by Daisy James
Time flew by as everyone embarked on their own Christmas decoration project. Just as it was with the previous day’s patisserie session, Jennie and Nick were the most proficient crafters; Jennie had even managed to knit a series of tiny red bobble hats, to each of which she attached a mini pom-pom and a curl of ribbon.
‘I’ve made hundreds of these over the years for the premature baby unit at our local hospital.’
‘Is there anything you’re not involved in?’ asked Nick, glancing up from the glass bauble he was painting with a selection of musical notes and instruments.
‘Not much. I love getting involved!’
‘What about dancing?’
Everyone was so immersed in their own craft project that Izzie was the only one to catch the glint in Nick’s eye as he smirked in Jennie’s direction. She looked across at Jennie, expecting her to launch into a story about the Zumba or salsa classes she attended at the gym, but instead, to her surprise, she saw Jennie’s cheeks flush with heat and a shadow of dread stalk across her expression, her body crumpling back into her chair like a deflated balloon. When Izzie looked back at Nick, he had averted his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were pulled back in a gesture of satisfaction and she knew he had sent some sort of message to Jennie.
First Phoebe, then Dylan, now Jennie. Clearly, Nick had made it his business to discover his fellow choir members’ triggers, secrets they would rather not have broadcast to the world. She couldn’t understand why Nick would do such a horrible thing, and she was upset on their behalf that he was using those tactics to ensure they toed the line with their choir contribution.
Had Nick threatened Jennie, too, like Dylan? But what with? Exclusion from the choir? And what was her secret? She didn’t think kind-hearted Jennie could have too many skeletons lurking in her closet. But then, as Meghan always said, it was usually the people you least expected who had the most exciting pasts. Perhaps that was the case with Jennie before her family had gobbled up all of her time and energy?
Oh God! Secrets – that was everyone apart from Nick!
But, didn’t everyone have secrets?
And was one of the group keeping a secret about a nudge they had given to a certain flowerpot as revenge for Nick’s unrelenting pressure on them to spend every spare moment, not relaxing and recharging their batteries before a series of challenging Christmas concerts, sampling the local cuisine and learning how to make limoncello as they had expected, but singing their hearts and lungs out?
‘Okay, it’s one o’clock. I think we should wrap things up and go and have lunch. Has everyone enjoyed their morning of Christmas crafts?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Sì.’
‘Yay!’
Izzie smiled and the mischievous elf on her shoulder whispered something in her ear, causing her to add, ‘Well, if I’ve whetted your appetite for all things crafty, then you might like to take a trip to Florence while you’re here to visit the Christmas market that’s being held on the piazza outside the Basilica di Santa Croce. There are over fifty stalls showcasing a wide range of crafts by local artisans, from decorated candles and soaps to wooden figurines and carved musical boxes. There’s lots of foodie stalls, too.’
‘Wow, we can’t miss that!’ declared Sofia, sending Nick a belligerent glance. ‘Let’s drive over there after this afternoon’s rehearsal. Izzie, will you come with us?’
‘Of course, I’d love to.’
‘What about Luca?’ asked Jennie with a glint in her eyes as she gathered up the remaining craft paraphernalia and helped Izzie to store her trunk and storage boxes in the cupboard, whilst Nick and Dylan set up the studio in readiness for the arrival of the rest of the choir for that afternoon’s practice. ‘Will you ask him to come, too? It’ll be wonderful to have a local guide to tell us all about real Italian Christmas traditions.’
‘I’ll ask him, but he’s usually busy with the restaurant early evening.’
‘Okay, so shall we meet at seven on the front steps… Oh, erm, no, shall we say the terrace?’ said Phoebe, clearly not wanting a repeat of the previous day’s incident.
‘Perfect. Now come on, we need to change into our polo shirts.’
Jennie linked Phoebe’s and Sofia’s arms and they set off towards the villa, chatting excitedly about shopping for authentic Tuscan Christmas gifts, whilst Nick and Dylan brought up the rear, their arms filled with everyone’s decorations.
‘Here we are!’
The group stopped at the gazebo and spent a few minutes hanging their decorations on the branches of Gianni’s Christmas tree before disappearing into the dining room for their lunch of home-made minestrone soup and focaccia dotted with rosemary, followed by dessert comprising of a huge torta della nonna with a generous dollop of mascarpone sweetened with icing sugar and flavoured with limoncello. Suitably replete, the choir dutifully retired to their rooms to change, excitement about the upcoming trip to Florence rippling through the air.
Izzie took her time clearing away the lunch plates, then washing and drying them by hand as the villa still did not have a dishwasher. When the kitchen had been returned to its pristine glory, she cut herself a slice of the torta and took it into the limonaia, where she savoured every mouthful of the delicious Italian dessert whilst inhaling the ambient aroma of the lemons that grew in huge ceramic pots all around the glasshouse.
The villa’s previous owner had amassed a wide variety of lemon plants, some with skin the consistency of porridge, some sporting green stripes, and some that were almost spherical. Many were old, and a few had been there for over two hundred years! She remembered Gianni telling her the story that when Maria Rosetti had passed away, a curator from a prestigious botanical institute in Florence that housed lemon trees said to date back to the Medici family, had arrived to catalogue the trees and rescue the most valuable specimens before they were lost forever.
Izzie glanced at her watch. Luca would have finished the lunch service at Antonio’s by now, so she whipped her phone from the pocket of her jeans and stared at the screen. She couldn’t think of anything she would rather do than mooch around the stalls of the Santa Croce Christmas market with Luca by her side. It would be the perfect time, away from the villa and the restaurant, to talk to him – except they would not be alone.
She sighed. Never mind, it was only Tuesday – she had until Friday to carve out a slice of time for their chat. In the meantime, she planned on enjoying their trip to Firenze, a city Anna had adored so much she’d chosen to plan her hen weekend there, which sadly had never happened. Izzie had been reluctant to visit the Tuscan capital ever since, fearful of prodding at painful memories, worried about ghosts from the past lingering in the cobbled alleyways.
But a visit with Luca in the summer had made the place come alive and she adored its narrow streets, its shady courtyards and piazzas, its stunning architecture, churches and statues, its wonderful pavement cafes. She knew Anna would have loved to have explored every nook and cranny, linger over an Aperol spritz and watch the sun sink slowly over the Ponte Vecchio. Izzie was proud that she was fulfilling their dream, certain that her sister was looking down on her with a broad smile of approval, urging her to explore the city in the wintertime, to soak up the festive atmosphere, to squeeze every ounce of enjoyment out of every minute of her life and create enough memories for both of them – and so that was exactly what she intended to do.
‘Hi, Luca.’
‘Ciao, Isa… bel… la.’
‘The guests have asked if you’ll step into the role of tour guide for the evening and accompany them on a trip to the Santa Croce Christmas market. What do you think?’
‘Fabulous idea, but I didn’t think they had time in their schedule for any sightseeing?’
‘I think Nick would have had a mutiny on his hands if he’d refused. Luca, I think—’
‘Okay, you take the hire car and I’ll meet you on the Basilica’s steps at eight o’clock. I’ll give Constantino a call and ask him to res
erve us a table for dinner. Ciao!’
‘Ciao,’ she murmured, feeling the chasm between them stretch a little wider.
She heard the villa’s guests making their way through the garden and towards the studio, their voices rippling through the air as they sang a rendition of ‘Deck the Halls’, but even their joyous melody of fa-la-la-la-las couldn’t lift her spirits. With a heavy heart, she meandered back towards the kitchen to finalise the ingredients they would need for the next morning’s demonstration of cantucci di Prato and gingerbread biscuits.
Chapter Eleven
Pasticceria da Oriana
Colour: Tangerine dream
Izzie lingered on the terrace outside the kitchen door, soaking up the rays of sunshine streaming down from the cerulean sky and drinking in the picturesque view in front of her. Of everything she could credit with helping her to emerge from the blanket of gloom she’d hidden beneath since losing her sister, there was one thing that ranked above all else on that list.
Sunshine.
Sunshine was the therapy she’d been unable to avoid. Seeing her life switch from Technicolor to monochrome overnight, her parents had urged her to seek bereavement counselling, to talk to someone about her pain, but the thought of spilling the raw agony that nestled in her heart to a stranger terrified her. So, she had bottled it all up, only taking the trip down to Cornwall to see her mum and dad when she absolutely had to because she hated seeing the same anguish that she felt reflected on their faces. Staying away meant she didn’t have to deal with it, didn’t have to be faced with a barrage of memories everywhere she turned.
She had switched her previously carefree days to a more rigid routine, setting her alarm for the same time every morning, climbing into the same outfit, collecting a skinny latte from the same cafe on the corner, going through the motions of a day at work, then falling into bed at the same time every night; no diversions, no decisions, less chance of having to summon up the energy to make choices and experience the emotions that would entail.
Of course, that coping technique had washed away her creativity sprites and left her with a dull, drab, colourless life which had filtered through into every aspect of her existence until her business was in trouble and her fiancé was at his wits’ end. Alex had done everything he could to break her out of the cocoon of sorrow she’d retreated into, begging her to seek help, but in the end, they’d agreed it would be better to go their separate ways. Although she was ashamed to admit it, Alex leaving had been a relief; their relationship was just one less thing to worry about and she had been pleased when Jonti had reported last year that he was seeing someone else – Penelope – whom she liked but whose fashion choices Jonti constantly lamented.
She closed her eyes and tipped her face towards the sky, feeling her worries drain away. Her lips curled into a smile as she tuned into the cacophony of nature going about its daily business all around her, and her nose twitched with delight at the puffs of lavender and rosemary rising from the pots on the terrace steps. Now that she was there in Tuscany, surrounded by the serenity offered by Villa Limoncello, the benefits of Harry’s offer receded into insignificance – a project that was someone else’s dream, not hers.
Meghan’s voice burst into her thoughts and she knew her friend was right – as usual, Meghan knew her better than she knew herself sometimes. It was an amazing offer, and had Harry issued it six months ago when she had plodded through her days as a home stager for Hambleton Homes, sticking to the company’s brief that minimalism was the Holy Grail, then being given complete design autonomy could have been the catalyst that broke her free of her snoring boring existence.
But time had marched on. She was no longer that person and she knew with absolute certainty that her place was in Tuscany, organising and presenting courses at Villa Limoncello and until that could pay her wages, she would look for a job at one of the local cafes or restaurants so she could pay Luca rent for her room. With her decision finally made, she felt as if the block of concrete that she’d been carrying around on her shoulders had melted away; she felt light-headed, buoyant, happier than she had been for weeks. When the guests left on Friday, she would sit down with Luca, and Gianni, and draw up an itemised business plan for the following year to turn Villa Limoncello into a destination that would be the envy of the whole valley.
Optimism flowed as she thought of the courses they could offer – not just cookery classes, wine-tasting holidays and writing retreats, but photography sessions, yoga retreats or perhaps even a tennis academy. And if things went well, maybe Meghan could relocate to help with the running of the estate on a more permanent basis if her search for a job with one of Florence’s fashion houses didn’t work out. The inclusion of a potential yoga retreat at Villa Limoncello sent her thoughts scooting to her friend Oriana, San Vivaldo’s patisserie princess.
Izzie made a decision.
A trip to San Vivaldo was exactly what she needed! Humming the chorus from ‘I Wish it Could be Christmas Everyday’, she spun on her heels and went in search of the little pink Vespa that had become her companion since arriving at the villa. She loved it – even the helmet that made her curls look like she’d sustained an electric shock when she took it off! She couldn’t wait to see Oriana to chat through her decision to stay on in Italy, to ask for her advice on the classes she had planned, and to treat herself to a slice of her amazing tiramisu.
As she navigated the twists and turns of the roads that led up to the hilltop village, her contentment spiralled. The Snowflakes & Christmas Cakes course was back on track and, whilst there were still three days left to go and anything could go wrong, she was optimistic that the first Christmas course would be a success, if she discounted the freak accident with the flowerpot as it seemed everyone else was doing.
She parked the Vespa in a space right outside Oriana’s pasticceria, a palace of sugary magnificence that drew the eye to the plate glass window to drool over the kaleidoscope of culinary gems on display. It was more like a high-end jewellery shop than a village bakery, with row upon row of colourful pastries, boxes of sugared almonds and slabs of nougat all wrapped in cellophane and tied with festive ribbons. She pushed open the door and inhaled the sweet caramelly aroma, tinged with roasted pistachios and a top note of vanilla.
‘Ciao, Izzie!’
Izzie leaned forward to greet Oriana, marvelling at her lean muscular figure, courtesy of the daily yoga routines she taught in the studio behind the shop. It was the perfect partnership – an hour of yoga then a guilt-free treat from the store on the way home.
‘Ciao, Oriana, do you have time for a coffee?’
‘Sure, come through to the studio.’
Izzie followed Oriana, her back ramrod straight as she led her to the rear of the bakery, her glossy mahogany hair swishing against her shoulder blades as she walked. She was so immaculately turned out that she could have easily graced the cover of a magazine without any additional tweaks, but her attractive features and toned muscles belied her ability to cut through all extraneous nonsense and deliver straightforward nuggets of advice or solutions. She was an environmental crusader, a vociferous locavore and a lover of vegan desserts which had thrilled some of Villa Limoncello’s previous guests. Izzie also had Oriana to thank for rescuing her from the most embarrassing mistake of her life when she had been under the impression that the film shoot she’d thought she was organising for Meghan’s brother was in fact a real-life celebrity wedding.
‘How’s the course going? I heard there’d been a bit of a hiccup.’
Whilst Oriana prepared their coffees, Izzie recounted the details of the flowerpot incident before moving swiftly on to talk about that morning’s craft session.
‘Ergh, what’s this? It’s not coffee!’ she exclaimed, peering at the pale-yellow water that smelled suspiciously like cat’s pee.
‘It’s chamomile tea, infused with peppermint! And it’s much better for you than all that espresso you consume – I’m surprised you get any sleep,’ Oria
na laughed, dropping down onto one of the bright green bean bags next to Izzie. ‘Did Luca use the panforte tartlet recipe yesterday?’
‘Yes, the guests loved them.’
‘It was one of my mother’s recipes. She’ll be thrilled. What’s on the menu for tomorrow?’
‘Cantucci di Prato, and then tiramisu with a Christmas twist on Friday before everyone leaves for home and the first of their Christmas concerts on Saturday night.’
‘Quite a few of the choir members have called in to the patisserie after their various activities, and I must say they seem to be a very committed bunch. I thought they were here to have fun, sample the local wine, indulge in the culture and art, and the skiing, increase their harmony in both senses of the word.’
‘Nick, the choir leader, is a perfectionist.’
‘Ah, I can identify with that particular character trait. Nothing wrong with aiming for excellence,’ laughed Oriana, sipping her tea, glancing at Izzie over the rim of her cup. ‘So, how are things with Luca?’
Izzie rolled her eyes. No wonder Oriana and Meghan got on so well. They were both proponents of the maxim ‘cut straight to the chase’ when wanting the inside track.
‘Great. We’re learning how to work in tandem when we co-present the courses. I think Monday morning’s session went really well, so I hope the others do too. I’ve spent weeks trying to perfect my recipes, but I’ll definitely not be winning a place at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris any time soon! I’ve also been thinking about other ideas for classes at the villa. How would you feel about hosting a yoga retreat? Or presenting a course on vegan cookery?’
‘Have you spoken to Luca about your ideas?’
‘No, not yet, but…’
‘But what?’
Oriana crossed her slender legs, encased in skinny white jeans, and pushed up the fluted sleeves of her tangerine blouse. However, in Izzie’s opinion, the best item of her attire was the Pasticceria da Oriana apron, white with a tiny pink angel embroidered on the front.
