sun and she yearned to return and spend more time with the man who had ushered her along the path to hope. When she had agreed to stand alongside him for the Snowflakes & Christmas Cakes course, he had been delighted, and the pleasure in his voice had sent her spirits sky-high – except now there was something else clouding the horizon.

  ‘So, what did Luca say when you told him about Harry’s offer?’ asked Jonti, tossing back his last mouthful of coffee before noticing the daggers Meghan was sending his way. ‘Oops, sorry, have I said something I shouldn’t have?’

  ‘It’s okay, Jonti. Yes, I’ve told him.’

  ‘And did he demand that you reject the project instantly, high-tail it back to San Vivaldo so he could swear his undying love for you, and then ask you to not only be his ‘Partner in Patisserie’ but in life and love and all things limoncello? You know, I’ve already got my wedding outfit picked out – Jules from the menswear department has earmarked this absolutely gorgeous mulberry velvet suit with drainpipe trousers and—’

  ‘Jonti…’ interrupted Meghan, frantically trying to signal restraint.

  ‘And Grant in the footwear department has suggested these amazing crocodile—’

  ‘Jonti!’

  ‘Sorr
y, darling, sorry, got a little carried away there, but you know how much I adore weddings.’

  ‘Actually, Luca said Harry’s proposal was too good an opportunity to turn down and I should take my time to carefully weigh up the pros and cons…’

  ‘And we all know there’s no one better at doing that than our very own Isabella Jenkins, lover of lists!’ Jonti smiled, clearly keen to make amends for assuming Izzie would ditch her life in the UK without a second thought to run off into the Italian sunset with the handsome chef and villa owner with eyes the colour of espresso and a penchant for citrussy cologne. ‘And Luca’s right; Harry’s proposal is the chance of a lifetime, career-wise. I mean, creative director of Hambleton Homes does have a fabulous ring to it, not to mention the financial security that shares in the company will give you, and the fact that the project is in St Ives, your childhood home, is the icing on the fruit cake, wouldn’t you say?’

  Jonti’s eyes scorched deep into Izzie’s soul as he waited for her confirmation or her denial, and a squirm of discomfort coiled through her abdomen. Like Jonti, when she’d rung Luca to tell him about the offer, she’d hoped his reaction would give her an indication of how he felt about her, whether he still experienced that intense swoop of desire, that pulse of passion they had kindled when she’d stayed at the villa in the summer. Instead, he had urged her to follow her dreams, just like he’d done when he’d ditched his lucrative job in the banking industry and invested in Antonio’s Trattoria and a dilapidated villa in his hometown in the Tuscan countryside. She knew it was sensible advice from a man who was thoughtful, generous and kind, but his encouragement had saddened her, not uplifted her.

  Did his enthusiasm mean he wanted her to stay in the UK? Had their dalliance in the sun come to a natural conclusion – just another holiday romance that had run its course and this was a convenient way out without the pain of rejection?

  ‘I really don’t know what to do, Jonti. I mean, I love Tuscany, but it hasn’t been plain sailing, has it? In fact, Luca describes it as a catalogue of catastrophes, and we’re still far from certain that it’s going to be financially viable, which means there’s a very real possibility that Luca will have to sell the place because Antonio’s can’t keep bailing the villa out.’