Summer's Lease: Escape to paradise with this swoony summer romance: (Shakespeare Sisters)

by Carrie Elks

  ‘I want you to set yourself free. There’s nothing embarrassing about words. Only the meaning you attach to them.’ He traced her lips with his finger. ‘If we were talking about chickens you’d say it with abandon.’

  Cesca rolled her eyes. ‘Cock. There I said it. Are you happy?’

  ‘Your voice dropped when you did it. You need to own the word. Try again.’

  ‘Cock.’ She was a little surer this time.

  ‘Not loud enough.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. COCK. COCKCOCKCOCKCOCK.’ She shouted the words, the sound reverberating through the kitchen. Sam started to laugh, his serious expression dissolving away. He took a step back, putting a hand on his stomach, bending over as the laughter exploded from him.

  ‘You should have seen your face, Cesca,’ he spluttered.

  ‘I just don’t see the point of saying words simply for shock effect.’

  ‘I swear I’m going to have it tripping off your tongue by the time I’m through with you. You’ll be “cock this” and “cock that” and you won’t even blink an eyelid.’

  ‘I certainly won’t. And you can cock off.’

  That only made him laugh harder.

  ‘It’s just over here.’ Sam grabbed her hand and led her around the side of the house, where the gardens gave way to the steep slopes up the mountain. Though evening had arrived, the heat of the day still clung onto the air around them, reddening their faces as they crossed the grass. Eventually they came to a stop, beside a wooden door that led into the hill itself. He slid an old-fashioned iron key into the lock. The mechanism creaked as he released it, then he pulled the door open to reveal a brick tunnel.

  ‘Wow.’ The cool air escaped from the doorway, hitting their skin. ‘I never even knew this was here.’

  ‘It’s Foster’s favourite part of the villa,’ Sam said. ‘He’s been stocking it for years.’

  She couldn’t help but notice the way he almost spat out his father’s name. Curiosity piqued her. What was it about that man?

  They walked inside the tunnel, and Sam pulled the door closed behind them. ‘To keep the temperature even,’ he told Cesca, when she looked alarmed.

  He flipped a switch to illuminate the darkness, and the wall-mounted lamps flickered on. Leading her deeper still, they finally came to the cave itself, a large, rectangular cavern lined with wooden shelves. Lying on those shelves, covered in a layer of dust, was a myriad of bottles. So many she couldn’t count them. All angled slightly down, so the corks keeping in the wine wouldn’t dry out.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she admitted, still looking around with wonder.

  ‘According to my mother, it was built by my great-grandfather to impress his wife. She came from a family of wine growers and in wooing her he decided to fill the cave with her wine to impress her. Apparently that’s the only reason she agreed to marry him.’

  Cesca laughed, running a finger down the nearest bottle. The dust wiped off onto her finger, revealing a deep green glass below. ‘Sensible woman. Even if he wasn’t very good-looking, at least she could drown her sorrows.’

  ‘Hey, of course he was good-looking. I’m related to him, after all.’

  ‘Is that where you get your modesty, too?’

  Sam flashed her a smile. ‘Nah, that’s all my own hard work.’ He inspected the bottles, lifting a couple of them up to look at the labels. Finally he pulled one from the shelf, blowing on it to disperse the dust. ‘This one’s my favourite. Foster bought a crate about fifteen years ago, but we’re down to the last few now.’

  ‘Won’t he mind if we drink it?’

  Sam rolled his eyes. ‘He won’t even notice. And it’s not as though he’s short of wine in here.’ He waved at the shelves. ‘Plus I buy him a crate of wine every year for Christmas. He’s the hardest person to find gifts for.’

  As soon as they walked back outside the heat hit them. Sam quickly locked up the cave and they headed into the villa, both seeking the relief of the air conditioning. In the kitchen a lasagne was bubbling in the oven, and on the work surface was a board full of cheeses and crusty bread. Another thing she’d miss about Italy when she left it – over here they knew how to make an evening meal into an event.

  ‘It’ll be another ten minutes,’ Cesca told him, after checking the dish.

  ‘Perfect. Enough time for us to have an aperitivo.’ Sam grabbed a bottle of gin. ‘I’ll make us a negroni.’

  ‘I thought you warned me against drinking with strange men,’ she teased, watching as he poured the gin and Campari into a shaker. ‘You said I couldn’t be trusted when I’m drunk.’

  ‘That’s what I’m banking on.’ He winked at her before pouring the cocktail into two small tumblers. ‘And anyway, the better the drinks, the more you’re likely to savour them.’

  ‘I’ve never had such good wine before I came here,’ she admitted. ‘Well, I never had much wine at all.’ She was struck by how different their lives were. He’d told her on their way back from the cave that the bottle he’d chosen was probably worth a few hundred euros. Spending that much on wine made her feel a little faint. It was so out of her league.

  The rich movie star and the impoverished writer. It would make a good story.

  ‘When you finish your play we’ll crack open the champagne,’ he said, handing her her glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ They clinked their glasses together, then Cesca took a sip. Just like at Grotto Maria, the negroni was delicious. ‘Anyway, what makes you think I’ll finish my play here? I may not complete the first draft until I’m back in London.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’ Sam was looking at her over the rim of his glass. ‘I won’t let you leave until it’s done.’

  ‘What if it takes me months?’

  ‘I’d be OK with that.’ He leaned forward again, brushing his lips just below the shell of her ear. ‘In fact I’d be delighted. Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Try explaining that to your rabid fans,’ Cesca said. ‘It’s not that long before you’ll be back in LA. You must have commitments.’ Though she kept her voice light, there was an edge to her words. Like earlier, when she spoke with her godfather about returning to London, she could feel the unease deep inside her.

  Sam took another sip of his negroni. She could see it glistening on his lips. ‘I’m a free man until the fall.’

  Cesca grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard, and proceeded to lay the salad out on them. Sam was leaning on the counter next to her, watching as she chopped the juicy tomatoes.

  ‘What are you filming next?’ She didn’t like the idea of him being away on location, surrounded by beautiful women. It was hard to picture this Sam – her Sam – in a Hollywood setting. And yet she should, because that was his life. Somehow the thought made her feel a little nauseous.

  ‘The final Summer Breeze movie.’ He sounded anything but enthusiastic. ‘It’s the last one I’m contracted to. After that I’m hoping to do some more edgy roles. Maybe even get out of Hollywood for a while. I’m kind of sick of being the dumb heart-throb.’

  Cesca bit down a smile. ‘Must be hard to be typecast.’

  ‘Hey, I resent that.’ The oven timer went off and he silenced the alarm, then took the lasagne out of the stove. ‘Anyway, most of the people I meet actually think I’m Tyler Graham. I get called that more often than I’m called Sam in the streets.’

  She laughed. ‘That must be annoying.’

  ‘You could say that.’ Sam wrinkled his nose. ‘And I know it sounds ungrateful because it was my big break. But when you’re permanently typecast as a nineteen-year-old surfer it can get a little stale. Especially at the age of twenty-seven. I guess that’s Hollywood. You either play the game or you get out of town.’

  Cesca handed him the knife and he cut the lasagne into portions, steam rising up from the dish. The smell of fresh pasta mixed with Bolognese sauce filled the kitchen.

  ‘I can imagine,’ Cesca said. ‘It’s kind of ironic that
neither of us really grew up after you left for Hollywood. You because your audience wouldn’t let you, and me because I refused to accept my failure.’

  ‘You look grown up to me,’ Sam told her. He carried their plates over to the table, then pulled out her chair. It was strange how she was already taking his gallantry for granted. It wasn’t as if every guy their age treated women that way. Maybe it was his upbringing, being raised by an Italian mother. Whatever the reason, she found herself liking it very much.

  Sam poured the wine he’d found earlier into their glasses. It was so dark it almost looked black. ‘This one smells almost as good as it tastes,’ he told her, lifting his wine glass to his face. He inhaled deeply, and Cesca followed suit.

  ‘It smells delicious,’ she agreed, swirling the glass so the wine sloshed around it. ‘I still feel bad that it’s so expensive, though.’

  Sam looked her straight in the eye. ‘You shouldn’t.’

  ‘Says the man who probably earns double the cost of that bottle for every minute he works.’

  ‘I haven’t worked out how much I earn a minute,’ Sam laughed. ‘But I can tell you I earn enough to cover the cost of the wine.’

  ‘But I don’t.’

  He angled his head to look at her. ‘That bothers you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘The fact I couldn’t normally afford to drink wine like this?’ she clarified. ‘Not really. It’s lovely but I’m just as happy with a six pound special from the grocery store.’

  ‘No, I’m not talking about the wine. I’m talking about the fact I can afford it and you can’t. I saw the same thing when we went out for dinner – you didn’t like me picking up the check.’

  She didn’t like where this conversation was heading. It was touching a nerve and she felt it all over her body. ‘I like things equal. If I go out for dinner with somebody I like to pay my way. It feels awkward to rely on somebody else, as if I’m beholden to them.’

  ‘What about if the other person wants to buy you things?’ Sam asked. ‘What if that brings them happiness? I mean I could sit and drink this wine alone, and I could have gone out to Grotto Maria and had dinner for one, but that would have been sad. Having you share those things with me adds to my enjoyment. You can’t put a price on that.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to be independent,’ she told him. ‘And having somebody buy me dinner doesn’t really make me feel as if I’m succeeding on my own. I don’t like accepting things if I can’t give something back in return.’

  Sam tipped his head to the side, scrutinising her. ‘Did Cristiano pay for your dinner?’

  Cesca blinked twice. There was a jealous tone to his question, that she couldn’t help but notice. And it warmed her from the inside out. ‘I don’t think he was charged,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t see a bill, and I suspect it was a freebie because he was thinking of buying the place.’

  Sam looked gratified. ‘Cheap bastard.’

  A shocked giggle tumbled from Cesca’s lips. ‘That’s rude. And anyway you’re the one stealing wine from your father. What does that make you?’

  He winked. ‘Messed up and full of issues.’

  There he went again. This time she couldn’t swallow down her interest. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  She sighed. ‘You keep bringing this up and shooting me down. I don’t get it. It makes me feel . . . ’ She trailed off, her face screwed up as she tried to find the right word. ‘Like I’m not good enough.’

  He looked shocked. ‘What do you mean? Of course you’re good enough. Too good, if I’m being honest.’

  Cesca twisted the napkin between her fingers, looking down at her empty plate. ‘I’ve opened myself up to you, I’ve let you read my play. I’ve told you all about my problems and my issues and my family. But every time things get personal you just pull away.’ She looked up at him through her lashes. ‘And I get it, I think. This is just casual to you, and that’s OK.’

  Sam’s expression was pinched. ‘It’s not casual,’ he said quietly.

  For some reason that made her chest ache. ‘Then why won’t you talk to me?’

  He reached out for his empty wine glass, running his finger around the rim. A soft hum echoed from the crystal. ‘It’s old news.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’ She pushed her plate out of the way and leaned across the table. ‘I can tell by your face it’s still important.’

  He blinked, looking at her with heavy-lidded eyes. For a moment he looked like a child. Young. Lost.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve done it again. It has nothing to do with me.’

  He was still looking at her, and his expression was breaking her heart. She stared back, her lips firmly closed, feeling the electricity buzzing in the air. For a moment neither of them spoke, the only sound in the room the tinny ring from his crystal glass.

  Eventually, he leaned back on his chair, his eyes still on hers. ‘Actually, it has everything to do with you.’

  She frowned. ‘It does?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘You asked me before why I left the play so suddenly. I think I said some bullshit about family stuff. I guess that much was true.’

  Goose pimples broke out on her flesh, in spite of the warmth in the kitchen. She felt as though she’d smashed through an invisible barrier.

  ‘The night before we opened, I got into an argument with Foster. Not that it was unusual in those days. It felt like every time we saw each other we almost came to blows. I could never do anything right as far as he was concerned.’ Sam paused for long enough to refill both their glasses, then took a long sip of wine. ‘He’d been drinking. He was a nasty drunk – still is, I guess. But that night he took it to a whole new level.’

  Cesca’s hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Sam’s face took on a faraway look, as though he was reliving that moment with his father.

  ‘I was a bit of a punk, too,’ Sam told her. ‘You’d probably agree with that. I was cocky, arrogant, thought I could rule the world. I didn’t miss an opportunity to rub it in Foster’s face, either. I’d call him an old man, tell him his time was over, told him to make way for the younger generation. Stupid stuff like that. But that night, I tipped him over the edge. Told him he wasn’t good enough for Mom, that he never was. That she’d have been better off never marrying him.’

  ‘And then?’ Cesca was full of trepidation.

  ‘Then he grabbed me by the collar and shoved me against the wall, hard enough for my head to bang against the plaster. The next minute he was screaming at me that I was a little bastard, that I was no son of his, that if he hadn’t married my mom the two of us would be rotting somewhere.’

  ‘Your dad called you a bastard?’ she asked, wide-eyed.

  Sam looked down at his hands. ‘Funny thing was, he was right.’

  ‘Why?’

  He swallowed hard, still not looking up. It took everything she had not to reach across and touch him, tip his chin up, make him look her in the eye again.

  ‘Sam?’ she prompted.

  ‘That night, he told me he wasn’t my father. Told me in no uncertain terms that my mom was pregnant when he met her, that my dad was some kind of asshole who’d walked out on her. That he’d adopted me when they got married.’ He squeezed her hand tighter. ‘The way he said it though, Cesca, as if he wished he hadn’t bothered. It gutted me.’

  ‘Of course it did.’ A tear rolled down her left cheek. ‘That’s a disgusting way to tell you about it. What did your mum say when he told you?’

  ‘She doesn’t know I know. None of them do. Just me and Foster.’ He frowned, as though he was remembering something. ‘And . . . ’

  ‘And me?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  So he’d confided in her. For some reason that touched her deeply. It hurt to see this man – this handsome, strong, talented man – brought low by memories he somehow couldn’t escape.

  ‘He never liked me,’ he whispered. ‘And
for twenty-one years I had no idea why.’

  ‘But he adopted you,’ she said. ‘Why would he have done that if he didn’t like you?’

  ‘I came as a package deal, I guess. He wanted my mom, and she was pregnant with me. He didn’t exactly get a choice.’ His eyes glinted in the flickering light of the candle. She grabbed his hand, folding it in her own.

  ‘What made you think he didn’t like you?’

  Sam finally looked up at her, his face impassive. His eyes were piercing. It was as though they were digging through her, searching, looking. They made her ache.

  ‘Little things,’ Sam finally said. ‘And big things. Words, jibes, telling me I wasn’t good enough. My grades weren’t good enough, my acting was terrible, I was a terrible son to my mother. He actually smiled when he told me the truth about my father. Like he enjoyed inflicting the pain.’

  Her face softened. ‘He’s a rat bastard.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s enough about my messed-up family.’ He looked straight at her. ‘I’d rather finish our dinner and get to bed.’

  There was a heat behind his stare that sent her heart racing. The promise behind his words was enough to take her breath away. Everything inside urged her to take him upstairs, to comfort him, to hold him until the bad guys went away.

  They could talk about his parents another day.

  24

  This is the very ecstasy of love

  – Hamlet

  ‘Are you almost done?’

  Cesca jumped at the unexpected question. She was at the spitting stage of her tooth brushing, the paste foaming out over her lips. She put her brush down and turned around, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Last night they’d fallen asleep together almost as soon as they’d got into his room, their naked limbs tangled together. Today, though, he seemed brighter, more like his old self. She’d spent most of the day writing, while they talked about silly things. His favourite book, her favourite meal, whether she liked blue better than green.

  And now dinner was over, he’d suggested they get an early night. The way he’d said it had sent an army of shivers down her spine.