Wedding Bells at Villa Limoncello

by Daisy James

  ‘Buongiorno, Tino,’ smiled Izzie, giving the little dog a rub between the ears before taking a seat next to Carlotta beneath the fragrant white honeysuckle of the pergola. ‘He’s so cute. I’d love to have a dog, but pets aren’t allowed in the building I live in in London.’

  ‘How very unkind of the owners,’ pronounced Carlotta, her expression filled with real sadness for Izzie’s predicament. ‘I firmly believe that animals enhance our lives and improve our emotional well-being. Unlike some humans, their love is always given unconditionally – and it is good to know we are loved, don’t you think?’

  Once again, Izzie experienced the unsettling sensation that her very soul was being scoured. Discomfort prickled at her forearms, so she did what she always did whenever someone challenged her on the issues of love, life and loss – she reverted to the safety and predictability of her lists. She opened her purple folder and removed the sheet headed ‘Monday’, but not before she had seen Carlotta flash her a glance filled with curiosity.

  ‘So, it seems the staging for the ceremony is straightforward, thank goodness…’

  ‘The reason the wedding is being held at Villa dei Limoni is because of that!’ Carlotta cast her hand at the hills in the distance, their flanks swathed in striped green velvet, their peeks crowned by medieval villages. ‘There’s nothing you or I can do here that could possibly enhance the spectacular panorama; no amount of white voile floating on the breeze, or ivory gardenias climbing around those Romanesque columns, or garlands of fairy lights entwined around the trees will divert the onlooker’s attention from the wonderfulness of our Tuscan landscape.’

  ‘You’re right, Carlotta, it is absolutely amazing, and it makes my job so much easier, too. I confess to being a little out of my comfort zone here. I’m actually an interior designer by profession, so staging an al fresco wedding is outside my realm of expertise, but as long as we stick to the lists I’ve made, I’m sure everything will be okay. Do you know if anyone has considered the health-and-safety aspects of the venue? Should I conduct a proper survey of the gardens for tripping hazards like that loose step over there, not to mention those stray electrical wires I noticed hanging from the lampposts at the entrance – what if someone gets electrocuted, or garrotted? And, what about toilets? Will people be needing access to the bathroom in the villa?’

  Izzie looked up from the list she had been scrutinising, her pen poised to tick off the next item when Carlotta confirmed it was in hand. But instead, Carlotta tossed her hand in the air and up-ended her lips in irritation.

  ‘Pphh, the health and safety! This villa has been hosting weddings, christenings, fiestas, every kind of wonderful celebration for over two hundred years. And I’ve never heard of anyone being garrotted! Isabella, this is Tuscany – we do things differently here. All these niggles you refer to add character to the very essence of our lives; life is not a carefully constructed set of lists to be rigidly adhered to. It’s a random set of events, some pleasurable, some tragic, all of which we must embrace as part of our journey. Relax. Things don’t have to be perfect! They have to be beautiful!’

  ‘Yes, that’s true…’

  A hard kernel of anxiety settled in Izzie’s stomach. She respected Carlotta’s viewpoint, but the only way she could deliver Brad’s vision within the very short timescale was to adhere to the itinerary and the lists that she had prepared. It was the way she had worked for the last two years whilst at Hamilton Homes and it was how she had kept a rein on her emotions.

  Control meant coping.

  She couldn’t embrace the laid-back approach to anything because it meant giving up control – and if she did that her whole, carefully-constructed world would fall apart. So, whether it be one of Darren’s minimalist interior design projects, Jonti’s thirtieth birthday celebrations, or a film shoot of an Italian wedding, she intended to deliver exactly what she had been asked to deliver, just like a professional events planner would. Hadn’t she promised Meghan – and Rachel – that that was what she would do?

  She made a mental note to delegate the cooking side of things to Carlotta and to handle everything else herself – including overseeing the safety issues. She glanced back to the sheet of paper in front of her to see that the next item on the agenda was setting out the chairs in front of the gazebo, a task which had a whole paragraph of instructions detailing their precise positioning, including how many centimetres should be between each chair. Whoever had drawn up these instructions was a person after her own heart, she thought with a wry smile, before checking her watch. Where was the delivery van with the furniture?

  ‘So, according to the brief,’ Izzie tapped her clipboard with the end of her pen, ‘the chairs, along with the glassware, the crockery, the cutlery, and all the linen should have been delivered this morning at eight a.m. which makes it… almost two hours late. Do you know anything about the suppliers?’

  ‘Ah, yes, I saw the van parked outside Antonio’s Trattoria on my way over here. It should be with us sometime today.’

  ‘Oh, right, erm…’

  It was no good. Her control demons surged out of their cave and all the techniques in her armoury to manufacture nonchalance couldn’t quash her need to ensure things ran according to schedule. She couldn’t just sit there, drinking coffee, waiting for the delivery driver to turn up when it suited him. It was like an itch in her chest that she couldn’t scratch. Anyway, if they had any hope of meeting the deadline of Friday morning, every hour was precious. If she had the chairs, she could make a start on attaching the white satin rosettes Brad had asked for, and if she had the muslin she could design the flounces to wrap around the columns on the gazebo.

  ‘Well, I think I’ll just pop over to Antonio’s to see what’s holding him up.’

  Carlotta shook her head, the sides of her elegant silver bob swishing at her cheeks, but Izzie took no notice. If there was one thing that irked her it was lateness. In her view, people who turned up to appointments late had no respect for other people’s time. She grabbed her duffle bag, slung it over her shoulder and trotted to the front of the villa where she’d left the 2CV, her anxiety melting with every step of purposeful endeavour. She plonked down in the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key, and her ears were met with a short splutter followed by silence. She tried again but the car refused to budge from its comfortable retreat in the shade of a magnolia tree.

  She slammed her hand on the steering wheel in frustration, and, refusing to be diverted from her mission, she jumped out of the car, only just managing to rein in the urge to give it a sharp kick, à la John Cleese. Spotting Carlotta’s bicycle, complete with wicker shopping basket, she decided to ask if she could borrow it, but had taken only a few steps back towards the kitchen when she caught sight of a wheel protruding from the open door of an outhouse next to the limonaia and curiosity forced her to investigate.

  To her complete surprise, nestled amongst the rusty detritus of ancient garden implements, half-used paint tins and what looked like a medieval poisoner’s idea of apothecarial heaven, was a shiny, sugar-pink Vespa! In a moment of complete madness, she seized the handle bars and wheeled the iconic machine from its lair. She was surprised to see that it was brand new – unlike every other item at Villa Limoncello – its silver chrome glinting in the early morning sun.

  Who did it belong to? Not the villa’s owner, that was for sure! It was more the sort of thing Barbie would use on a weekend jaunt to visit her unicorn!

  Out of interest she twisted the key and the engine thrummed into life immediately. Could she? She kicked her leg over the seat, plonked her bag at her feet, and wobbled down the driveway towards the main road, her confidence edging up a notch with every yard she added to the milometer. A sense of complete liberation tumbled through her body as every twist in the serpentine road revealed yet another field of sunflowers, their smiling faces bobbing like a crowd at a pop concert; every turn another crumbling Tuscan farmhouse with its green shutters sealed to ward off the ferocity of the
midday sun.

  As she got the hang of the controls, she increased her speed and a whoosh of exhilaration rushed through her chest when the oncoming breeze flicked her unruly curls high into the air like a mermaid on steroids. She was surprised to find she was actually humming a tune! She inhaled a deep satisfying breath, revelling in the intoxicating fragrances that tickled at her nostrils. Maybe Carlotta was right. Maybe if she could just relax, free herself from the self-imposed obsession with ever-expanding lists, perhaps her ferocious need to oversee every detail that bubbled constantly beneath the surface would diminish. But that meant she would have to use the extra time and space that gave her to face up to her demons, and no amount of fresh air and pretty countryside could persuade her to do that.

  She was just about to navigate a particularly vicious bend when the sudden blast of a car horn sent her senses scrambling and a scarlet Alfa Romeo Spider Convertible shot past her, music blaring, engine revving, as it swung into her path with inches to spare before accelerating towards the red-roofed village of San Vivaldo on the brow of the hill.

  ‘Moron!’ she screamed.

  She let go of the handlebars to shake her fist at the driver only to lose control, exit the road to her right through a gap in the hedge, and end up on her bottom in a field of potatoes under the watchful gaze of a bemused donkey who stared at her with nonchalant disgust for interrupting his lunch. Her heart flayed at her ribcage as she waited for her fear to subside. When she caught her breath, she inspected her grazed elbow, picked a few blades of dried grass from her hair, and pushed herself shakily back to her feet, patting the dust from her black skinny jeans that were now scuffed at the knees.

  Oh God, how could she expect the tardy delivery driver to take her seriously when she looked like Worzel Gummidge’s sister!

  Chapter Five

  Antonio’s Trattoria, San Vivaldo

  Colour: Chocolate Brown

  After the incident with the Alfa Romeo the remainder of the journey to San Vivaldo was incident-free. She even had cause to send up a missive of gratitude to her mischievous guardian angel because her switch in transport from four wheels to two meant she was able to navigate the narrow streets and cobbled alleyways with ease and not spend hours searching for an elusive parking space.

  The town was exactly as Izzie had imagined it would be, with its slanted terracotta roofs, honeyed façades, and ubiquitous green shutters. Shadowy archways led to sunny courtyards resplendent with hand-painted ceramic pots filled to bursting with scarlet, crimson and pink blooms, and every nook and crevice oozed a fairy-tale aura, promising stories of mediaeval feuds, battling dragons and fallen dynasties.

  She made her way towards the central piazza where a myriad of shops, bars and cafés catered to a visitor’s every need, all under the watchful benevolence of the church’s bell tower. Her gaze was drawn immediately to Pasticceria Da Oriana, its window a riot of colourful sugary treats all lined up with military precision. Now that she was here, she wondered whether Oriana would mind bringing forward their appointment to discuss the wedding cake. However, she had only travelled a few yards when her eye caught on a large white van parked at an incongruous angle next to a raised wooden veranda, and when she investigated further, a hand-painted sign confirmed she’d found Antonio’s Trattoria.

  She briefly wondered what the delivery driver had been thinking. Okay, stop for a quick coffee, she didn’t begrudge him that, but for three hours?

  She parked the Vespa, removed her helmet, and ran her fingers through her hair hoping that she didn’t look like she’d just suffered an electric shock. Moments later, she felt a splat land on her head. She glanced upwards, expecting to see a bank of bruised clouds to add to the catalogue of exasperating incidents that had befallen her so far that day, but only a wisp of cloud floated across the wide expanse of cerulean blue. Then her gaze fell on the self-satisfied pigeon and her stomach lurched when she realised what had happened

  ‘Ergh!’ she groaned, searching in her bag for a tissue whilst trying not to retch.

  Having done what she could to make herself presentable, she squeezed past the van, rounded the veranda and came face-to-face with the scarlet Alfa Romeo that had run her off the road earlier. She quickened her step, her mood heightened after the pigeon fiasco, intent not only on giving the delivery driver a lecture on the importance of sticking to a schedule, but also the racing driver a piece of her mind on road safety.

  She could have been killed! What if that donkey – who in all fairness could have challenged Eeyore for first place on the melancholy monitor – had been an angry stallion who had taken umbrage at the disturbance of his mid-morning snack?

  She squared her shoulders, but the surge of righteous indignation seeped from her bones when she saw that the restaurant was completely deserted, not to mention the fact that she didn’t possess the language skills to politely berate the two drivers in Italian. Instead, she plonked herself down in one of the cushioned chairs and decided to order a cappuccino to calm her nerves. What would stressing achieve?

  After several minutes of waiting, she realised that no one was anxious to take her order. She pushed herself up from her seat, intending to go off in search of a waiter when she noticed the door that led through to the kitchen was slightly ajar, giving her an uninterrupted view of a tall, dark-haired man, decked out in pristine chef’s whites, busily preparing the ingredients for that day’s menu. She watched him finish chopping a plump, ripe mango before selecting a lemon, raise it to his nose and inhale, his eyes closing slightly as he did so.

  A surprise ripple of attraction raced through Izzie’s veins and she dropped slowly back into her chair, mesmerised by the way his large hands caressed the fruit, as if thanking it for its bounty, before placing it on the chopping board and slicing it at speed. She couldn’t drag her eyes away, fascinated at the choreographed performance of food preparation, yet it wasn’t a rehearsed routine, more a freestyle culinary ballet. Izzie could feel her taste buds tingle as he scooped up the lemon slices and set them to one side.

  Next, the chef took a large silver bowl, poured in a generous slug of fresh cream and began whisking, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his white jacket as he focused completely on the task in hand. When he paused to dip his finger into the whipped cream, placing its tip in his mouth, then running his tongue along his lower lip to catch any lingering remnants, Izzie gulped as a hot frisson of desire scorched through her body.

  What was going on?

  She felt like she was the only audience member at a very intimate show, one that had been put on for her sole enjoyment, with Antonio Banderas’s younger brother playing the lead role in her personal culinary performance. She almost drooled when he scraped every last molecule of the cream into a pastry case he’d prepared earlier and sprinkled the top with a handful of flaked almonds.

  Wow, desserts weren’t usually her thing, but she could happily dig into a slice of that pie!

  From her vantage point, she feasted her eyes on his profile; how his mahogany hair curled over the back of his collar, his strong muscular forearms rippled with dark hairs, the way he dragged his palm across the stubble on his jawline as he contemplated which task deserved his attention next. Suddenly, a crystal-clear image of those same hands running the length of her glistening body, his long fingers slotted through her hair at the back of her neck as he pulled her lips towards his, appeared in her mind and she let out an involuntary gasp.

  Had he heard her exclamation, or perhaps he’d sensed her scrutiny?

  In any event, he looked up from the ball of pizza dough he had started to knead and met her eyes. Her cheeks flooded with heat when she saw his mouth curl into a knowing smirk. He wiped his hands, those wonderfully expressive hands, on a tea towel, flicked it over his shoulder, and sauntered out to the veranda.

  Oh God, she groaned inwardly, why did she have to look like she’d been dragged behind one of those tractors she’d seen ploughing the fields? Why couldn’t she be relaxin
g at the café’s table looking effortlessly glamorous – admittedly something she had always struggled with due to her wayward profusion of copper curls. A nip of astonishment snapped at her chest – it had been a long while since she’d worried about her appearance when approached by a man. However, before she could analyse that revelation further she met a pair of the softest brown eyes she had come across.

  ‘Cosa le posso portare?’

  ‘Oh, I’m… yes, please, I’d like… could I have a coffee?’

  Her words came out like a garbled mess and her cheeks coloured again. Thankfully, the chef thought it was because she didn’t speak Italian and switched to fluent English.

  ‘Sorry, have you been waiting long? I didn’t see you arrive. What can I get you?’

  The cadence of his voice, the sexily accented English, the way he held her eyes as he smiled, the scent of his citrusy cologne, his unsettling proximity, all melded together to send spasms of heat from her chest southwards like red hot pokers. Oh, for God’s sake, get a grip, Isabella! She was reacting like a love-struck schoolgirl – but then she had never been faced with such masculine magnificence.

  ‘Can I get you some breakfast?’

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I don’t usually eat breakfast. Actually, I’m just here to…’

  ‘You don’t eat breakfast?’

  To her surprise, the chef pulled up a chair and sat down next to her, shaking his head, tutting at her answer as though she was the craziest person he’d ever met.

  ‘You do know that breakfast is the best meal of the day, don’t you? Well, after lunch, and dinner, of course. Oh, and maybe the midnight snack… and let’s not forget brunch!’ He laughed, the cute dimples appearing at the corners of his lips doing nothing to dampen Izzie’s interest. ‘In fact, in my humble opinion, every meal is important and should be treated with the respect it deserves.’