by Romy Sommer
‘I am happy. Tomorrow I’m going to fetch a new old sink for the kitchen.’
He shook his head.
In the end, we drove to Grosseto in the winery’s pick-up, Luca’s car being too small to fit a sink carved from Carrara marble. He looked just as effortlessly elegant and at ease in the passenger seat of a battered pick-up truck as he did in a stylish sports car. I tried to imagine Kevin lounging in this old truck and giggled.
On the outskirts of the city we found the salvage yard, and Luca and a man with a prolific moustache wrestled the sink into the bed of the truck, covered it over with a tarpaulin, and strapped it down.
Luca held out his hand for the truck keys. ‘I drive the rest of the way, and you can enjoy the scenery.’
‘The rest of the way? I thought we were going back to Montalcino for dinner?’
He shook his head. ‘We have hours yet before dinner, so I’m taking you to the beach.’
I had visions of beaches swarming with regimented rows of sun loungers, and the over-tanned, over-manicured bodies of tourists in lycra, but I needn’t have worried. The coastline of southern Tuscany proved to be an undiscovered gem. Low-slung hills grazed by long-horned cattle gave way to the kind of landscape that inspired tourism posters: a road that twisted high above an azure sea, craggy cliffs dropping down to secret coves, and stretches of sandy beach, all guarded over by ancient stone watchtowers.
Luca turned off the coastal road onto a narrow spit of land that ran through a lagoon of crystalline blue waters. I breathed in the scent of the rosemary-scented scrub edging the road and eyed the mountainous island looming out of the sea.
‘Monte Argentario,’ Luca said. To our right, lay a small port town. ‘That’s the main town of Porto Santo Stefano.’ He swung the car left. ‘But we go to Porto Ercole.’
This little village, a cluster of pink and orange houses in the shadow of a fortress, overlooked a port crammed with ferries, fishing boats and yachts. ‘The island was heavily bombed in the war and re-built in the Fifties,’ Luca said, in his best tour guide voice. I’d realised long ago he enjoyed playing tour guide. He liked knowing stuff I didn’t, and not in that teasing ‘Did you know?’ way Tommaso had.
We parked and wandered through the town, a pretty little seaside resort made all the prettier by the scorching sun, which picked out the vibrant colours of the buildings, abundant bougainvillea, and the lush vegetation of the sloping hillsides. At the edge of the harbour, we paused to listen to the breeze singing a song through the rigging of the yachts, and the gentle waves slapping up against the jetty. Luca took my hand.
I steadied my breathing. His thumb stroked my palm, sending a tingling sensation up my arm.
‘So where are we eating dinner?’ I asked, looking across the harbour to the row of restaurants, full and busy though it was mid-afternoon.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘No, but isn’t that what we came here for?’
‘Are you always in such a hurry to move on to the next thing?’ Luca smiled, amused.
‘I’m a Londoner. I have only two speeds: full tilt and dead.’
He grinned. ‘You are in Italy now. Here, the journey is more important than the destination.’
I shook my head. Growing up with Geraldine, my childhood had been one long journey without a destination. Her life was a whirlwind of new boyfriends, new homes, new jobs, new countries. I liked destinations.
In spite of Geraldine, or maybe because of her, I’d mapped out my life before I even finished high school. First class degree? Check. Great job? Check. Professional respect? Check. My name on a mortgage of my very own? Check.
Other people might think me dull and predictable, but I didn’t care. Dull and predictable was safe. Or at least it had seemed safe, until even dull and predictable Kevin hadn’t proven reliable. I shrugged off that old sense of betrayal. Kevin made a great boss, even if he’d been a lousy boyfriend. And he’d taught me a valuable lesson in never mixing business and pleasure.
As if to prove that journeys could be fun, Luca hired a small motorboat, and we set off around the headland into the fresh breeze. Many of the coves we motored past were accessible only by water. A few were unspoiled, half-moon-shaped wedges of sand, but most were occupied, with zodiac inflatables and motor boats and families playing on the beaches.
Watching the summer tourists, my heart tugged with an unfamiliar emotion, a sense of yearning. Not for their vacation time, but for the shrieks of children’s laughter, for melting ice creams and suntan lotion and cheap plastic beach toys. There’d been a time when I’d wanted that for myself, when I’d dreamed of having a family as well as a career, a partner and children to fill my home, rather than housemates.
But I was a practical person. As the years rolled past without meeting that special someone to build a family with, I’d stopped yearning for what I didn’t have and got on with the business of pursuing what was achievable. Then Kevin had asked me to marry him, and for three glorious months I’d thought maybe my dream of having it all wasn’t so impossible after all.
I shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun against the water, as if it was the light burning my eyes.
As the sun angled low over the sea, glossing the azure with gold, Luca drove me further along the island’s coast, along a panoramic, cliff-hugging drive to a posh hotel.
He was right. This was much better than one of the portside cafés. The hotel nestled in a fold of mountainside dropping down to the sea, its terracotta-coloured buildings framed by umbrella pines. We drank negroni cocktails on a terrace overlooking the hotel’s private beach and talked and laughed as the sun set over the ocean.
When it was dark, and the mosquitoes came out, we moved inside to the hotel’s sophisticated, Michelin-starred restaurant. The setting was elegant but not flashy, and though I was woefully underdressed in the teal sundress I’d bought at the market, the glamour of bygone eras so permeated the air that I felt like a Twenties’ movie star.
Luca ordered the wine, a local Maremma Syrah. My eyes rounded at its price on the menu, but Luca didn’t even blink. The sommelier filled our glasses with an intense ruby-red wine. ‘This wine is produced by the Frescobaldi family, who have been making wine since 1308,’ the sommelier said, assuming my accent made me a tourist in need of educating. I resisted rolling my eyes. John’s cellar contained more than a few Frescobaldi wines, and only a few nights earlier Tommaso and I had shared one of their Cabernets. Beside the entry in John’s journal, in his neat handwriting, had been the note ‘the Frescobaldis traded wine with Michelangelo’.
I sipped the Syrah. Plush and juicy, full-bodied, tasting of dried cherries and plum. Not as good as any of the Castel Sant’Angelo wines, but maybe I was just being partial.
When the sommelier stepped away, Luca raised his glass. ‘To love.’
I raised my glass to his. ‘To friendship.’
He took my free hand. ‘We could be so much more than friends, bella. You cannot deny the chemistry between us.’
‘Chemistry is seriously overrated.’
He lifted my hand to his lips, brushing the back of my hand with a feathery touch. ‘I am descended from generations of winemakers. I believe in chemistry. You should try it, bella.’
Gently, I extricated my hand from his grasp. Sure, this chemistry felt great. For now. But when I was living nearly 800 miles away, that chemistry wouldn’t warm my bed at night, or wake beside me in the morning, or make plans for a life together.
We dined on seasonal vegetables and seafood fresh from the sea, so beautifully presented that it looked too good to eat. Throughout the meal, Luca kept my glass topped up while drinking very little from his own. Between the wine, and the admiration in his dark eyes, his seduction was tempting. But I kept thinking of those kids playing on the beach.
The waiter cleared away our dinner plates and brought the dessert cart, decorated with a dazzling array of sweet treats. I looked longingly at the tempting desserts, but… ‘I never though
t I’d say this, but I can’t.’ I wasn’t entirely sure if I was regretting the desserts or Luca.
Waving the cart away, we ordered coffees instead. They arrived with a cheese board which included the pale, tangy-sweet caciotta cheese, another Tuscan speciality. The restaurant had begun to empty when Luca unwrapped my fingers from the stem of my empty wine glass and enveloped them in his. ‘I have a proposition for you, bella.’
Here it was – the moment we’d been building to from that first kiss on the day he took me to Montepulciano. The moment when I had to say ‘no, thank you. I don’t want to sleep with you’ and risk losing his friendship. Or rather: ‘I do want to sleep with you, but I won’t’. My stomach knotted.
‘Did you speak to Tommaso about selling those fifteen hectares of land?’
Wow. Okay. Well, that wasn’t what I’d expected.
I nodded. ‘I did, and he refuses to sell.’
Luca didn’t seem surprised. ‘My friend works at the bank in Montalcino. He tells me you have been asking about consolidating the vineyard’s loans.’
I removed my hand from his and waited for him to continue, one eyebrow raised, my stomach unclenching in relief. Chemistry might scare the daylights out of me, but business I could handle.
‘I might be able to assist you. I have a client with some cash to spare who would be willing to take on your debt at a very reasonable interest rate.’
Luca named a percentage, and only long years of experience at negotiating deals kept my expression neutral. That was a more than reasonable rate. ‘Why would your client offer such generous terms?’
‘Castel Sant’Angelo has a solid liquidity ratio and assets that can be leveraged. My client would be willing to accept a portion of your property as collateral against the loan.’
I wasn’t so intoxicated that I didn’t notice the slight emphasis on your property. Clever, but I wasn’t falling for that emotional manipulation, no matter how subtle. ‘How big a piece?’
‘Fifteen hectares.’
Coincidentally the same amount of land his father wanted to buy. And there were just two things I didn’t believe in: coincidence and leprechauns. ‘Does your generous benefactor have a name?’
Luca’s expression seemed guileless. ‘My father.’
I emptied the last, cold dregs of my coffee while I considered the proposition.
Fifteen hectares. A quarter of castello land as collateral for an interest rate that was far lower than we’d get anywhere else. It would certainly ease the pressure on Tommaso’s cash flow situation. But would Tommaso go for it? It wasn’t as if he’d lose the land. Just tie it up until the loan was repaid.
If it sounds too good to be true, my father once said, it probably is. He’d been speaking about some bright idea Geraldine had been determined to follow, running a ski chalet in Bulgaria. It had been too good to be true, and Geraldine returned to London with her tail between her legs, and considerably lighter in the purse.
‘What’s the catch? Why would your father do this, after all the years of bad blood between the two vineyards?’
Luca twirled his wine glass between his long, slender fingers. ‘No catch. My father wants to put an end to the feud, and to make interest back on his investment while doing it. So what do you think?’
‘I think there’s more you’re not telling me.’
Luca’s dimples flashed as he smiled. ‘I told you that my father is a sentimental man. For him it is not about the money. That land was lost by my great, great grandfather to the marchese of that time. My ancestor was a bad gambler.’ He shrugged. ‘My father knows that Tommaso will never sell him the land. But as collateral, in the event that Castel Sant’Angelo defaults … that is the only chance we have to restore the loss.’
Though Luca didn’t emphasise the we this time, I didn’t miss it. He might be a lawyer by profession, but he still saw himself as a Fioravanti first. Of course he did. Winemaking in Italy was a family business.
He leaned forward, conspiratorially. ‘My father, too, is a bad gambler. I have told him it is unlikely he will ever get that land, and that he will make a better return if he charges higher interest, but it is a gamble he is willing to take.’
I’d seen Tommaso’s figures. Luca’s father was indeed a bad gambler. Short of an unforeseen act of God, there was no chance Tommaso would default and lose those fifteen hectares.
‘I’ve had too much wine tonight to make a decision now. I will come to your office tomorrow, and we can discuss it then.’
‘You do not need to discuss it with Tommaso?’
I thought of Tommaso rubbing his forehead, of the tiredness in his eyes. Go ahead, he’d said. ‘That won’t be necessary. I have his authorisation to re-finance this debt as I see fit. Shouldn’t we start heading back? It’s a long drive home.’
Luca reached for my hand again, his thumb stroked my palm. ‘Or we can stay? I can get us a room…’
With considerable effort, I detached my hand from his. Out of the frying pan, and back into the fire. ‘I’m very flattered, but no.’
He shrugged, and his dimple flashed again, and relief swamped me that he hadn’t taken offence at my rejection. I wouldn’t have to lose his friendship just yet…
Chapter 17
Non c’è rosa senza spine
(Every rose has its thorn)
It took a few days of to-ing and fro-ing to iron out the details of the new loan agreement. Since Tommaso was away meeting distributers in Rome, I had to fill him in on the details over the phone – which made it easier for me to omit the name of our new creditor. Yes, it was cowardly of me. But, I rationalised, Tommaso didn’t like Luca, and he was just stubborn enough to turn down this incredible offer because Luca had brokered the deal.
I was in the kitchen, trying my hand at a Tuscan pork and bean stew, when Tommaso’s car pulled into the yard. Unexpectedly, he didn’t go to his own cottage first, but came to knock on my door. It was still light outside, and I’d left the door standing open to let in the light evening breeze.
‘You’ve started removing the shutters on your own?’ he asked, not bothering with a greeting.
I stirred the contents of the pot and brushed my hair off my face with the back of the oven mitt. ‘Hello to you too. Of course I did it on my own. Every contractor I called was busy until the new year, and those shutters aren’t just an eyesore, they’re dangerous.’ I lifted my chin, defiant. ‘Besides, I’m not some feeble little girl who can’t unscrew a hinge.’
Though in all honesty, it was turning out to be a tougher job than I’d expected. Some of the hinges were caked in place by layers and layers of paint, and others had rusted so badly they flaked to splinters at a touch. I’d broken the skin on my palms trying to remove them. And a nail too. I wasn’t vain about my hands, but it had broken right down to the quick, and had hurt even more than the shutter that fell on my foot when I dropped it.
I was trying very hard not to think about how I was going to re-hang those shutters on my own after I re-stuccoed the house’s exterior. Both tasks seemed monumental.
‘You don’t need a contractor, just a handyman.’ Tommaso pushed away from the door. ‘Why is it so difficult for you to ask for help?’ He sounded exasperated.
‘Just place an ad in the local paper and welcome in whichever stranger turns up?’ I didn’t intend to sound sarcastic, but his question nettled. Yes, I hated asking for help. I was a modern, independent and capable woman who had functioned perfectly well on my own for nearly two decades. And I certainly didn’t need a man’s help. I’d spent my entire career proving that.
‘I’ll ask around,’ Tommaso offered, not in the least perturbed by my rudeness. ‘One of the farm workers must have a relative looking for work. And if you need help, I’m around too.’
I shrugged, trying not to look as relieved as I felt. Someone to do the heavy lifting would be a huge help, though I wasn’t going to admit it out loud. Then I smiled. ‘We have something to celebrate! As of today, because of the
agreement I signed, the strain of the interest payments on your cash flow will ease up.’
‘If there’s enough food in that pot to feed a hungry man too, I’ll provide the champagne. Better yet, we can make it a real party: dinner, followed by a big night at home in front of the telly.’
I closed my eyes, as if in prayer. Television! I hadn’t even seen one of those in months. I was so desperate I’d even watch Real Housewives of Cheshire (dubbed into Italian). ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘How about a Buffy marathon? I have box sets.’
‘Deal!’
He slipped away, his footsteps receding across the back yard. When he returned, freshly showered and smelling faintly of lemongrass, I had the big speckled enamel stew pot simmering on a low heat and had set the table on the terrace. The air was cooler out there, and the sky was shot through with every shade of pink and lilac imaginable, casting a rosy light across the terrace.
Tommaso wore his damp dark hair slicked back, and had changed into jeans and a clean, collared white shirt. I wished I’d thought to do more than remove my apron. I still wore the dirty cargo pants and T-shirt I’d worn all day. Tommaso’s eyebrow arched as he took in the shirt: the Sunnydale High School Slayers.
He smiled. Not one of his little half-smiles, but a full-on smile which lightened his face, crinkled his eyes and eased the lines of tension on his forehead.
I raised both eyebrows in mock shock. ‘What is that thing on your face?’
‘What thing?’ He wiped at his face, and I bit back a grin.
‘That thing with your mouth? If you were anyone else, I’d swear you were smiling.’
His smile turned into a laugh that lit up his eyes.
I felt a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach, a mix of anticipation and longing, and quickly dipped my head to hide my blush. ‘The stew needs to simmer a little longer. Should we start on the champagne while we wait?’
Tommaso shook his head. ‘Wine tasting first.’
I rolled my eyes but didn’t complain. On the solid wooden dining table which now had pride of place on the wisteria-free terrace, he set down two bottles of red wine from which he’d removed the labels.
