by Daisy James
‘Thanks for your help today, Gianni. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. You are an absolute star. See you tomorrow.’
‘Prego, Izzie. Ciao!’
Chapter Eight
Trattoria Antonio, San Vivaldo
Colour: Blush Pink
From her vantage point on the terrace, Izzie watched Gianni mount his quad bike and trundle away through his beloved vines, the hum of the engine blending seamlessly into the cadence of the evening’s music. As darkness enveloped the valley, she returned to the kitchen to grab another coffee and make a start on unpacking the myriad cardboard boxes. She wanted to submerge every plate, dish, cup and wine glass in a bowl of soapy water and polish the cutlery until it sparkled.
She discovered a pair of ancient yellow Marigolds in a bucket next to the back door and an hour later perspiration was bubbling at her temples, her shoulder blades were screaming their objection to the unexpected exertion, and she was desperately in need of a shower. She hung the rubber gloves on the swan-necked tap, folded the tea towel into neat quarters, and padded out of the kitchen, relishing the feel of the cool terracotta tiles beneath her feet.
As she climbed the threadbare stairs, steeling herself to brave the psychedelic effect of her bedroom’s quaint decor, she wondered why no one was living in villa at the moment. Who was the owner and where were they? Okay, so the place was a little frayed around the edges, its cornices draped with cobwebs, its furniture and appliances throwbacks from the nineteen sixties, but a glimpse beneath the surface told you that Villa Limoncello had soul. She knew it was the interior designer in her poking its head above the parapet, but with a little imagination and a gallon of white paint, the place could be amazing. Not Darren Hamilton amazing, but Isabella Jenkins amazing!
She paused at the door to the bathroom, running her professional eye over the paint-blistered window frames, the purple flowered wallpaper peeling from the eaves, the old-fashioned sink complete with pleated fabric skirt in matching lavender. Yet despite all this, the house seemed to envelope her in a warm, comforting hug, letting her know that if she wanted to talk, then it would listen.
But was she ready to relieve herself of the burden she had carried for two years? And was this really the place for her to do it? Tuscany, the place she had hoped to explore with her beloved twin sister by her side, the place they had researched and researched and researched until they knew everything there was to know about its culture, its history, its food, its art, its architecture and museums. Everything!
She wasn’t sure, but one thing she was sure of was that she needed a shower!
She switched on the radio, something she rarely did in London, thinking to herself that any country that could produce music like that was surely a place she wanted to spend more time in. With an upbeat tune spinning through her head, she stepped under a stream of luxurious hot water. Washing away the dirt of the day was pure bliss. She even ran a dollop of coconut oil through her wayward curls to tame them into something manageable – a trick that her Aunt Cath, who had similar tussles with her own hair, had taught her.
She glanced in the mirror and for a fleeting moment she didn’t recognise the face staring back at her. Smooth hair, the colour of a fox’s tail, sparkling eyes, a hint of colour in her cheeks from spending the afternoon in the sun, and a generous smattering of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.
But what really threw her was the fact that the reflection sported a wide smile. Wasn’t it wonderful what a few hours of physical exercise could do for a person more used to curling up on a sofa in front of the TV. She had expected to be exhausted, to crave nothing more than to fall into her bed and sleep for twelve hours straight, just like she had the previous night when she had arrived, but instead, energy zinged through her veins and she knew that if she crawled under her duvet now she wouldn’t sleep.
With a start, she realised that apart from the croissant she had nibbled on to please Carlotta at breakfast, she hadn’t eaten all day and she was starving. She made her way back down the stairs to check the fridge, but apart from several bottles of mineral water it was empty. There was nothing in any of the drawers either, and whilst she didn’t hold out much hope of finding anything in the cupboard under the porcelain sink, she decided to investigate anyway. Maybe that was where the owner had hidden their stash of gin! She opened the door, bent down to peer inside, and recoiled at such speed that she knocked over a chair.
What the…?
Recovering her equilibrium, she squinted into the gloom where a rotund black-and-white cat had made her home amongst the dishcloths and bleach, looking very disgruntled at having her snooze disturbed. She shut the door, her heart rate slowly returning to normal, only to have her stomach growl at her. The London Izzie would have given up and gone to bed, but the Italian Izzie wasn’t having any of it. She needed food and if that meant she had to jump on the Vespa to see if there was somewhere open in the village, then so be it.
She snatched up the keys and zipped off down the driveway, her mouth watering as she dreamed of all the delicious aromas Tuscany was famous for. Mmm, she would start with a simple bruschetta topped with tomatoes, basil and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, move on to a plate of spaghetti aglio e olio, then round it all off with a scoop of saffron gelato, all washed down with a glass of pinot grigio.
This time her journey to San Vivaldo was trouble-free and she pulled up outside a café she had passed earlier that day. However, when she peered through the open door she saw that Café Pani was filled to bursting with elderly men watching a rerun of the previous day’s hotly-contested football game, shaking their fists in the air and shouting at the screen, at the waiters, and at each other.
No grazie!
So, if she didn’t want to go to sleep on an empty stomach, she had no other option than to try Antonio’s Trattoria. Maybe it would be Luca’s night off? But it seemed that once again her guardian angel was missing-in-action because as soon as she stepped onto the veranda she spotted him, looking amazingly attractive in his chef’s jacket. She quickly scanned the restaurant, hoping she could perhaps blend in with a throng of lingering diners, but it was late and, apart from a couple of middle-aged guys sitting on the bar stools staring into their beer glasses as if expecting to stumble across the Holy Grail, the place was empty. Monday night probably wasn’t the busiest night of the week for a village trattoria.
She couldn’t face another spat that day, so, feeling like she was in some kind of Italian farce, she swivelled on her toes and picked her way, slowly, silently, cautiously back to where she’d parked the Vespa.
‘Izzie? Are you… are you actually tiptoeing?’
She hated the light tone of mockery in his voice
‘No, of course not. I was actually hoping to get something to eat, but as it looks like you’re finishing up for the night I’ll just leave you to it and…’
She wished Luca wouldn’t look at her like that, his dark espresso eyes scouring her soul for her deepest darkest secrets whilst at the same time his lips curled with amusement at her crazy antics. He was still wearing the jeans she had seen him in that afternoon and despite her attempt to appear unaffected by the powerful sensuality radiating from his pores, a shiver of desire ran the length of her spine.
‘Please. Stay. You can help me tidy up and afterwards I’ll cook you the best omelette you have ever tasted.’
She wanted to refuse, but her stomach was having none of it and forced her brain to say, ‘That sounds great. Thank you.’ And after a pause she continued, ‘Actually, I also came to apologise for my outburst at the villa earlier. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, with my job and now with the villa and the wedding to sort out. And, well, it’s not your fault the delivery was late, and if you hadn’t stepped into the breach, then who knows when the stuff might have turned up.’
‘No problem. Believe me I understand about the stress of event organising, even more so when you step in at the last minute. Do you think y
ou’ll be able to get everything done in time?’
She had followed Luca into the kitchen, grateful that he had accepted her apology so graciously, and slid into a seat at the huge pine table not dissimilar to the one at Villa Limoncello. It looked like it belonged there, at the centre of the cooking universe, just like in every Tuscan kitchen. Apart from that, the rest of the room couldn’t be more different to the kitchen at the farmhouse. Everywhere she looked there were state-of-the-art stainless-steel appliances, shiny copper saucepans, a variety of unidentifiable silver cooking utensils, and a set of lethal-looking kitchen knives that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a hospital operating theatre. The whole room was immaculate, everything in its allocated place, ready for the next day’s preparations.
‘So, does the woman who hates cooking know how to make an omelette?’
‘Sure, I do.’
‘Have you actually ever made one?’
Oh, God! How did he do that? It was as though he could read her mind. How could he have her sussed after only meeting her that morning?
‘How hard can it be?’ she laughed to disguise her lack of culinary know-how. ‘Whisk a couple of eggs, put them in a pan, and ecco!’
Luca rolled his eyes at her false bravado. He took a step towards her, his lips mere inches from hers, and stretched out his hand. She gasped as a pleasurable squirm began to meander through her abdomen – until she realised he was only reaching for an apron that was dangling from the hook on the door behind her. Warmth flooded her cheeks as he flicked the hoop round her neck and smirked.
‘I see you’ve ditched the scarecrow accessories you were wearing this morning?’
‘Yes, well, if you…’
Again, she experienced a surge of heat-filled emotion. However, this time she managed to rein in her indignation over the reasons for her dishevelment. Hadn’t she snapped at him enough that day?
‘So how many eggs?’
‘Three.’
She watched Luca crack the eggs into a stainless-steel bowl and was surprised when he handed her the whisk.
‘You want me to do this?’
‘Need me to show you how?’
Before she could reply, Luca had positioned himself behind her, drawing her body so close to his that she could feel his breath on her cheek. When he snaked his hands around her waist to guide her hands in a rotary movement, her heartbeat kicked up a gear and she was grateful she had her back to him so he couldn’t see the effect his proximity was having on her. As it was, perspiration was already prickling at her temples and beneath her breasts.
‘Okay, so this is the consistency and colour we’re aiming for, now for the cooking part.’
Oh, God, thought Izzie. The temperature in the room was already climbing!
In one, smooth, well-practiced move, Luca selected the perfect pan, placed it on the burner, added a dash of olive oil and poured in the mixture, gentling easing the eggy edges into the middle with a spatula. When the omelette was almost ready, he sprinkled on a handful of fragrant goat’s cheese and a garnish of chopped chives, then slid it onto a wide white china plate and handed it to her, his eyebrows raised, his dark eyes holding hers as he waited for her verdict.
The whole thing had taken less than five minutes and Izzie didn’t think she’d seen a performance so sensual in the kitchen in her life. She had heard people say that food and passion were intrinsically linked but she hadn’t believed them until that moment – her emotions had certainly ratchetted up from semi-thawed to almost sizzling!
‘Taste it,’ murmured Luca, running the tip of his tongue slowly along his lower lip.
Izzie couldn’t tear her eyes away from his, from the way his dark lashes brushed his cheeks when he blinked, the way his dimples framed his wildly seductive mouth, the cute way his fringe fell across his forehead in the heat of the kitchen, the jaunty angle of the collar of his chef’s jacket. Everything about him screamed sex appeal and her body was ordering her brain to enjoy the sensations that were cascading through her veins. This was what life was about!
She lifted the fork to her mouth and wrapped her tongue around a morsel of omelette, allowing the flavours to crash through her taste buds; the savoury richness of the eggs, the creaminess of the cheese, the zing of the freshly snipped chives, all melded together to produce what she thought was perfection.
‘It’s absolutely amazing – definitely knocks buttered toast from my culinary top spot!’
‘Good to hear.’
Luca had taken a step nearer and only the empty plate separated them. He removed it from her hand, placed it safely on the counter and tucked a stray coil of her hair behind her ear.
‘Izzie, I…’
But she would never know what he had been about to say or what would have happened next because the strange buzzing sensation on her thigh was his phone ringing and he shrugged, stepped away from her, and flicked his finger across the screen.
‘Ciao, Stefano.’
The expression on his face told Izzie that it was time to make her way back to the villa.
Chapter Nine
Pasticceria Da Oriana, San Vivaldo
Colour: Luscious Lime
The next day dawned with a clear blue sky and a surprising nip in the air. Izzie skipped down the stairs, eager to launch into a full day of list-tackling and determined to make Villa Limoncello the most picturesque wedding venue for a movie shoot that part of Tuscany had ever seen.
Well, she could try.
She poured herself a coffee and padded out to the terrace. If anything, the view was even more impressive that morning and she took a moment to savour the rustic charm before the crazy whirl of chores began. She loved the verdant beauty of the landscape, the stone façades of the farm buildings sporting a patina of a bygone era, the lone campanile on the horizon striving for eternity, but what made her heart sing was the warm golden glow that suffused the whole valley and everything in it.
A feeling of complete serenity descended, something she had not experienced for a long time. Why had she thought that reducing her life to a minimal set of ordered tasks to be achieved before she could claim the oblivion of sleep was the answer to her problems? She had railed so hard against including any extraneous clutter to her daily agenda that she had eradicated any chance of stumbling upon a random moment of pleasure, of happiness. She had refused to spend even a second reflecting on what life had thrown in her direction because that wasn’t one of the items on her carefully crafted list. Maybe if she had allowed herself just a little leeway, she would be further down the road of recovery than she was now.
Better late than never! whispered Meghan’s cheerful voice in her ear.
However, today was not the day to contemplate reducing her reliance of her faithful friend the list. There were the tables to organise in the shaded courtyard, the silver candelabras to polish, not to mention the dreaded task of folding the napkins into the shapes Brad had requested. She understood the need for attention to detail, but Brad had never seemed like the kind of guy who held such firm views on the presentation of his table linen.
Whilst she’d waited in Departures at Heathrow airport, in order to distract herself from thinking too much about her impending visit to Florence, she had watched a couple of YouTube videos that offered a step-by-step guide on how to achieve the correct shape. Complicated wasn’t the word!
Where was Jonti when she needed him? She knew he’d breeze through the challenge!
Well, when there was a difficult task to complete, the only thing to do was to just get on and do it. She returned to the kitchen, scrambled through the cardboard box marked napkins, snatched up the clipboard for that day’s itinerary and carried everything outside to the table in the shade.
For a few moments, she closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh fragrance of the new day; a base note of damp earth as the morning dew evaporated under the sun’s rays, the floral top note from the honeysuckle and wisteria entwined around the posts of the pergola. The eternal symphony
of cicadas was interrupted only by the occasional cry of a cockerel greeting the day or the whine of a lone Vespa as it strained to make it up the hill to the village. Clearly it must be too early for the Heavy Metal ensemble next door.
When her fourth attempt at napkin-folding looked more like a shipwreck than a swan’s neck, she decided to postpone her attempt at mastering the ancient art of origami and spend her time doing something more productive. She grabbed her clipboard and ran her finger down the list to the next item on the agenda that required her attention. She was surprised, and not a little relieved, to see that it was her appointment at Pasticceria Da Oriana.
She slotted her file into her duffle bag, scribbled a quick note for Carlotta, jumped onto the back of the Vespa – which had now assumed the role of trusty friend – and trundled down the arboreal tunnel towards the villa’s gates and the main road beyond. When she arrived in San Vivaldo the streets were just beginning to wake up and the parking gods were smiling on her because she scooted straight into a space right outside the patisserie.
She paused at the window and feasted her eyes on the cornucopia of assorted pasticcini and biscotti; from tiny tartlets topped with raspberries, strawberries, kiwis and blackberries to jellied fruits covered in sugar, from gooey slabs of nougat wrapped in cellophane and tied with ribbons to psychedelic pink and yellow bon-bons. The display was worthy of an upmarket jewellery store and Izzie knew which she would rather spend her time inside. She pushed open the door and paused on the doorstep to inhale the bouquet of sugary magnificence that sent happy endorphins rushing through her brain and turned her lips upwards into a smile. Heaven!
‘Buongiorno,’ beamed the proprietor of the sugar palace, brushing her hands on a pristine white apron that had been daintily embroidered with the shop’s angel-shaped logo before offering her palm.