Last of the Summer Vines

by Romy Sommer

  ‘Have you ever re-tiled a roof before?’ I asked.

  Ettore nodded.

  ‘It’s going to take a while to clear your bedroom enough so you can sleep in it,’ Tommaso said. ‘Will you move into your father’s room, or do you want to stay in my spare room a while longer?’

  It was childish, but I felt a dizzying sense of relief at not having to sleep in John’s room. And I definitely didn’t fancy sleeping alone in this house until the power was back. ‘Thank you. I’ll take your offer of the spare room.’

  He nodded, a brisk movement, completely devoid of emotion. ‘It’s yours as long as you need it.’

  The rain cleared away the summer dust, and the air smelled fresh and clean, rich with the dark scent of wet earth. The colours in the garden seemed more vibrant after the storm, and the dry creek at the bottom of the garden, which I’d never before seen with anything but a trickle of water, now gushed with a steady flow, making music as it bubbled over stones and tree roots. Ettore and I drank coffee and ate flaky cornetti in the warm sunshine on the terrace, to provision ourselves for the day ahead.

  Then, while Ettore headed into town for supplies, I baked for the trattoria. I hoped no one would mind that I only made breads and scones, but they were the quickest and easiest, and I could whip them together with my eyes closed.

  When Ettore returned, he’d not only brought a chainsaw, tarpaulins, roof tiles and other materials, but he’d also brought me a coverall to work in. It fit perfectly.

  ‘How did you know my size?’ I asked, but he just shrugged and set to work.

  Together we cleared what debris we could from the upstairs rooms, and Ettore helped carry my possessions across to Tommaso’s cottage. There was no opera music today, only the shrill whine of the chainsaw as Ettore hacked away at the branches so that I could carry them down to the composter, to join the wisteria that was already there.

  The sounds were so deafening that I didn’t even hear when a great big truck rolled into the yard, until the sound of men’s voices floated up the stairs from the hall.

  Tommaso had sent us backup: a truck with a high-reaching grapple to remove the immense tree trunk. From the back yard, Ettore and I watched in fascination – and just a little breathless trepidation on my part – as the grapple hook was secured, and the tree slowly winched off the roof.

  ‘That’s a beauty!’ the truck operator shouted gleefully. ‘That pine must be at least two hundred years old! So old that all it needed was a little blow to bring it down.’

  If that was his idea of a ‘little blow’ then I didn’t want to stick around to see what winter would bring.

  When Tommaso returned, in much better spirits now that he’d ascertained the vines hadn’t been hit too hard by the storm, the three of us clambered up onto the roof to secure tarpaulins over the gaping holes. Not that we need have bothered. Naturally, the skies stayed clear and sunny for days afterwards.

  ‘I learned to lay roof tiles today,’ I told Cleo when we finally managed to catch up.

  ‘You go, girl! Perhaps you should consider a career flipping houses when you get home.’

  I laughed. ‘I don’t think anyone could pay me enough money to go through this again. Tell me instead how things are going with the Delta Corporation.’

  ‘All resolved and back to business as usual.’ But she sounded remote, as if there was something she wasn’t saying.

  ‘What about The Arse? You didn’t fall in love with him, I hope?’

  I was joking, because surely she’d tell me if she had, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she said: ‘Tell me about your new housemate.’

  I had to think for a moment. I wasn’t sure what words to use to describe Tommaso. He was contradictory: withdrawn and brusque one moment, then engaging and laughing and so incredibly solicitous of my needs the next. And always so devastatingly sexy. When I thought of the perfect male torso now I didn’t think of Luca or even of Chris Hemsworth.

  I sighed, and Cleo gasped. ‘Oh my God! He’s hot, isn’t he?’

  I should deny it, stop Cleo getting any uncomfortable ideas, but before I could stop myself, I’d closed my eyes and was once again picturing that bare, tanned and very fit torso. I could immediately picture his lean abs, and the way they made a V-shape down towards the boxers resting on his hips. ‘It’s an Italian thing. Everything here just seems better than back home. When you’re on holiday, things always do seem bigger and brighter and heightened, don’t they? But none of it’s real.’

  Cleo sighed. ‘Who cares about real? Sometimes a girl deserves a little fantasy in her life. I could sure do with some fantasy. Tell me all about him!’

  ‘I can’t talk now,’ I whispered. ‘He’s in the other room, and these walls are paper thin.’

  ‘Then email me! You need to dish. Better yet, send pictures!’

  I said goodbye and hung up. On the other side of the wall, the shower had started. I pressed my eyes closed again and listened to the water falling. Listened to the slight stutter in its flow as Tommaso stepped beneath the spray.

  My breath hitched. On the other side of this bedroom wall, Tommaso was naked. And hard as I tried to will the image away, I pictured him there. His strong, golden body, muscles bunching and flexing as he moved, rivulets of water cascading down over his pecs, down across his abs, lower…

  Down, girl!

  I rolled over and pulled a pillow over my head.

  The electrician arrived the following day, and I discovered one of the miracles of Italy: despite the laidback approach to work, some things could be accomplished at the speed of light.

  Ettore brought in some extra hands, a couple of men who looked even bigger and more bruising than he did, though I wouldn’t have believed it possible to find anyone more intimidating. But they worked quickly and without fuss, and freed me up to return to the kitchen.

  When I offered them my first attempt at rabbit stew – Beatrice having sent a brace of freshly skinned rabbits with the farm’s driver – they applauded. I looked around the big kitchen table, packed with workmen dressed in dirty overalls and great big smiles, and felt like an Olympic champion receiving a gold medal. It wasn’t quite the kind of big, raucous family meal I’d envisioned for this room, but it was close enough.

  Tommaso only got the leftovers that night, and there wasn’t much left.

  ‘Wine?’ he offered, hovering the bottle over my wine glass.

  I nodded, but half an hour later I regretted it. The wine only seemed to heighten my awareness of him, rather than dulling it. Maybe moving in with him hadn’t been a particularly bright idea.

  This is stupid. It’s just the holiday effect. It doesn’t mean anything.

  I’d seen enough of my friends and colleagues succumb to holiday romances to know how being relaxed and away from home could make people behave completely out of character. Men they wouldn’t give the time of day to in a pub in East London suddenly became romantic heroes under the Mediterranean sun.

  More than once, Geraldine had sworn some guy she’d met on her travels was the great love of her life. It had never lasted more than a few months, and every time she’d been heartbroken.

  But I was stronger than that. I wasn’t going to give in to this stupid crush. Because that’s all this was. In my right mind, there was no way I’d find Tommaso di Biasi even remotely attractive. No way.

  Bernardo dropped by early one morning to inspect the bedroom furniture. ‘You did well, getting it out to dry as quickly as you did.’ He nodded his approval. ‘But your bed! It’s lucky it didn’t collapse. They made furniture tough in the old days!’

  We had to raise our voices over the soaring aria playing on Ettore’s boom box, and the mix of baritone and tenor voices rising above it. There’d never been a more unlikely barbershop trio than my tattooed, ex-con handymen.

  His inspection complete, Bernardo lingered in the kitchen. I was getting used to the unhurried Italian custom of turning every business call into a social event, so I offered h
im coffee and fresh zeppole balls, stuffed this time with sweet custard cream, and settled in for a chat.

  ‘Beatrice tells me you want to sell this house?’ Bernardo reached for the last zeppole on the plate.

  ‘Oh yes!’

  ‘I know someone who might be interested.’

  I sat up straighter. ‘But it’s only the house that’s for sale, not the vineyard.’

  ‘Nessun problema. They are customers of mine, a couple from Köln who visit every summer, and they are looking for a holiday house here. Can I give them your number?’

  I was so grateful, I gave him an entire bag of fresh zeppole to take home.

  The phone call arrived that night, just after Tommaso had called to let me know he was leaving the cellar and on his way home. I set the table, the phone crooked between my ear and shoulder.

  ‘This is Florian,’ the man said. ‘Bernardo tells me you have a castello for sale near Montalcino?’

  ‘Well, it’s really more of a big villa than a castello. But it has decorative towers and crenellations.’

  ‘It’s in good structural condition?’

  I crossed my fingers, which was hard to do while carrying cutlery. ‘Yes.’

  ‘My partner Yusuf is a landscape gardener, and his only requirement for the property is a garden. Does the castello have a big garden?’

  There at least, I could be completely honest. ‘The garden’s very big. It’s a bit of a jungle at the moment, but it has a swimming pool, a fountain, and a gazebo we never really use.’ Because it was still completely overgrown.

  Tommaso’s Alfa ground to a halt outside.

  ‘That sounds perfect. Will you send me pictures, and we can talk price?’

  ‘You don’t want to see it in person?’ Not that I was even vaguely ready to walk potential buyers through the house. I thought of the sections of roof that were still untiled, the neglected scaffolding where Ettore had been working on the stucco, the terrace that was no longer shaded but baked in the too-hot sun, and the pile of weathered shutters lying beside the woodpile.

  ‘We only just got home and have a lot of work to catch up on, so we can’t get back to Italy again any time soon.’ It sounded as if he was rifling through the pages of a diary. I held my breath.

  Tommaso stepped into the kitchen, stomping his feet on the welcome mat to clear the dried mud off his boots. I held up a finger to my lips, and he stilled.

  ‘We’re realists,’ Florian continued. ‘We know any older house in Italy is going to take some work to maintain. But as long as it’s not falling down, we are ready to make our dream of a house in Tuscany come true.’

  Could I really be this lucky that they’d buy the house just like that, sight unseen? ‘It’s in a very good location,’ I said, and I wasn’t sure if I was trying to reassure him or me.

  ‘Would the last weekend in September be too late for you? Can you wait that long?’ Florian asked. ‘We can visit then to sign any papers that need to be signed.’

  I let out my breath on a gush of air. Tommaso’s brow quirked upwards in a question.

  ‘Yes, I think we can wait that long.’ While I kept my voice cool and professional, I did an excited fist pump. I’d need to delay my flight back to London by a week, but after four months of leave, would one more week really make a difference? That gave us seven weeks to get the house fixed and ready. We could do this.

  Tommaso watched me, both his brows now high and expectant.

  I jotted Florian’s details on the back of an envelope, and when I hung up, I was beaming. ‘We have a buyer! And they only want the castello. It’s their dream to have a holiday home close to Montalcino. Isn’t that great? It’s the perfect compromise: we get the cash, you can buy me out without waiting for the next bottling, and you can keep the vineyard without losing a single vine.’

  ‘And you can leave.’

  ‘Yes, exactly.’ I practically danced over to the stove to dish up our dinner. ‘And I can go back to my life.’

  When I brought the bowls of creamy zucchini risotto to the table, Tommaso still hadn’t moved. His expression was stony. I really would have thought he’d be happier about this. He’d been wanting me to leave since I arrived.

  I forced my smile to stay bright. ‘Just think: you’ll own the vineyard outright, without having me as a partner.’

  He shrugged and turned away, moving to the sink to wash his hands. By the time he sat down at the table to eat, his frown was gone, his face expressionless.

  With a hopeless shrug, I sat across from him and concentrated on my dinner. The man was so infuriating – did nothing ever please him?

  Chapter 21

  Non è tutto oro quel che luccica

  (Not all that glitters is gold)

  August dawned hot and stifling. Every time I stepped out of the cool castello, the wave of heat hit me like a wall. In town, tourists thronged the streets, even though many of the restaurants and guest houses closed as the locals took their annual summer vacation.

  At Castel Sant’Angelo, we were busier than ever. While Ettore and his friends re-built the damaged roof, I became a pro at laying stucco. And I never thought I’d ever utter those words!

  Aside from the work on the house, and the clock ticking down towards the Germans’ arrival, there were more tour groups than ever passing through the vineyard. I’d gotten to be quite good as a sidekick on these tours, and when it was just a small family group, Tommaso even let me lead the tour myself. For bigger groups, like the visit of a group of British sommeliers, we arranged wine pairings, presenting a selection of foods that brought out the flavours of the wines, and offering little gift bags containing my trademark ricotta zeppole as a farewell gift. At least two Michelin-starred restaurants would now be serving the Sant’Angelo Brunello and Sangiovese blends on their wine lists.

  In the two weeks since I’d signed the loan agreement, I hadn’t heard from Luca. Not even a response to my texts. Maybe he’s just busy, said the defensive little voice in my head. He is a lawyer after all. Or maybe he’s just giving you space. You should be glad he’s not one of those clingy types.

  Somehow none of the excuses helped unclench the anxious knot in my stomach. He’d never been too busy for me before. But what if I’d had it all wrong? What if it wasn’t sex he’d been after all these weeks, but a hold over Castel Sant’Angelo? And now that he had it, our friendship was over.

  At last I screwed up my courage and called him. I planned to be all business, and not to sound desperate or too interested, but when he heard my voice, his warmth and enthusiasm swept me along on its usual tide, and all was forgiven.

  ‘Now you are phoning to finally accept my invitation for pici?’

  My stomach unclenched, and I couldn’t help but laugh at his boyish enthusiasm. ‘Only if you teach me how to make it.’

  ‘Tonight? I will pick you up.’

  ‘Non preoccuparti. I will borrow the truck.’

  ‘You are sounding just like an Italian now! Six o’clock and we will turn you into a real Italian.’

  He gave me his address, and just as the town’s bell tower chimed for the sixth time, I navigated the narrow street not far from the Piazza Garibaldi, holding my breath and praying that no other car tried to come from the opposite direction. I parked outside Luca’s house, hugging the winery’s truck up against the wall. His home was a traditional, narrow three-storey building of local stone, squashed into a row of similar houses. Unbelievably, his house had a garage downstairs. I had to admire the skill that would be required to contort his tiny sports car in there. Even by London standards, the space felt tight.

  Above the garage, the forest green shutters were closed against the early evening sun. I rang the modern door buzzer and a moment later a latch clicked and the arched wooden door swung open.

  Luca wore a black suit and a crisp white shirt, and my heart did that familiar flutter at seeing such perfection. Then he ushered me inside, and up a flight of stairs to the first floor living rooms. His apart
ment was unexpected, surprisingly modern and bright, not at all the chic bachelor pad I’d pictured. Black and white art prints decorated the walls, and the sleek lines of the Swedish-style furniture were softened by bright-coloured rugs and potted plants. The windows on the opposite side of the house had been thrown open, and light flowed in through tall windows which opened onto a balcony overflowing with potted geraniums and overhung by a vibrant purple bougainvillea. Only in Italy would a bachelor’s house be so filled with plants and colour. The only greenery in Kevin’s apartment had been a cactus. And I’d given it to him.

  ‘My home,’ he said, both proud and pleased to have surprised me. He led me into the compact kitchen, where he’d already laid out the ingredients for our dinner. ‘You can wash your hands in there, and then we will get started on making dinner.’

  ‘In there’ was a cloakroom that was more high-tech and elegant than anything I’d seen since my arrival in Tuscany. I washed my hands, glanced at my reflection to ensure my make-up was still holding, and hadn’t yet melted off my face in the summer heat, then returned to the kitchen. Luca had removed his jacket and tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, but he still looked as if he was posing for a photo shoot, rather than about to cook dinner.

  The pici were surprising easy to make. We started with a well of flour, ordinary flour mixed with semolina, into which we fed eggs, olive oil, and a little water to moisten the dough.

  I delighted in the familiar feel of squishing my fingers into the gooey mix. When it reached the right consistency, pliable, strong, and not too sticky, we set the big ball of dough aside to rest, and Luca poured me a glass of crisp white wine. Not a Fioravanti wine, I noticed. Clearly it was good enough for them to sell, but not good enough to drink.

  ‘Haven’t you learned yet that I don’t get drunk easily?’ I teased.

  I watched as he tossed together a sauce with shavings of white truffle, sipping my wine slowly. Very slowly. While I no longer felt the urge to repeat my old mantra of no holiday romance in the same way, I still wasn’t taking any risks.