Wedding Bells at Villa Limoncello

by Daisy James

  ‘It’s perfect, thank you.’

  ‘So how are the arrangements going? I heard you stepped into the breach at the last minute. You’re very brave… or should that be crazy!’

  Francesca laughed, a warm, infectious sound that drew Izzie even more to the young woman, especially when she offered her an ice-cold bottle of water. She met her new friend’s gaze to thank her and she could have been looking into Meghan’s mischief-filled eyes, even her fingers sported a selection of silver rings, just as Meghan’s did. Once again, Izzie was flooded with gratitude for those people who started off as strangers but, within the blink of an eye, became friends.

  ‘It’s been a bit stressful, to say the least, but so far things are on schedule.’ She paused to take a long draught of water, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, and instantly felt better. ‘Your designs are amazing – how long have you been a florist?’

  ‘Ten years, but I’ve adored anything to do with horticulture for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest memories is running through the wildflower fields alongside my cousins, with daisies and poppies twisted through our hair, pretending to be princesses. I love everything about flowers – the infinite variety of colours, of shapes or scents, but I also love the folklore, too.

  ‘The folklore?’

  ‘Yes. For instance, did you know that there’s a reason why brides choose white flowers for their bouquets?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s because they signify pureness, whilst red flowers mean passion and love, and yellow mean jealousy. Also, roses are never given in even numbers, except at weddings where the number twelve means the couple with have a long and healthy marriage.’

  ‘Gosh, it sounds like a minefield!’ laughed Izzie.

  ‘It’s fascinating. So, is there anything I’ve missed? Or would you like me to change any of the designs? When I accept a commission to supply the flowers for a wedding, I usually have a long consultation with the couple, get a feel for their personalities, their likes and dislikes, that sort of thing, but this time all I’ve had to go on is a few photographs. And there’s so much secrecy surrounding the whole thing, I’ve had to do everything myself! My sister Gabriella usually helps me when I have a big order, but she’s the biggest gossip in the whole of Tuscany, so I’ve had to forego our fun prosecco-fuelled nights. I can’t wait to tell her when it’s all over, though. She’s going to be so jealous!’

  Izzie wasn’t sure whether it was the talk of sisterly camaraderie or the sight of the blousy pink peonies that reminded her of the bouquets Anna had chosen for her own wedding – and had then been featured in abundance at her funeral – but she was suddenly ambushed by a wave of emotion and she couldn’t prevent a single tear from escaping down her cheek.

  ‘Oh, gosh, are you okay?’ asked Francesca, sliding down from her stool to place her arm around Izzie’s shaking shoulders.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Sorry.’

  Izzie brushed the tear away, annoyed at herself for succumbing to her emotions. But that day she had spent more time talking about Anna than she had in the whole of the last twelve months and her presence was strong, sending her senses into overdrive. However, she felt Francesca deserved an explanation for her tears.

  ‘It’s just… peonies were my sister’s favourite flowers. She’d chosen exactly that shade of pink for her wedding bouquet before she… before she… passed away.’

  ‘Oh, no, Izzie, I’m so sorry. How terrible.’ Francesca squeezed Izzie’s hand and gave her the space she needed to stem the tears before asking ‘What was your sister’s name?’

  ‘Anna. Annabel.’

  Francesca nodded. Then, as Izzie watched on in mute fascination, Francesca began browsing through the medley of flowers in the shop, eventually selecting one stem from the last bucket, adding a branch of foliage and wrapping it in cellophane.

  ‘Many roses are named after loved ones. My father named one for my mother for their thirtieth wedding anniversary last year. This rose is called Annabelle.’

  Francesca presented the rose to Izzie and the gesture caused her tears to return.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed to mutter, bringing the red/orange rose to her nose and inhaling the sweet, floral perfume. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Like your sister,’ smiled Francesca.

  ‘Yes.’

  Izzie dried her tears and the two women sat in companionable silence for a few moments.

  ‘Okay, I need to get back to the villa. There’s still lots to do, and my friend Meghan is due to arrive from the airport at six!’

  She thanked Francesca for her kindness and understanding and told her she would see her first thing the following morning to help stage the floral artwork before the wedding entourage descended. On the doorstep, Francesca drew Izzie into a warm hug before depositing kisses on her cheeks, and her heart filled with joy at finding another new friend in Tuscany.

  With the reverence it deserved, she slotted the rose gently into her duffle bag and took her time navigating the winding roads back to the villa, memories of her beloved sister tumbling through her thoughts until she drew to a halt at the villa’s front steps, exhausted from all the emotional turmoil.

  And yet she felt freer than she had done for a long time, as though by talking about her sister, including her in her conversations with others, made things less painful and not more.

  It was time to change, she knew that, and she needed some time alone to think through what she had learned that day. However, it wasn’t to be because as she stepped from the Vespa all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Riccardo’s B&B, San Vivaldo

  Colour: Electric Blue

  ‘Oh, Izzie, thank God! Where’ve you been? We’ve been trying to contact you!’ cried Carlotta running from the back door to greet her, her arms flying in the air, her hair bouncing around her cheeks like silver angel’s wings.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  She saw Carlotta roll her eyes in the familiar way before embarking on a tirade of high-speed Italian, the only words of which Izzie could catch were imbecile and Gianni and her heart sank. What had he done now? She placed her hand on Carlotta’s arm to calm her down.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Carlotta pointed to the far end of the terrace and together they made their way to where Gianni and Vincenzo were standing, their heads bent, hands on hips as they surveyed the results of the current catastrophe.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Izzie, surprising herself at the calmness in her voice.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Izzie, I had no idea…’

  Instead of launching into a complicated explanation, Gianni simply pointed to a large hole in the ground alongside his wheelbarrow, a bay tree he’d been in the process of planting, and his discarded spade.

  ‘He’s lucky to be alive,’ mused Vincenzo, rubbing his thumb and forefinger across his moustache as he contemplated how much worse the incident could have been.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Take a look.’

  Izzie squinted into the trench Gianni had been working on and shot backward, managing to stand on Vincenzo’s toes in her haste to escape.

  ‘What is it? A snake? Are they poisonous?’

  Vincenzo grinned.

  ‘It’s much worse than a snake, Izzie. That’s an electricity cable.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ sighed Izzie, until she realised that Carlotta, Vincenzo and Gianni were staring at her, waiting with bated breath for the penny to drop. The clogs in her brain clanked and clanged until realisation eventually dawned.

  ‘Oh, no, surely you’re not telling me…’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ nodded Vincenzo, glancing at Gianni who remained mute whilst running his fingers through his curls until he actually did look like he’d endured an electric shock.

  ‘How bad is it?’

  Izzie’s stomach performed a flip-flop of panic and she sent up a quick prayer to the director of fate – please, please, please
don’t let it be the main cable into the house.

  ‘It’s the main cable into the house.’

  She groaned. How much worse can it get!

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ muttered Gianni, his dark brown eyes filled with contrition. He looked like a spaniel who’d been caught sneaking a treat from the cookie jar, and Izzie couldn’t be angry with him. Irritated, yes, but it wasn’t as if he’d selected the cable and purposely attacked it with his spade only hours before the wedding of the decade.

  ‘How long before we can get it repaired?’

  ‘Could be today, could be tomorrow, but it could be next week.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Now it was Izzie’s turn to run her fingers through her hair whilst the four of them stood staring morosely at the hole in the ground like a congregation of mourners, each hoping that if they concentrated hard enough the severed cable might just miraculously reconnect.

  ‘I have a cousin who’s an electrician,’ offered Vincenzo. ‘Why don’t I give him a call to see if he can do a temporary repair?’

  Izzie forced a smile on her lips.

  ‘Thanks, Vincenzo, that would be great. Okay, let’s grab a coffee. I take it there’s still water and gas?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Carlotta, reaching up to pinch Gianni’s cheeks.

  Gianni raised his head, nodding at Carlotta’s gesture of forgiveness, and seeking out Izzie’s eyes for the first time. She smiled at him, linked her arm through his, and together they followed Carlotta and Vincenzo into the kitchen to ponder the disaster over an espresso and one of Carlotta’s cannoli, to try to come up with a solution. As the ancient cooker ran on bottled gas, the culinary side of things would be okay – it was mainly the lights and an idea began to worm its way around her crevices of her brain.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it seems. We’ll use candles, and I’ll ask Francesca if we can borrow her storm lanterns which will add to the lighting and the romance.’

  Suddenly the air was filled with a cacophony of drilling, exuberant hammering and the continuous buzz of a cement mixer. Carlotta rolled her eyes.

  ‘Do you think Riccardo’s tuning up his architectural orchestra for a Friday Morning performance?’

  ‘Oh, God, I hope not!’

  But what if Carlotta was right? That would be her worst nightmare – the bride and groom poised to deliver the most heart-felt lines of their lives accompanied by Riccardo on the cement mixer and his fellow workmen on the jackhammer and the circular saw. She needed to have a word with him, to appeal to his softer side, if he had one, which she feared he might not.

  ‘Okay, Gianni, Vincenzo, why don’t you see if you can source a couple of generators while I pay our friend next door a visit?’

  Vincenzo looked at her askance.

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

  Vincenzo exchanged a worried glance with Carlotta, ready to vocalise his opinion on the reasons why she shouldn’t seek the impromptu advice of their bad-tempered neighbour who lived alone in luxurious splendour with one eye coveting the land next door.

  ‘Well, my cousin, Umberto, had a run-in with him over some parking issue outside his café a few weeks ago. Apparently, there was a great deal of shouting and fist-shaking. I don’t think you should go round there by yourself.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Gianni, pushing himself out of his chair, his jaw clenched, his expression stony, looking altogether too keen to confront his nemesis.

  ‘No…’ Izzie just managed to stop herself from saying ‘no way’ and changed it to, ‘No, thanks. I think the softly-softly approach might work better. I’ll take him a peace offering and ask him in the nicest possible way if he could refrain from his musical artistry just for one day. It’s not a lot to ask, is it?’

  With a show of confidence she didn’t feel, she grabbed a bottle of their home-made-but-not-yet-ready limoncello, and trotted through the garden towards the crumbled part of the wall which separated the two properties, stopping briefly to toss a silver coin in the wishing well and make a wish.

  Was it too much to ask the wishing well gods to deliver free-flowing electricity?

  It was after six o’clock, but the air was stifling, and clouds of dust ballooned from the building activities Riccardo and his men had resumed to put the final touches to the poolside terrace. It was several minutes before anyone noticed her presence and their drills and hammers fell silent. Riccardo was the last to see her and she couldn’t mistake the look of irritation that floated across his expression. He issued a brusque order to the workmen who didn’t need to be asked twice, abandoning their tools quickly and strolling towards the house for a cool refreshment.

  ‘Hi, I was wondering if I could have a word?’

  ‘What about?’

  Impatience oozed from Riccardo’s pores, mingled with a generous dose of exasperation at her interruption. Instead of launching straight in with her plea for help, Izzie decided to take a different approach and dress her request in a cloak of flattery.

  ‘The pool house looks amazing.’

  Riccardo dragged his piercing blue eyes away from hers to scan the stone structure with its neat terracotta roof and shutters painted the same colour green as those on the main house. Although new, the building had clearly been designed to blend sympathetically into its surroundings.

  ‘Pretty pointless having a pool house without a pool, don’t you think?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Izzie frowned, glancing at the handsomely proportioned, albeit still empty pool.

  Riccardo rolled his eyes as though talking to an imbecile. ‘No water.’

  Izzie heard him sigh, then his eyes caught on the bottle in her hands.

  ‘Oh, yes, this is for you. Made by my own fair hands,’ she offered the bottle to him, recognising the hint of pride in her voice.

  ‘What do you want?’

  God, why did the guy have to be so grumpy? What was the matter with him? But she swallowed her own irritation, forced a smile onto her lips and prepared to launch into her request for peace in both senses of the word. Would he agree to cease the construction cacophony for just twelve hours whilst they held the wedding? But before she could utter a word, her brain marched off on another tangent, speeding away down the superhighway of strategic negotiations.

  ‘Why haven’t you got any water?’

  ‘Some sort of bureaucratic mix-up with the water company,’ he growled, sticking his hands in his pockets so as not to bunch them up into fists. ‘Morons!’

  ‘Ah, so no water, no pool?’

  ‘On the nail.’

  ‘And when were you hoping to open your B&B?’

  ‘Next weekend.’

  ‘Will the issue be sorted by them?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Izzie paused as her brain finished joining the dots.

  ‘I could help.’

  ‘How?’

  Izzie decided to overlook the expression of deep scepticism that she was even capable of turning on a tap, never mind filling up a large swimming pool with gallons of water.

  ‘You could use the water from Villa Limoncello’s well which is just a few feet away over that wall.’

  Riccardo opened his mouth to utter a derisory riposte, but stopped, clearly not expecting the offer.

  ‘You have a well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Izzie couldn’t keep the smirk from her lips as the tables had very clearly turned.

  ‘And you’d do this because…?’

  ‘Well, yes, there is something I would like in return.’

  ‘Thought so. What is it?’

  ‘Actually, it’s two things.’

  ‘Two things?’

  Riccardo raised his bushy eyebrows, but she could see a slight twist at the corners of his mouth and a glint of wry amusement had appeared in his eyes.

  ‘Well, I don’t know if you are aware, but we are…’ Now, should she tell him that the wedding invo
lved a couple of high-profile Italian actors, or should she continue the embargo on its disclosure. After all, she had no idea whether Riccardo was a celebrity stalker in his spare time. Unlikely, yes, but not impossible. ‘We are hosting a wedding at the villa tomorrow, so I wonder if you could postpone your work on the pool, just for the day? Just so the bride and groom and their guests can hear what’s going on at the ceremony and can enjoy listening to Puccini at their reception without the accompaniment of a chain saw concerto?’

  ‘And the second thing?’

  Izzie could feel her cheeks flood with warmth, but she ignored her discomfort at having to admit their disaster and cement this man’s opinion of her as a clumsy, disorganised scatterbrain. This was not about her, it was about saving the wedding.

  ‘I wonder if we could hook up to your electricity supply?’

  Whatever Riccardo had been expecting, it wasn’t this and to her amazement, he burst out laughing, shaking his head in disbelief, opening his mouth to say something, then being overcome by another bout of hilarity.

  ‘Well, it’s not that funny!’

  ‘Oh, it is, it really is. What happened?’

  Izzie considered concocting an elaborate story, but her mother had always told her that honesty was the best policy, no matter how embarrassing. And anyway, since recovering from his episode of maniacal laughter, Riccardo’s shoulders had relaxed and his features had taken on a less confrontational attitude.

  ‘Gianni cut through the main cable to the house.’

  ‘Got nine lives that guy! So, are you telling me that you have no electricity for the wedding of the decade? Are the rumours flying around the village true? That the bride and groom are some kind of celebrities, desperate to preserve their tenuous grip on their privacy?’

  Izzie saw Riccardo had curled his upper lip in disdain.

  ‘They might be,’ she hedged. ‘So, what do you say? My water for your electricity? I’d say it’s a fair exchange, wouldn’t you?’

  Riccardo held her eyes for what seemed like a long time, but Izzie felt something between them shift, and not for the first time she noticed the kernel of sadness lodged deep in his eyes and knew there was more to his grouchy behaviour than simple moodiness. She realised that she knew nothing about him. Why did he live alone in such a large property? Where were his family? Was he really planning to run a B&B by himself? Basil Fawlty sprang to mind again – maybe he was going to offer an alternate twist on holidaying in the glorious Tuscan countryside.