Prego : You are welcome
Riposo : Rest
Roma : Rome, the capital of Italy
Sangiovese : A red Italian wine grape variety that derives its name from the Latin sanguis Jovis, “the blood of Jupiter”
Scusa : Sorry (used when you already know well someone or if you are close friend with the person you are talking to)
Scusami : Excuse me
Sì : Yes
Signore : Mister
Signorina : Young lady
Sono così dispiaciuta : I’m so sorry
Sorella : Sister
Sorellina : Little sister
Stupido : Stupid
Tanti auguri a te : Happy birthday to you
Tre : Three
Un pazzo : A madman
Un po' : A little
Va bene : Okay / It’s okay
Vaniglia : Vanilla
Va via : Go away
Vino : Wine
Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.
“Honor your father and mother”
—which is the first commandment with a promise—
“so that it may go well with you and
that you may enjoy long life on the earth.”
Fathers, do not exasperate your children;
instead, bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.
~ Ephesians 6:1–4 (NIV)
Prologue
A Tuscan Legacy
NO PARENT SHOULD EVER HAVE to bury a child, let alone all of them.
Isabella Rossi gathered her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. She headed toward the front door of the enormous home which was too big for only her and Maria, who had been her trusted and faithful housekeeper for decades. Isabella had held the ashes of all three of her children, their once vibrant lives reduced to the contents in the ceramic urns. Now, only she remained. And her grandchildren. But most of them were scattered like chaff in the wind, and her heart pained at how far from the fields of Tuscany her descendants had drifted. Oceans now separated them; her first and last born grandchildren, Rafaele and Alessa, the only ones left on Italian soil. And even they were separated from her—and each other—by entire cities.
Since his father died three months ago, Rafaele had done his utmost to come home most weekends. To help his nonna. How long would that last, though? He had his own life, his own career, in Firenze. He’d long ago chosen that world above these lands.
Dawn peeked its golden head over the horizon as Isabella slipped out the front door of the place she’d called home for sixty long and glorious years. Villa Rossi. She’d cherished every moment here since the day her beloved Benedetto had made her his bride. Even the bad times she had buried deep in her heart.
Her fingers, wrinkled and bent from old age and arthritis, clutched the shawl tighter, shutting out the crisp spring morn; the cold not nearly as bitter as her own heart. This wasn’t how life was intended to be. They were meant to have all lived and died under the Tuscan sky, here on this beautiful estate that had been in their family for generations. She blew out a breath that carried with it the cumbersome burden she bore. Which of her grandchildren should inherit this place once she passed on? Would any of them even care to be bound by a property they barely visited anymore, in a country far from what they now called home?
She glanced back at the two-story building, her very being swelling and then quickly sagging at the collection of happy and sad memories. Through the generations, so much loving and living had happened under that roof. The ebb and flow of life.
Until now.
Now it seemed that life merely ebbed, dragging the very soul of Villa Rossi with it.
With her husband’s help, she’d raised three children within those stone walls: Massimo, their firstborn, named after Benedetto’s father; Francesca, after the child’s paternal grandmother; and lastly, Albertino, her baby, who had taken her own dear papà’s name. Benedetto and she had rigidly kept to every Italian custom. Sadly, the same could not be said for her own children, God rest their departed souls. Isabella crossed herself and the shawl slipped from her clasp with the action. She quickly tugged it up over her shoulder again, her heart pressing against her ribs at the painful memory of her children breaking from tradition—at least Massimo and Francesca had—and naming their children whatever they’d wanted with no respect for their customs. None of her grandchildren bore her nor Benedetto’s names as they should have.
And poor, sweet, Albertino…he never had a chance to name his child. Never even knew he’d fathered one. Perhaps he would’ve called his daughter Isabella…if his life hadn’t been snatched from him so quickly.
If only they hadn’t argued.
If only he hadn’t sped away on his motorcycle, angry.
If only he hadn’t met that English woman.
If…
Isabella shook her head and stepped off the narrow dirt road into the vineyard. So many ifs. So many regrets. When her son had ached to marry Maggie Golding, she’d told him to leave and never come back. She had never meant for his departure to be final. Irreversible.
Maggie had returned to England after Albertino’s death, and the child born out of wedlock was given the name Rachel instead. Not even an Italian name but a Jewish one. Like her surname. What had she expected, though, from that foreigner who’d led her Albertino astray. She blamed Maggie for his death.
She blamed herself.
The child should’ve been a Rossi, but her illegitimate granddaughter knew nothing of her heritage.
Perhaps it was for the best. One less grandchild to turn their back on their grandmammà.
Ambling between the vines that lined the slope behind the homestead, Isabella reached her hand out to snatch a poppy growing tall between the grass. Big. Bright. Red. Then another. The first of the spring blooms. Soon the hills would blush with their rubescent hue. Here and there she clutched the slender shoots of wild legumes, plucking them to add a touch of mauve to her monotone bouquet.
By the time she reached the other side of the vineyard just before the olive groves, she held a rather large bunch of wildflowers in her hand. Still, she had to split it five ways. Five memorials. Five loved ones lost—her husband, her children, and Massimo’s beloved wife, Alessandra. He’d never overcome her death. Now he was finally reunited with her.
Before the cancer took her Benedetto, he made Isabella promise to have his remains cremated and placed in this special spot between his vines and olive trees. She’d argued against the notion at first—the church did not favor cremation. The Lord Jesus himself was buried in a tomb, and weren’t they all to follow his example? But she’d eventually relented. Keeping her word, she had Massimo and Albertino demarcate this area after her husband’s death.
She trailed her fingers over the low wrought-iron palisade then pushed open the gate and headed toward the tombstone erected in Benedetto’s memory and the cremation urn bearing his ashes on the grass in front of it.
Barely a year later, she’d had a second stone erected. To her beloved Albertino—her baby. Losing her youngest son was even harder to bear than losing the love of her life.
Thirty-four years had passed since that fateful day.
And time had not healed the still raw wounds.
Chapter One
HEARING THE FRONT DOOR CLICK shut, Rafaele Rossi threw back the covers and rose from his childhood bed. If he was going to spend more time on his nonna’s estate, he’d have to see about upgrading that single bunk to a double bed. No space to stretch. Not to mention almost hitting his head every time he sat up.
He stepped to the window and eased the curtain open to glance outside. Early morning mist clung to the hills of the Val d’Orcia. He filled his lungs. How he loved this valley. Lowering his gaze, he watched Nonna make her way down the sand driveway between the tall cypress trees. Like green arrows pointing heavenward, they marked the road to the villa.
His chest squeezed tight. He knew exactly where she was he
aded, and it pained him to see her sadness.
Nonna turned to glance back at the villa, and Rafaele stepped away from the window before she saw him watching her. He’d give her enough time alone to grieve before he followed.
Arching his back, he gave a long yawn then sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. How good it would be to bury his head in that pillow for another hour, but he resisted the urge. Leaning forward instead, Rafaele rested his face in his hands. Stubble from his beard tickled his palms. He’d have to give his mustache and beard a little trim later.
Rafaele pressed his fingers to his eyes and rubbed. He’d spent a restless night thinking about what he could do to lift Nonna’s spirits. Other matters of a recent discovery had also weighed heavily on his mind, robbing him of sleep. By the early hours of the morning, he’d managed to resolve one quandary.
His idea was brilliant—at least, he thought so—and even if only half his siblings and cousins could make it to Tuscany, his plan would still be worth executing. If all six came, it would make Nonna realize how much she still had to live for.
But first, he had to persuade his grandmother.
He’d discuss other matters of importance with her later, like convincing her to hire a foreman to manage the farm workers. Thankfully they’d only just come out of winter, with not much to do in the lands since his father’s death. But now their sunflower crop needed planting, and soon the olive trees would require pruning, the lavender harvesting. They had no choice but to get someone to replace his papà. Soon. Despite what Nonna believed, she was too old to handle all that on her own.
And he was too busy practicing law in Firenze.
Unless…
No. The thought was crazy.
Rafaele pushed to his feet and grabbed his clothes from the back of the chair accompanying the desk where he’d spent countless evenings doing homework. Afternoons as a child had been filled with extra activities at school or helping the family in the fields and vineyards. He smoothed a hand over the flat, wooden surface. Yes, this table had served him well, from primary school right until he’d finished upper secondary school at nineteen. Then he’d left home to study law at the University of Firenze, the choice deepening the rift between him and his father. Five years of hard study ensued, and for the past six years, he’d worked his way up the ranks in the same law firm.
One would think having a lawyer for a son—and a successful one at that—would make a father proud.
He shoved his legs into his jeans then yanked the pants up around his waist. How could he turn his back on what he’d fought so hard for? His freedom… His right not to give in to his father’s demands that he become a farmer and follow in his footsteps. It wasn’t that he didn’t love this place—this land—he’d simply resented his father dictating what his life should look like. If he hadn’t gone away to study, by now he would’ve been tied to a wife of his papà’s choosing, rearing babies faster than the mice that lived in their fields.
Rafaele pulled a long-sleeved shirt over his T-shirt, and then ran his fingers through his hair. Would he recognize love if it came knocking at his heart’s door? Even at thirty? Or would he simply shut himself off from the notion as his father had done after Mammà had died? In twenty-two years, the great Massimo Rossi had not only refused to open his heart to another woman, he’d also shut out the love of his children, driving them all away.
At least, that’s what he had believed until yesterday. The other woman part.
Not loving his children after Mammà’s death—that was still very real. And painful.
Bank papers on his desk taunted him as he leaned against its wooden edge to pull socks on to his feet. He straightened then whirled around to snatch up the paperwork, glaring at the black print that had rocked him to his very core. What baffled Rafaele was why his father had married his mammà in the first place. Oh, she was beautiful, and elegant, and charming, but Papà had clearly known this “other woman” before he and Mammà married, and he hadn’t cut ties with her until the day he died. Had Papà fathered a child by her? Is that why the regular cash withdrawals he’d discovered while sorting out his father’s estate? Withdrawals that had gone on for thirty-four years, every month on the same date, escalating each year with inflation. What deep, dark secret had his father harbored all these years, and then taken to the grave?
Or had he taken this secret to the grave?
Nonna seemed to know everything in this family—why not who Papà had been paying and why? He should ask her. But not now. Not until she was in far better spirits.
Perhaps after the party.
Downstairs, Rafaele paused in the kitchen for a cappuccino, into which he’d dipped a cream-filled brioche, before heading outside to follow his nonna’s path.
He hurried through the vineyard. In the distance he could see Nonna kneeling beside a tombstone in the small family…graveyard, for want of a better word. Not that anyone was buried there. Still it was a place for them all to go to remember, and the place that held the ashes of their loved ones.
As he drew closer, he saw it wasn’t his father’s recent tombstone to which Nonna had bowed low. Instead, she knelt beside the second last stone in the row—the second oldest one.
Albertino’s.
The dates engraved in the granite bore testimony to the fact that when his uncle died, he was only as old as Rafaele had been when he’d left home to further his studies. He must’ve been a special man for Nonna to still mourn him so after all this time. And yet, Nonna never spoke of him. Nobody did. All Rafaele and his siblings knew was that their uncle had been killed driving his motorbike at the bottom of the property, close to the cottage that had once been the housekeeper’s home. When Papà died, Rafaele insisted that Maria move into one of the rooms in the villa so Nonna wouldn’t be alone.
They should offer the small house to the new foreman when they employed one.
His earlier idea prodded again, begging for attention. Maybe it wasn’t a bad notion to take a sabbatical from work—a few months’ leave.
But what if during that time he discovered his father had been right after all about his true calling in life?
Jayne Austin carried the last box from the Keswick jewelry store that she’d worked at for the past seven years and placed it on the back seat of her employer’s car. Her heart mirrored the gray, English skies above as she turned to watch Magnolia Rathbone close the doors and lock them for the very last time.
Maggie gave her a pinched smile as she neared, swiping at her cheek. The action only served to set Jayne off. Again.
Flinging her arms around Maggie’s neck, Jayne sobbed on her best friend’s shoulder. “I can’t believe this chapter of our lives has closed. Never in a million years did I imagine this day would come.”
Maggie’s swollen belly pressed against Jayne’s stomach, and she stepped backward, laughing through her tears. “What? Did you think we’d become old maids in that little store, crafting jewelry only for others’ fairy-tales?”
Had she?
Jayne forced out a chuckle. “Of course not. And there’s you, already married, a baby on the way—”
“Finally. It’s taken long enough. Over a year and a half to fall pregnant. The risk of Down syndrome starts to rise from thirty-two. I just pray that I haven’t left it a little late.” Maggie brushed her hands up and down Jayne’s arms. “Don’t worry. Your turn will come soon. And you do have the upper hand on me by four years.”
She certainly hoped so. If her plans went well, and God smiled down upon what she wanted to do, perhaps there’d be another wedding in Italy in the hopefully not too distant future. Although she was quite partial to a quaint English ceremony. All her friends and family were here in Britain.
“I really wish I could’ve kept the shop open, but without me there crafting jewelry to meet the demand… Besides, there’s no way I want to have my attention divided from this little one.” Maggie patted her stomach. “Davis has been more than patient for me to continue worki
ng after we were wed, but now he wants me home with the baby. And rightly so. Besides, it’s time I stepped into that role I’ve been avoiding.”
“Ah yes, Lady Rathbone.”
Maggie pulled a face. “I could do without the pomp and ceremony. Probably why I’ve skirted around that part of our lives as much as possible. But I do owe it to my husband now to assume the role along with that of motherhood.”
“Many women would kill for that title and lifestyle, Maggie. You’re truly living the happily ever after with your Prince Charming.”
“And soon you will too. I just feel it.”
Jayne chuckled. “Are you sure that’s not the baby kicking? Or heartburn?”
Maggie drew Jayne into a hug. “Love’s waiting for you. I know it.”
“Thanks,” she whispered. Perhaps she should tell Maggie what she intended to do. Except for telling her dad, she’d kept quiet about her plans, fearing others would put two and two together. And make two. But even if Maggie did, she’d surely understand.
Jayne worried her lip for a moment before staring into Maggie’s eyes. “I–I’m going to be going away for a while.”
“Really? Where?”
“Italy. After all, my former employer just gave me a more than generous redundancy package, so I thought I’d take some time off and travel before deciding what I’ll do next.”
Maggie’s eyes widened, as did her smile. “That’s wonderful news. Italy… I wouldn’t have chosen anywhere else had I been in your shoes.”
“I fell in love with the place when we went there for Rose and Joseph’s wedding. I only wish I’d stayed longer. A weekend wasn’t nearly close to long enough.” Especially after meeting him. Two years had passed, and she still hadn’t been able to forget those smoldering, brown eyes and rich Italian accent. What providence when Rose had invited her to the wedding in Tuscany. She and Rose had hit it off at Maggie’s wedding, and Jayne quickly found yet another good friend in one of the Blume sisters.
Those Blue Tuscan Skies Page 13
