by Daisy James
‘Didn’t you talk about your dreams before you got engaged?’
‘Every last detail, down to what type of table linen I wanted, which suppliers I would use, what would be on the menu. She listened, but I don’t think she really heard what I was saying or if she did, didn’t think I’d actually do something as stupid as ditch a lucrative career to work as a general dogsbody in the restaurant trade.’
Izzie wanted to ask where Sabrina was now, but she didn’t have to.
‘She left me for Claudio – one of my colleagues at the bank who was promoted straight after I left. Sometimes, in darker moments, I wonder whether she actually loved me at all or whether it was the lifestyle my salary bought us. Last I heard they had just come back from Paris where Claudio proposed at the top of the Eiffel Tower. I’m pleased for her – deep down, I should have known that Sabrina would never have been happy living in a run-down shack in the Tuscan Hills. My nonna always used to say Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco – which, roughly translated, means that not everything turns out as we’d planned. I have my restaurant now and I couldn’t be happier.’
At last, Izzie felt she could return to her own story without the threat of tears interrupting their conversation. If she kept the topic to her own childhood dreams, then she should be okay.
‘I know exactly how you feel – except the object of my affection is fabric, not food. When I was growing up I would devour every TV show that offered even the slightest nod in the direction of interiors – Changing Rooms, House Doctor, Grand Designs – watching every episode over and over until I knew everything there was to know about soft furnishings, flooring, lighting, paint techniques, storage solutions. I had a huge wooden trunk in my bedroom filled with fabric and wallpaper samples, spools of ribbon, cards of buttons, squares of felt. My sister Anna was always the academic one in the family, so when I won my place at RCA my life was complete.’
‘And when you left you took the plunge and set up your own business?’
‘Yes, it was difficult at first, arranging the funds, building my reputation, but I won an award and after that well… you know, things just snowballed.’
Izzie didn’t like mentioning the award. Meghan told her she should shout about it from the rooftops, but she always thought it sounded like boasting.
‘So how can you afford the time away from your business to organise this wedding?’
‘Oh, erm, well, the company folded eighteen months ago.’ Izzie gulped down a lungful of air and switched tact. ‘I was lucky, though, I landed a job with a firm of property developers, styling their properties for sale. It pays the rent, or I should say, it did.’
‘It did?’
‘Yes, my contract was terminated just before I came over here – surplus to requirements.’
She grimaced – her redundancy still stung and reminded her that she needed to make a start on updating her CV so that when she got back to London she could ‘hit the ground running’ and ‘poke a few irons in the fire’ – as Darren would have said.
‘It’s an opportunity to make a fresh start,’ said Luca. ‘Is your fiancé supportive of your career choices?’
‘Oh, no, I mean, yes, he was supportive, but we’re no longer together. There was no bust up or anything, we just sort of drifted apart. My fault, I was… well… I was hard to live with for a while when I lost… When I lost my business.’
Despite their mutual soul-baring, she still couldn’t bring herself to talk to Luca about her beloved twin sister. Would she ever be ready to just slot what had happened into a normal conversation?
‘Well, I’m here to tell you that when one door is slammed in your face, another is stretched wide open! There’s no time like the present to shoot for your dreams, Izzie! Why don’t you think about getting a job working on film sets? Or events planning? From what I’ve seen so far, apart from the food side of things, you’d be a natural!’
‘You know, that’s exactly what Meghan said.’
‘Then she’s a very astute friend. Are you going to think about it?’
‘Maybe, yes, maybe.’
Chapter Thirteen
The Kitchen, Villa Limoncello
Colour: Limoncello Yellow
With only two days to go before the wedding guests were due to descend on the villa’s gardens, Izzie needed a lot more ticks on her checklists. She had eventually managed to speak to Brad on the phone, but their conversation had been brief and very one-sided, consisting of him shouting over the noise of what sounded like a jet engine to tell her that he would be flying in on Friday morning and should be with her by nine a.m. at the latest. Keeping her fingers crossed behind her back, she had assured him that everything was on schedule, and that there had been no hiccups. After all, her misunderstanding wasn’t Brad fault, she’d made a promise, and the best thing to do was just to get on with it.
She stood on the kitchen doorstep, sipping her coffee, trying to ignore the discordant screech of a still-saw cutting through stone that caused her hair to stand on end. In the distance she could see Gianni steering his ancient tractor between the vines, stopping occasionally to hop off and inspect the leaves for the dreaded disease. She itched to join him, to spend some time learning about the cultivation of the grapes, how the weather affected their taste, and why the soil was peppered with a layer of crushed seashells.
But today was all about the food. Carlotta had arrived half an hour ago with Vincenzo in tow, his arm strapped in a sling, enthusing about his role as culinary guinea pig. She had decided not to mention the unfortunate mix-up about the wedding to either of them, taking her mother’s advice that the least said, the soonest mended. If they hadn’t known about her blunder in the first place, what was the point in alerting them to her embarrassment now? The same went for Gianni.
Izzie turned back to the kitchen where the rich aroma of oregano and garlic permeated the air, smiling when she saw Vincenzo seated at the head of the table, like a king on a throne, tasting tomato sauce from a ladle being offered by Carlotta. Despite narrowly escaping serious injury only the previous day, he looked surprisingly chirpy, with his panama hat set at a jaunty angle and his eyes dancing with pleasure at being the centre of Carlotta’s attention.
She saw the look in Vincenzo’s eyes and was struck by a sudden realisation. What he had with Carlotta was much more than friendship – he was in love with her. Like Gianni, Izzie thought they made a perfect couple – both single, both loved good food, and they clearly enjoyed each other’s company – and their love story was obvious to anyone apart from the protagonists themselves.
Was Carlotta so caught up in arranging everyone else’s love lives that she had overlooked her own? Why hadn’t Vincenzo said anything? Carlotta clearly cared for him otherwise she would not have spent the night at the hospital.
However, none of this was any of her business so she grabbed her apron and offered her help. Carlotta’s comedic double-take caused Izzie to giggle. ‘Not with the cooking, with the washing up!’ The look of relief on her new friend’s face was priceless.
Three hours later, every item on the menu including the lavender-infused panna cotta had been tested and, whilst Izzie was no expert, everything tasted fabulous – seconded by Vincenzo who was sipping his coffee with a look of complete satisfaction on his handsome face. Izzie grabbed a mug, filled it to the brim, and took a seat next to him.
‘Have you lived in San Vivaldo all your life, Vincenzo?’
‘I have – sixty years this year.’
‘So you know everything there is to know about the valley?’
‘Not everything, but a lot. Why?’
‘I was wondering how Villa Limoncello got its name?’
‘Actually, the villa will always be known as Villa dei Limoni – villa of the lemons – by the people of San Vivaldo, not Villa Limoncello,’ said Vincenzo, shaking his head slightly at its recent renaming. ‘You’ve seen the limonaia, I take it?’
‘Yes, it’s an amazing place. Limoncello is a dri
nk, though, isn’t it? Did they make it here?’
‘They did,’ said Carlotta, joining them at the table with a plate of struffoli that she drizzled with extra honey. ‘Look.’
Izzie cast her eyes across to where an age-flecked picture hung above the mahogany sideboard at the back of the room, its wooden frame chipped, the writing on the scrap of parchment within almost illegible. She scraped back her chair and went over to unhook it.
‘Is this their recipe for limoncello?’
‘It’s the original, I think,’ said Carlotta, taking the frame from Izzie and squinting at the faded scrawl. ‘Maria’s mother grew up on the island of Capri and she was said to have brought the recipe with her when she married into the Rosetti family. Lemons have been grown at the villa for over two hundred years, and some of the species in the limonaia are incredibly rare. When Maria Rossetti died three years ago, a professor from the university in Florence came to catalogue the plants and there was a piece in the local paper about it.’
‘So what happened to the Rossetti family?’
‘It’s a sad story,’ murmured Carlotta, fingering the frame as she meandered the labyrinth of her memory. ‘Although, unfortunately, not an infrequent one. The Rosetti family bought Villa dei Limoni over a century ago and it was handed down through the generations, along with its secrets. They managed to survive the First World War relatively unscathed, lost a brother and an uncle, but the Second World War took a dreadful toll on the family. Only Maria survived – she was just fifteen, poor thing.’
Carlotta paused, staring at the recipe in her hand.
‘An elderly aunt moved into the villa to take care of her and together they continued to tend the vines to maintain the family’s legacy of wine-making in Tuscany, but they also continued to cultivate the lemons to make the limoncello and keep her mother’s memory alive.’
‘If you want my opinion,’ said Vincenzo, running his tongue along his lower lip as if tasting the liqueur, ‘Maria Rosetti’s limoncello was the best in the whole of Italy because she used only the best ingredients; pure grain alcohol, fresh mountain water they extracted from the well in the garden, and of course the lemons are completely organic, with no toxic extras such as pesticides or chemical fertilisers.’
‘Maria never married, and God, in his wisdom, bestowed her with a long life, a life she spent focused on the past, on her memories of her family taken far too soon. When she died, the villa was inherited by a distant second cousin in New York who had no interest in a crumbling old villa in a foreign country. For reasons best known to him, he changed its name to Villa Limoncello, and rented it out for a while, but in the end, he decided to sell it.’
‘So, who owns the villa now?’ asked Izzie, her curiosity piqued.
‘That I don’t know. It was bought eighteen months ago, and everyone in the village expected the builders to move in straight away to strip the place of all its character like Riccardo has done next door, but as you can see, nothing’s happened.’
‘Ah, our grumpy neighbour!’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Yes, I had a run in with him the day I arrived here. I’d inadvertently blocked his access.’
Vincenzo laughed. ‘He wouldn’t have liked that!’
‘No, I can safely say that he wasn’t the happiest person I’ve met since arriving in Tuscany. In fact, he was downright rude.’
‘Riccardo has made no secret of the fact that he wants to buy Villa dei Limoni. Well, not the villa as such, but its vineyard and olive grove. His property has very little land, only enough space for the swimming pool he’s building for the use of his future B&B guests, not to mention the ongoing issues with shared access. Sadly, he’s chosen to interpret his lack of progress on identifying the villa’s current owner as a personal snub, rather than what it is – no one knows.’
‘Except Gianni,’ said Izzie, raising her eyebrows at Carlotta.
‘Yes, but as he loves his vines more than life itself, he’s not likely to disclose the identity of his employer to the man who would deny him the chance of producing the first Rossetti Chianti in over twenty years, is he?’
‘No, I don’t suppose he is.’
‘Anyway, it’s not just Riccardo who’s interested in buying the villa,’ added Vincenzo. ‘Gianni told me he’s stumbled across at least another three would-be proprietors meandering through the olive groves, drooling at the investment opportunity. He sent them away with a flea in their ears, but it does seem like the villa is being circled by a committee of ravenous vultures!’
Silence spread through the kitchen as each person wondered what the future had in store for the villa and whether Gianni would get the chance to fulfil his dream of reinvigorating the vineyard before it was snapped up by a visiting tourist desperate for their own little slice of Tuscan paradise.
‘Hey! Why don’t we make a batch of limoncello!’ declared Vincenzo, leaping from his seat with surprising agility for one just released from hospital. He grabbed an empty bucket and stared at them expectantly. ‘Well? Are you coming?’
‘Absolutely!’ Izzie grinned, her taste buds already zinging in anticipation.
Following the recipe to the letter, they produced a large bulbous demi-john filled to the top with what would become the first limoncello produced at the villa for a long time. Izzie was proud of their afternoon’s work, even if it wasn’t an item she could tick from the list. Whilst removing the zest from the lemons they harvested from the lemon house, they chatted about Carlotta’s recent matchmaking successes, the progress of Vincenzo’s five grandchildren, the dreaded virus attacking Gianni’s beloved vines, and speculated about the identity of the bride and groom.
‘I wonder what Maria Rossetti would say if she knew that limoncello was being made at the villa again?’ said Carlotta, her eyes bright as she clasped her hands to her chest.
‘I’m sure she would be thrilled. It’s a shame we can’t serve it at the wedding on Friday. Are you sure it’s absolutely necessary to wait a full four weeks before adding the sugar syrup?’
‘If you want the authentic Rosetti limoncello!’ laughed Vincenzo. ‘But never fear. I will make us all a jug of my speciality lemonade with the juice! By the way, where’s Gianni? I thought he’d be here in the kitchen offering his services as assistant taste-tester this afternoon?’
‘Yes, he did say he’d pop in.’
Izzie made her way to the doorstep and froze.
‘Oh my God! Gianni!’
She sprinted to the pergola, but it was too late.
‘Don’t panic, don’t panic! Everything is under control!’
She watched as Gianni deposited a final squirt from the garden hose over the charred remained of the box of napkins she and Luca had spent hours folding the previous day. He turned towards her, his face covered in soot, his eyes and teeth gleaming white.
‘What happened?’ coughed Izzie, as the toxic stench of smoke hit her lungs.
‘Well, I just thought I’d test the barbeque in case we need it on Friday night and, well, the gas canister was a bit fiercer than I imagined and it… well…’
Gianni’s face was suffused with such contrition he looked like a naughty schoolboy standing in front of the head teacher pleading his case for leniency. Izzie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but her heart softened for this clumsy, opera-loving guy who had a heart of gold but who should never be left alone with anything remotely combustible.
By the time the four of them had doused everything down and disposed of the fire-damaged serviettes, the sky was sending ribbons of apricot and violet across the horizon. At last, the drills and jackhammers had fallen silent next door and the cicadas were busy tuning up for a repeat rendition of their more melodious night-time sonata. With a final heartfelt apology, Gianni trundled off down the driveway on his quad bike, followed by Carlotta who wound down the window on the driver’s side of Vincenzo’s borrowed Jeep.
‘Izzie, don’t worry about the linen. I know the supplier’s mother. Vin
cenzo and I are on our way over there now and we’ll call in a few favours this evening in return for one of my speciality lasagnes. I can’t promise the design with be as proficient as yours, but I’m sure they will pass the test.’
Izzie felt a lump form in her throat at the way the whole community pulled together when someone needed help – just as they had in St Ives when the worst had happened to the Jenkins family.
‘And Izzie?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Why don’t you take a few hours off tomorrow morning? It would be a shame to come all this way and not pay a visit to Siena or Firenze?’
‘Oh, no, I can’t do that, there’s still so much to do. I have to scrub the bathroom for a start, then I need to cover over the pond, and smarten up the tennis court. I’ve also still got to go over to see Francesca to check on the flowers…’
‘No arguments – it’s all sorted,’ smiled Carlotta, patting her hand, then crunching the gears and disappearing down the driveway before Izzie could ask what she had meant.
Oh God, surely Carlotta hadn’t fixed her up with a tour guide? Or worse, included her in one of her matchmaking schemes!
A wave of exhaustion hit her and instead of making her way back to the kitchen to continue tackling the lists, she decided to take a detour through the herb garden to select a few stems of lavender for the side of her bed. As early dusk tickled the distant hilltops, the whole panorama was suffused with a golden radiance interspersed with twinkling amber lights from the distant village. There was no doubt about it, Villa Limoncello was a truly magical place to get married, in real life or on film, and despite its shabby overcoat, Brad had made an inspired choice as the setting for his friends’ nuptials.
She couldn’t wait for Meghan to arrive the following day so they could share the experience together. Meghan was such a romantic – even though she was still searching for ‘the perfect guy’ – and she knew Meghan would be smitten by the Villa Limoncello’s charms just as she was. She could easily imagine her friend standing alongside her prince in the wedding gazebo, beaming as she exchanged her vows.