Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!. Romy Sommer
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the old stable block back in the Fifties and was where the housekeeper Elisa had lived.
‘Okay. So what are you doing here in the kitchen?’
‘I saw the light on and came over to say hello. I thought you might want dinner.’ He waved, and I turned to look behind me at the tray he must have set down on top of the old wood stove before coming to find me in the pantry. Only now did I become aware of the aromatic smell filling the kitchen. My stomach pulled tight, and not just from hunger.
He’d been nothing more than neighbourly, and I’d bashed him over the head with the nearest weapon I could find. Not a great way to open negotiations.
I forced a polite smile I didn’t feel. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
His eyes narrowed. An uncomfortable silence filled the room but I refused to show any weakness to this intimidating man, so I ignored it and returned his hard gaze.
There was something oddly familiar about his light eyes, blue-grey, with an emphasis on the grey.
Then realisation struck. ‘Tommy?!’
The discovery that this tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man was my old childhood friend rocked me even more than the fear that a complete stranger was breaking into the castello. ‘You were my father’s business partner?’
His eyes narrowed further. I didn’t even think that was possible. ‘No one’s called me that since my mother died. You didn’t know?’
The mental adjustment took me a long moment. I couldn’t help myself – I stared openly at him now. If I looked hard enough, past the long hair and scraggly beard, I could just about see a glimmer of Elisa’s grandson, the boy I used to play with when he’d come to visit during those never-ending summers so long ago.
I only ever knew him as Tommy, the English-speaking kid from Edinburgh, not as Tommaso, but of course he was half-Italian from his father’s side. His accent, always a convoluted mash-up of Scottish and Italian, certainly leaned more heavily now toward his Italian side. How long had he been living here?
‘I’m sorry about your mother. And Nonna.’
He shrugged, a simple gesture that managed to convey a great deal, a uniquely Italian ability. I’ve never met an English person able to say so much with nothing but body language.
‘My grandmother was old, and it wasn’t unexpected, but my mother … it was nearly nine years ago now. She had cancer, and in the end her death was a mercy.’
I’d never met his parents, but still felt a pang for his loss. Like me, Tommy was sent to Italy alone as a child. In my case, Geraldine had been eager to get rid of me, but for Tommy it had been out of necessity. His parents had both worked, and they hadn’t had time to entertain an energetic youth all summer. And his grandmother had been delighted to have him. He’d been wanted.
His visits to his Nonna Elisa had been the highlight of my summers. Even at the age when most boys would have been horrified to have a younger girl tagging along wherever they went, we’d been friends. We’d explored this big house together, run wild on the farm, gone fishing and truffle hunting and blackberry picking together. And then there’d been that last summer…
Involuntarily, my gaze dropped to his mouth. Tommy always had the most sensuous mouth for a boy, with full lips that tasted of … I blushed, and averted my gaze, but not before he noticed.
His eyes narrowed again as he studied me. ‘Your hair has grown since I last saw you.’
‘Well, it has been twenty years.’ I touched the end of my long braid. I’d been growing it out for years, mostly because I hadn’t had time for anything but hurried trims.
‘Nearly twenty. I like your hair long.’
‘Well, I liked your hair shorter.’
The amused gleam in his eyes was very much the young man I remembered from that last summer. Always full of mischief, needling me, pushing my boundaries.
‘The last I heard, you were still living in Edinburgh,’ I said to fill the sudden, awkward silence.
‘That was a long time ago. I moved here soon after my mother died. Nonna was getting old, and I didn’t want her to be alone.’
Nearly nine years. ‘My father never told me.’ I bit my lip, a habit I thought I’d grown out of. There were so many things John and I never discussed, and now we never would.
‘We have a meeting tomorrow with Luca at ten.’ Tommaso lifted the teapot, offering to re-fill my cup, but I shook my head. ‘We’ll drive together. We should leave at about nine-thirty.’
I nodded, though the thought of spending even half an hour in a car with this man I once knew so well, who was now a stranger, only made me more anxious. I rose to clear away the teapot and cups. ‘In that case, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.’ A shattering day. Half an hour ago, I’d dreaded being alone, now I craved it.
Tommaso rose. ‘You can leave the iron when you go to bed. This is a very safe district. You can sleep peacefully.’ The wicked glint was back in his eyes.
‘Thank you for the food,’ I said, as he stepped out into the back yard. He merely nodded. I didn’t wait to watch him cross the yard to the cottage. I shut the door, flicked the latch, and heaved a sigh. Then, grabbing the tray, I bolted back upstairs, not pausing to see what was under the cloth covering, not even pausing to catch my breath, until I was safely in my room with the door shut and my wheelie case pushed up under the door handle, creating a barrier between me and the rest of the empty, echoing house.
Non tutto il male vien per nuocere
(Not everything bad that happens is wasted)
I slept in later than I had in … well, at least since my uni days.
I’d been wary the night before of closing the curtains, in case they released another tornado of dust, but even with bright light creeping into the room, I only woke when it reached the bed. I must have been more exhausted than I realised. Not that I’d admit it. I didn’t want to give Cleo the chance to say, ‘I told you so’.
Broad daylight only marginally brightened the house’s gloom as I tramped downstairs to the kitchen. In daylight, the pantry appeared bigger – and barer. There were indeed biscuits, a packet of factory-made shortbread biscuits, but no bread or cereal or anything else remotely breakfasty. And only instant coffee. I groaned. I didn’t fancy facing Tommaso again on an empty stomach.
Though to give the devil his due, that beef stew he’d brought over last night had been really good. As good as Nonna’s stews used to be.
Once I’d fortified myself with coffee and biscuits, the next thing on my agenda was to phone home. Sure, it was Saturday morning so Cleo wouldn’t have anything new to tell me about work, but I needed to hear her ever-optimistic voice telling me things weren’t as bad as they seemed.
But the mobile signal was so weak I couldn’t dial out. I wandered from room to room, waving my phone in the air. Nothing. Not even on the terrace or in the deserted back yard, or along the drive, though I walked all the way to the gate. Shit. As I reached the wrought iron gates a small canary-yellow Fiat, brimming over with young men, sped past. The whistles trailing behind the little car made me suddenly and excruciatingly aware that I was still dressed in nothing more than sleep shorts and a camisole top.
So I trudged back up the drive, hesitating for a long moment at the door of Tommaso’s cottage, which nestled into the slope behind the castello. Thankfully, the place appeared empty, and when I knocked, almost afraid he would answer, there was no response.
John