Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!. Romy Sommer
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From the gestures that accompanied the animated conversation, I decided they were discussing wine.
I wasn’t alone for long. Beatrice slipped onto the bench beside me. She was a pretty woman, perhaps only just thirty, with warm, smiling eyes and thick, dark hair that she wore tied back in a long and intricate braid. Though she’d just stepped from the kitchen, she looked fresh as a daisy, and effortlessly classy in her simple but stylish linen dress.
My insecurities had faded along with my twenties, but beside Beatrice’s bold colouring and curves, I couldn’t help but feel plain. My pale skin, with its tendency to freckle, and fine, straight hair, weren’t exactly head-turners. The one thing I had going for me was the colour of my hair, a rich chestnut that was still completely natural.
Beatrice dipped a wedge of the bread into a bowl of herb-scented olive oil. ‘Are the men still talking wine? Daniele wants so badly for us to plant grapes so he can make his own.’
‘Why doesn’t he?’ I dipped a slice of the bread too, though with less enthusiasm. The ciabatta’s crust was too thin, and the ratio of air holes to bread not on the favourable side. I’d been looking forward to eating the real deal here in Tuscany, but honestly I’d baked better ciabatta bread. Once upon a time, at least two promotions back, baking had been my Sunday morning ritual. Other people slept in, or went to church, or played golf. I baked.
‘Like most farms in Tuscany, this is a family farm,’ Beatrice explained. ‘The traditions are passed down from generation to generation, and our family have always farmed wheat and dairy. Not as glamorous as wine, sadly.’
‘Not as glamorous, but definitely more essential.’
Beatrice giggled. ‘Sh! Don’t let Tommaso hear you say that!’ A shout of laughter rang out from the far end of the table. At my unintentional flinch, Beatrice pulled a wry face. ‘We’re a noisy lot, but you get used to it after a while.’
‘I live in London. I’m used to crowds.’ Or I should be. But I didn’t like crowds. It was why I loved Wanstead so much, with its quiet, village-y feel. And it was part of the reason I worked such long hours. I caught the tube to work before the morning rush hour and left the office long after the evening rush hour.
‘You have a big family?’ Beatrice asked.
‘No. It was always just me and my mother.’ Belatedly, I realised I’d had a father too, but Beatrice didn’t appear to notice my blunder.
She shook her head as she looked down the long table crowded with people. ‘I envy you. Here, there is always someone around, always someone getting up in your business.’ She frowned. ‘I think that is the right way to say it?’
I laughed. ‘Yes, that’s the right way to say it. But it must be wonderful to have so many people care about you.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you had two brothers.’ She threw her hands up in the air. ‘Italian brothers! Even if they are younger than me, they treat me like a child.’ Beatrice cast a dark glance at Daniele then leaned closer, dropping her voice. ‘They think if a woman isn’t married and doesn’t yet have children of her own, they can tell her what to do. But if I try to find myself a man, they think no one is good enough. It drives me pazzo! You have it easier, I think?’
I cast a glance across the table towards Tommaso. At the ripe old age of thirty-five I was only just discovering what it was like to have a big brother hovering protectively. Beatrice had all my sympathy. I leaned closer too. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret: it’s even more difficult to find a man in London, because there aren’t any decent, single, straight men left. I’ve seen more attractive men in the two days I’ve been here than in the entire last year in London.’
My thoughts flashed to Luca, and heat spread through me. Fortunately, Beatrice didn’t seem to find it odd that I had a sudden need to fan myself.
‘I spent a few years in London when I was in my early twenties.’ Beatrice looked down at the bread she was picking apart with her fingers. ‘I remember some very attractive men.’ Her blush was unmistakable. Interesting. But before I could probe, she asked, ‘your mother – she never re-married?’
I filled my mouth with the pimento-stuffed olives from the bowl between us, so I wouldn’t have to answer. Didn’t they know that Geraldine and John had never married? How did I explain to someone so clearly rooted in her big, solid family and traditional heritage, that I was born out of wedlock? Or that my mother had spent her entire adult life flitting from man to man almost as frequently as she’d flitted from place to place? Somehow, I didn’t think that would go down well in the present company.
Thank heavens Beatrice was called back to the kitchen, saving me from answering. Instead, a cousin slid into her place. But my relief was short-lived. The cousin subjected me to another round of grilling about my mother, my job, my life in London – and my single status.
The antipasti was followed by a hearty bean and vegetable soup, the ribollita, and then a dish of pappardelle pasta, a broad, flat pasta, in a simple but flavourful sauce of tomato and garlic. With each course, and in the long spaces between, the seating arrangements shifted with the fluidity of flowing water. Only I kept my place through this game of musical chairs, as a succession of cousins and aunts and uncles moved to sit beside me and engage me in conversation, in their careful, heavily-accented English.
Eventually, my initial discomfort at the repeated questions faded as I realised there was no judgement in the questions, simply an interest in getting to know me, and my mother, who they all seemed to regard as John’s estranged wife, rather than the young tourist he knocked up. Had John been the one to spread that illusion, or was it just an assumption by a family that couldn’t conceive of anything else?
The only person who didn’t try to talk to me was Tommaso. He as good as ignored me as he moved about the table, chatting to different members of the family in voluble Italian. He seemed very much at home with the family, more ‘Italian’ than I ever remembered him being, though of course he’d spoken the language fluently as a child. He seemed lighter and more relaxed too. Maybe it was just me who brought out the worst in him?
There was more wine with each course. ‘I don’t suppose there’s ever an Italian meal without wine?’ I joked with Daniele, as he moved to top up my glass once more.
He placed a friendly hand on my shoulder as he leaned over to reach my glass. ‘Of course not! We have a saying here: una cena senza vino è come un giorno senza sole. A meal without wine is like a day without sunshine. And we don’t get too many days without sunshine.’
As abstemious as I tried to be, sipping carefully, the wine had its effect. A relaxed laziness flowed through my veins, dulling the edges of my awkwardness. The family might be loud and intimidating, but they were also friendly and welcoming. There’d been a time long ago I’d dreamed of being part of a big family like this, of having brothers and sisters, and parents close by who would get ‘all up in my business’. But that was a long time ago, and I’d outgrown it.
We lingered over each course, an unhurried meal accompanied by a steady flow of wine and lively banter, taking time to savour the food. In the periphery, I was aware of other diners coming and going on the terrace, and the wait staff moving to attend to them. Mostly tourists travelling from vineyard to vineyard, I guessed, but also a few locals who stopped by to greet Alberto or stay for a glass of wine before moving on.
The pièce-de-résistance of the meal was cutlets of fried wild hare, seasoned with fennel.
‘I can’t possibly eat any more!’ I protested, as Alberto’s wife Franca ladled yet more food onto my plate, but Franca only shook her head and tutted. ‘If you don’t eat enough, we are very poor hosts.’
By the time the meal was done, Tommaso had made his way back to the seat beside me, though he immediately – and rudely – launched into a conversation in Italian with Alberto who sat on his other side.
With the meal served, Beatrice also returned, sliding into the empty space to my left, forcing me to edge up against