Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!. Romy Sommer
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or John was going to make me soft and sentimental so I’d cut him a good deal, then he clearly didn’t know me. I was practical and efficient, and never let sentiment get in the way of the numbers. ‘Thanks for the invitation, but I have a busy day planned.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He slammed the kitchen door as he left, and the shutter outside the kitchen window fell to the ground with a heavy clunk.
I rolled my eyes heavenwards. Now what had gotten into him?
I didn’t watch as he strode back to his car. I had bread to make, and bread wasn’t complicated like people. Bread didn’t have a hidden agenda, didn’t have an attitude, and didn’t get grumpy just because a woman didn’t fall for emotional manipulation.
‘So what exciting adventures did you get up to today? I could do with some light entertainment,’ Cleo asked. There’d been a tube strike, it had taken her hours to get home, and she sounded exasperated.
I had to rack my brain for something to say. ‘I checked out my old playmate’s butt, and he’s actually kind of hot’ didn’t sound appropriate, much though it would cheer Cleo up.
‘Tommaso cleaned out the chimney, and I unblocked a bathroom drain. It was riveting stuff. Want to hear about it?’
‘God no! Not until I’ve had at least two glasses of wine. Have you heard from that sexy lawyer of yours?’
‘Nothing. Not even a text.’ Though to be fair, since the castello didn’t have signal maybe he had tried. I hoped. And then hated myself for hoping. ‘What’s been happening at the office?’
‘This and that.’
Uh-oh. Cleo was hedging. ‘That bad?’
‘I met the guy from the Delta Corporation today. The one I’ll be working with for the next few months.’
‘Please don’t tell me he’s twelve and still has acne.’
‘Worse.’
‘Balding, paunchy and single, and already asked you out on a date?’
‘Nope. He has a full head of hair.’
‘So married or gay then. Oh well, that’s just typical.’
‘No…’ Cleo was definitely hedging now.
‘So…?’ I prompted.
‘He’s the most arrogant, annoying…’ She sucked in a breath, as if she’d said too much.
I bit my lip. ‘I am so, so sorry. It’s my fault you’re in this position and having to work with the man.’
‘Bullshit. It’s not your fault he’s an arse.’
‘What did he do? Try to feel you up in the break room?’
‘Worse. He asked me to make his coffee. As if I’m some twenty-year-old Girl Friday!’
‘And did you?’
‘Well, yes, but that’s beside the point. Even if I survive the week working with this man, I think I might need to join you on “garden leave”.’
‘Great idea. You can help unblock the drains.’
‘On second thoughts, maybe I’ll hang in here a little longer. But if I get arrested for murdering him, would you put up bail for me?’
‘Of course. And I promise I’ll find you a very sexy lawyer.’
At last Cleo laughed. Job done.
Chi ha la sua casa, poco gli manca
(He who owns his own house, lacks for nothing)
I was up early the next morning, though not as early as Tommaso. His car was already gone from the yard when I wandered into the kitchen and switched on the kettle for tea.
The driver who’d collected the bread loaves and desserts yesterday had brought a box of goodies from Beatrice, including a glass bottle of milk with a layer of cream floating on top. I surveyed the ingredients I’d spread across the kitchen table, feeling like a contestant in a cooking show. A jar of raspberry jam with the Rossi farm logo, which would take care of the ‘locally sourced’ requirement, almonds, creamed cheese, and precious, blessed yeast…
I heaved out a breath. Baking in a big old kitchen a half hour drive from the nearest store required a whole lot more creativity than baking in my high-tech kitchen in Wanstead with a Tesco’s in walking distance.
What could I make with what I had?
Et voilà! Okay, wrong language, but right sentiment – I would make mini raspberry bakewell tarts, with a sweetened cream cheese filling. Mary Berry, eat your heart out!
With a smile worthy of any on-air contestant about to annihilate the competition, I washed my hands, and set about creating the tart dough, sifting flour, sugar and salt together, digging my fingers in to rub in the butter until the mix formed a pastry of fine crumbs. Then I added eggs and milk to create a firm but soft dough, careful to ensure the dough became neither too warm nor too sticky. Wrapping the dough in cling film, I set it aside in the pantry to chill, and took a fresh cup of tea and a plate of toast out to the terrace.
The sun had risen to its zenith, filling the valley with warm, bright light. The trellis that covered the paved terrace sagged beneath the weight of a massive wisteria, its vivid purple blossoms turning towards the sun. It was the largest wisteria I’d ever seen, easily triple the size it had been when I was last here.
I sat on the wooden bench, which was set at the optimum angle to take in the view, and propped my feet up on the sun-warmed balustrade, breathing in the fresh air. A tractor hummed in the distance, birds sang, and cicadas buzzed loudly in the still, heavy air.
For the first time since I’d woken, I thought of the office, wondering how Cleo was coping with The Arse. It was probably raining in London. I lifted my face to the sun. A little sunshine could fix almost anything. Maybe Cleo should come out for a few days before the summer was over.
I breathed in deeply, tasted the rosemary, lavender, and dark earth.
How long had it been since I’d done nothing but sit idly in a patch of sun? When last had a day stretched out before me, with no To Do list, a day where I didn’t have to be responsible to anyone? Not since I was a teen, for sure. Maybe I really did need this holiday.
My eyes fluttered closed, and I let out a long sigh. The sun’s glare battered against my eyelids.
The distant tractor sound choked and cut off, and I frowned at the rude interruption of my reverie, reminding me this wasn’t a holiday, and that I was still here, in a decrepit castello in need of some serious TLC. But at least I had dough rising in the kitchen. As long as there is dough, there is hope, Nonna used to say.
Back in the warm kitchen, the dough had risen faster than it would have in the cooler English climate. I rolled it out, lined Nonna’s sturdy muffin pan with it, then added baking paper and baking beans, before setting the pan in the oven to bake.
While the pastry cases baked, I whisked up the creamed cheese, adding butter and caster sugar, and beat the mix until it was light and fluffy. Then I added yet more eggs (I’d need to buy a whole lot more of those soon), ground the almonds and folded them into the mix, and finally added a touch of lemon zest – also locally sourced, right off the lemon tree in the back yard. I’d never baked with ingredients I’d actually picked myself before.
The kitchen filled with the warm, satisfying aroma of baking pastry, and I hummed as I worked. When the pastry cases were done, I removed the beans and paper from the tart pans, spread a thick layer of raspberry jam