Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!. Romy Sommer
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through me. It’s just the summer heat, and the unaccustomed crowd. Nothing more.
‘That was a wonderful meal,’ I thanked Beatrice. ‘I’ve never tasted such amazing flavours. I’d love to know your secret.’
‘The trick is to use only fresh, local ingredients. I never shop at the supermarket, and we don’t use processed foods. If I can’t get it fresh from our own farm, or from the local markets, then I don’t cook with it.’
‘I remember a market Nonna used to take us to…’
‘That would be the market in Montalcino. Market day is Friday, so you just missed it, but there’s also a market in Torrenieri on Tuesdays.’ Beatrice waved her arm, proudly taking in the land stretched around them. ‘Here, we make our own olive oil, my mother makes all the preserves, and we make cheeses with milk from our own goats and cows. We even make our own honey. If you ever need milk or butter or cream or eggs, you come to us, okay?’
‘Thank you. It would be wonderful to bake with farm-fresh ingredients.’
‘Of course, I remember now – your father told us you were a baker.’
Odd that he’d remembered that. I shook my head. ‘Not really. I baked for fun, but that was ages ago.’ When last had I done anything for fun? But work was fun, right? ‘There’s something so satisfying about making desserts and pastries, the joy they bring to people. It’s like Christmas every day.’
Beatrice laughed. ‘While I have grown up on a wheat farm, and this ciabatta is the only kind of bread I can make. And I know it’s not even that good.’
‘As long as you serve food like this, you hardly need anything else.’
When Beatrice turned to answer a comment from her grandfather, who sat on her other side, I looked down the long table, at the smiles, the laughter, the easy comfort the family shared with one another. The feeling it gave me, all warm and fuzzy, was an alien sensation. I’d never experienced anything like it before, even visiting Cleo’s family. It was rather nice.
Behind me, Tommaso and Alberto were engrossed in an increasingly heated discussion. I was about to give up even trying to understand the conversation, when my attention was snagged by the name Fioravanti.
My nice warm bubble burst. Could Tommaso have the audacity to sit right beside me and discuss our legal issues with someone else, in a language I was so rusty in that I couldn’t follow?
‘Are you talking about Luca?’ I asked, leaning forward to butt into their conversation.
Tommaso scowled at the intrusion, but Alberto shook his head. ‘His father. His is the farm next to yours. He has released a new blend.’
All this heated conversation was about a wine? I turned away, but the warm-and-fuzzies had been replaced by a niggling feeling. Luca hadn’t mentioned we were neighbours. I frowned. Perhaps it wasn’t important to him.
The sun began to dip across the western hills when wooden boards of cheeses and more of the plain, store-bought sliced bread were carried out, and Franca brought out my orange-flavoured schiacciata cake. I’d decorated the cake with a thin spread of lemon curd and a dusting of icing sugar, and it glistened temptingly. Slices were handed around on plain white plates, with generous dollops of fresh farm cream. There was only just enough for everyone to have a small piece, and for a moment the noise levels around the table dipped as they all tucked in. Just like I’d told Beatrice: it was that Christmas feeling.
‘Aah,’ Alberto sighed, his voice a satisfied rumble. He turned to Tommaso. ‘This is just like the cake your Nonna used to bake.’
‘She’s the one who taught me to make it,’ I said.
Tommaso shifted to look at me, as if he’d forgotten I was there, and the pressure of his leg suddenly disappeared. Not that the absence of his touch brought any relief, because now I found myself pinned by his grey, inscrutable gaze. Feeling oddly flustered, I was grateful when Beatrice pushed her empty plate aside and touched my arm to catch my attention. ‘This is so good! How did you get the texture so light and moist at the same time? I tried making this cake once, and it didn’t rise. It was solid as cement.’
I smiled. ‘After the meal you’ve just served, that’s the highest compliment I could receive.’
‘Food yes, pastries no.’ Beatrice shrugged. ‘Other than bread, baking isn’t a big thing in Tuscany. Here, cheese and fruit are all we need for dessert, but the tourists, they want more. We have reviews on TripAdvisor complaining about our lack of desserts.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘But my cousin Matteo is the cook, and he’s so good at everything else I could never replace him – even for a cook who can make pastries.’
‘You could hire a pastry chef.’
‘That would mean a full-time salary I can’t afford.’
‘And there isn’t someone in the neighbourhood who bakes that you could buy from? Surely that would still count as being locally sourced?’
Beatrice’s eyes glittered. ‘There is now! Would you consider it?’
‘Me?’ Though my first impulse was to say no, I paused. There’d been a time when baking had been a joy, almost a therapy, but it would be a challenge. I hadn’t really baked in so long. My mouth kicked up at the corners. I did love a challenge.
‘Please?’ Beatrice begged, her eyes big and round and pleading. ‘Everyone I know who can bake even halfway decently already has their own commitments. I would really appreciate it!’
My heart picked up its pace, not in that anxious way that had grown so familiar I hardly noticed it anymore, but with a thrill of excitement. The thrill I used to feel when I delivered on a really big deal at work. ‘What sort of quantities would you need, and what type of desserts?’
Beatrice shrugged. ‘Whatever you want, and however much you can provide. For us, anything will be better than nothing, and our menu changes every day, depending on what is in season, so you can make whatever you like.’
I really shouldn’t say yes. I was supposed to be resting, and Cleo would have a fit if she found out I’d taken a job, even a job baking. But what Cleo didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt her… ‘Okay, but on three conditions.’
Beatrice waited for me to continue, her dark eyes alight.
‘First, I want to use my own kitchen.’ That way I could still oversee house renovations and keep up a semblance of being on holiday.
Beatrice nodded.
‘Second, I don’t have a car, so you’ll need to send someone to collect from me each day.’
She nodded again.
‘And third, it’ll only be for the summer. I have a job in London I must get back to at the end of September.’
‘You have a deal!’
We shook hands on it, and I laughed, Beatrice’s delight infusing me with sudden warmth. As we lingered over the cheese board and frothy cups of cappuccino, we chatted about breads and cakes and quantities, and I’d never been happier – and it wasn’t entirely the effect of the mellowing wine.
This enforced holiday no longer seemed as bleak and terrifying as it had a couple of days ago. Now I wouldn’t have to sit idly and count down the days of my exile. All I needed was a stove that didn’t have it in for me.
L’uomo giusto arriva al momento giusto
(The right man comes at the right time)
The next morning I was in the pantry, purging the shelves of expired tinned foods, spider webs and grime,