Sign of the Times

by Susan Buchanan

  “That is where you will find me once you have settled in. Are you hungry?”

  Holly was starving, but didn’t want to impose further. As if reading her mind, Dario said, “It’s no trouble. I am cooking for myself and it is always more pleasant to have company.”

  Acknowledging his generosity with a barely discernible smile, Holly followed, as he ascended a marble staircase. Alabaster busts were positioned at intervals along the staircase. Holly tried to appear nonchalant, but was dying to see, as she passed, if they were members of Dario’s family. Some of the inscriptions were so worn it was impossible to read to whom they belonged. At the top of the staircase, Dario swept towards the left wing. It was dark in this corridor, but Dario pulled an object from behind a hidden alcove. He then scrambled around a little more and the next moment, there was light. It was an old oil lamp, encrusted with semi-precious stones.

  Who is this guy? Holly found it odd that he should be knocking around in this stately home all on his own. She couldn’t deny it, the size and grandeur of this building made it obvious that this was the home of someone of standing. Leaning across her, Dario turned a key in the lock. He stepped into the room and laying the oil lamp down, beckoned Holly to enter.

  “Wow!” She wasn’t sure what was more impressive, her host or this sumptuous room. In front of her there was a huge four poster bed, with full canopy. The ruby red hangings looked ridiculously expensive. An enormous, cast iron bath, occupied the middle of the room. Glancing round, she was surprised to see the furnishings were terribly feminine. There was a mahogany dressing table, several replica, Louis XVI chairs, at least she imagined they must be replicas, they couldn’t be real could they, a credenza, a roll top writing desk as well as a chaise longue. How decadent. She had always imagined having a chaise longue, although she knew they were terribly impractical, much better off with a squashy sofa from Laura Ashley. She decided she would have a little lie on it later.

  Dario pointed to a room off the main chamber, which housed a bathroom with power shower and a dressing room. Such a strange mix, Holly thought, power showers, but oil lamps. She had noticed there was no electric lighting. After inviting her to use the telephone, Dario excused himself.

  Holly thanked him for his kindness and he left. She really must start being more articulate. She would be spending the evening with this drop-dead gorgeous man and she couldn’t string two words together. It wasn’t even speaking Italian which was making her tongue-tied, more the fact that Dario was stirring emotions in her, which she didn’t want stirred, because of Tom. She loved Tom. Dario probably had a beautiful wife or a girlfriend who was a sultry sex goddess. It was true how much women let themselves get carried away, one date and they were planning the wedding. She hadn’t even been on a date with Dario, nor was ever likely to be, yet was already picturing their dark eyed, perfectly tanned children, with her flawless complexion and green eyes. Snapping back to reality, Holly called the hotel in Bibbiena.

  Wonderfully relaxed after her exquisite soak, Holly lay down on the four poster. This was the life. She assumed the four poster was genuine, as the frame itself was pretty worn. It was too tempting to lie there for long though, as she knew she would drift off. Pulling herself up, she dressed hurriedly in the things she had taken off less than an hour before.

  Chapter Two

  Finding the door Dario had indicated, Holly hesitated briefly before pulling it open. Her senses were instantly assailed by the aroma of herbs and meat mingling.

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao, vieni,” Dario invited her in. He was standing in front of the hob, flipping the contents of a small saucepan. A larger saucepan boasted aubergines, peppers and courgettes, She joined him at the hob. He looked very au fait with what he was doing, as if he was no stranger to a spot of cooking. At the far end of the kitchen she saw what she supposed was the dining room. Dario invited her to sit.

  As he cooked, he asked Holly questions. She opened up to him quite freely. It was a lot easier, she soon discovered, to hold forth on topics she was used to discussing. She explained about her writing and told him about her childhood in a little village near Edinburgh and how she had started to write at the age of twelve. It had then become an obsession. He was a good listener. She told him about her life back in Ayrshire, in the south west of Scotland, of the farm she lived on. She didn’t mention Tom, and Dario didn’t ask if she had a significant other.

  This woman positively glowed, Dario thought. She was so animated. She was truly beautiful, unlike some women he met and seemed unaware of how lovely she was, which only made her more attractive. Her forest green eyes shone out from beneath her loose raven curls. Smaller than the women who usually surrounded him, he felt it would be nice for once to tower over someone, to be able to act protectively towards them. She was slim, with an impressive cleavage. Curvaceous, he supposed you would call her, sexy. He had found her striking when she had first rung his bell, but now, as she sat here chatting away as if they had known each other for years, he was warming to her even more, too much he realised. Tomorrow she would be out of his life again and there was nothing he could do about it. Unaware of the inner turmoil she was causing him, Holly babbled on. She was nervous, but at the same time exhilarated to be in the company of such a… gentleman, was the only word she could think of to describe Dario.

  After Dario finished preparing the meal, he led Holly through to the dining room. The food was divine. Holly hadn’t realised just how hungry she was, until Dario tempted her with his special bruschetta. He explained that the ingredients were all fresh from his garden and the olive oil from the olive groves his family owned. So that’s where the money comes from, she thought.

  When they finished the Chianti, Dario went off to the cantina. Bearing a Brunello di Montalcino 1997, he pulled out the cork and poured a small quantity into a glass. Holly thought it was OK. She wasn’t a wine connoisseur, but what she did know was that the more expensive a wine, the more acquired the taste. The Chianti was more to her taste, even if it was a classier and older version than that drunk in the UK. She wagered it wasn’t Chianti from Tesco at a fiver a bottle she’d had. The Brunello, however, didn’t do much for her. Honest to a fault, when Dario asked her impression of it, she told him apologetically she preferred the Chianti. Dario let out a belly laugh. He found her endearing, her brand of honesty so refreshing.

  “Perhaps we should let the wine breathe,” he suggested. What a pity their paths were unlikely to cross again, he thought. He told her of his family, of his business, but left out that he owned several vineyards, passed to him by his father on his retirement. He spoke of Rosetto with such pride. Holly had an image of him, as a kind of Italian laird. If she had only known the half of it.

  He spoke of the re-enactments they held at the beginning of June, of the Ferie della Giostra – the jousting ceremony and craftsmen showing off their art, teaching the younger generations how to carry out the ancient arts of book binding and arrow making. He told her of the determination of the locals to beat their neighbouring Carduccio. To Holly it was highland games, but far more interesting and romantic, as befitted twelfth century Tuscany. His friend was undefeated in the archery tournament since 1997. People came from the length and breadth of Italy, to see if they could beat him. The festivities lasted a week, but with the anticipation before the events and the enthusiasm and good natured sense of belonging which permeated the whole village it felt more like a month.

  The weather had improved. Only the odd tiny puddle remained here and there, so Dario suggested they sit outside. An old fashioned lean-to canopy clung to the side of the house. Dario switched on the lights and stepped outside. Picking up a long wooden pole, he pushed the water laden sections of the canopy, upwards. However, he wasn’t quite quick enough to move out of the way and managed to almost drown himself with the water which spilled over. Holly grinned, as, soaked through, he looked up at her. She had no need to ask what “Cazzo,” meant. Pulling out a wicker chair, Dario invited
Holly to sit and said he would go and change.

  A blanket lay on a shelf next to her and picking it up, Holly wrapped it around her. Dario had only just left the room and already she missed him. Even though she wasn’t doing anything wrong, she felt guilty. She didn’t want to sleep with him, but found it hard to believe she could like someone so much when they had just met, especially when she already had a wonderful boyfriend. This was torture.

  Dario returned wearing a white t-shirt, which perfectly showed off his physique. The two continued to blabber on, each aware of the sexual chemistry which was playing out, but both believing it was one-sided. It was getting late and Holly yawned.

  “You must be tired. It has been a stressful day for you. We should go to bed now,” stated Dario.

  Startled, Holly’s heart leapt. Then she realised she had probably lost something in translation and Dario meant they should go to bed, separately. But Dario had seen the way Holly reacted and had decided it was now or never. Maybe what he had read in Holly’s expression had been desire, he couldn’t be sure, but he was going to find out. He turned out the lights and escorted Holly to her room. Outside, he stopped and said “Goodnight” and leaning in, he kissed her. Holly kissed him back, expecting the sensation to last a mere instant, but he began placing little kisses tenderly around the edge of her lips. She couldn’t breathe. She shouldn’t be doing this, but was powerless to stop herself. All evening she had imagined this happening and now it was. She hadn’t even known he was interested. Dario flicked his tongue gently inside her mouth, across her teeth, finding her tongue, until Holly moaned softly beside him. All of a sudden she stopped him.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” she took hold of his arms, to distance herself from him. “I really like you, but I have a fiancé and I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “I kissed you,” Dario said quietly. “And I can only say that I wish I was your boyfriend. Lots of women are not so faithful. I am sorry if I offended you.”

  “Not at all. If things were different...”

  A brief silence ensued.

  “What time do you want me to wake you?” Dario finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

  “Whenever suits you.”

  “Eight o’clock then.”

  “Fine. Thank you, for everything.”

  Dario lay in bed and wondered if ‘for everything’ included his kiss. He hoped so. It took him a long time to fall asleep, but when he did his thoughts were of this particularly captivating Scottish woman.

  Holly also had trouble sleeping. It was too quiet. Crickets chirruped in the garden. She felt so guilty. She had let Dario kiss her. In four years, she had never kissed anyone but Tom. She loved him. They were getting married. Maybe it was the fine wine, which had gone to her head. Exhausted, she drifted into a restless slumber.

  “Buongiorno, signorina.” Holly opened her eyes to see a wizened old lady standing in front of her bearing a cup of coffee.

  “Ha dormito bene?” chirped the old woman again.

  “Si, ho dormito benissimo, grazie,” she lied.

  The elderly lady, happy Holly had slept well, turned to go, but as she was leaving, she said,

  “The mechanic will be here in an hour to collect you. Breakfast is ready downstairs.”

  “Is Dario up yet?” enquired Holly.

  “Yes, but he has gone over to the vineyard. He left a note.”

  Holly barely touched her breakfast. When she reached the breakfast room, she looked for Dario’s note. She picked it up eagerly and after reading the single line, turned it over to read the back, but it was blank. Dismayed, she re-read the line, hoping to translate it into something with more substance, but the stubborn,

  “Sorry. I have to work. I have asked the mechanic to collect you,” couldn’t be expanded into anything with more feeling. It was with a heavy heart that Holly left L’Uliveto an hour later.

  “Grazie, Signore,” Holly bid farewell to the mechanic, happy that her car was roadworthy again. A bit of a dent in her credit card, but she would be reimbursed by the car hire company.

  Holly had been unable to think of anything all day, but Dario. Dario and Tom. She tried not comparing them, but it wasn’t possible. Tom was a bear of a man. He was reliable and provided safety and security, but Dario had awakened feelings of passion in her, which she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt for Tom. Holly tried to blot out this disloyal thought from her mind. She felt unfaithful just feeling like this. With a sigh of exasperation, she realised she was heading in the wrong direction. Glancing briefly at the map, she dropped it on the passenger seat and navigated a u-turn.

  Chapter Three

  “Benvenuta,” greeted the owner of the three star family run Hotel di Piazza S Paolo. Sig.a Tagliaferri had spoken several times with Holly on the phone and enthusiastically welcomed the Scottish girl, as if she were her long lost daughter. With true Tuscan hospitality, she bent down and picked up two of Holly’s bags, which Holly had dumped next to the terracotta urns at the entrance, when Sig.a Tagliaferri had enveloped her in her embrace.

  The signora ushered Holly through to the unfussy breakfast room and offered her an espresso. Typical of the Italian culture. They ply you with coffee before even showing you to your room. Sig.a Tagliaferri chatted to Holly as if they were old friends.

  Two gorgeous men appeared. Almost identical, with black hair, dark eyes and deep tans, Holly assumed they were brothers. Her guess proved correct when Sig.a Tagliaferri launched into a fast-paced exchange with them.

  “Hollee,” she enunciated, “these are my sons, Emilio and Guido. Aren’t they handsome?” she asked brimming with pride.

  Embarrassed Holly quickly answered, “Si.” They were attractive looking men, but they didn’t do it for her. Not now, not after having met Dario. The two ‘boys’ sat at the table, as their mother fixed them espressos. Guido complimented Holly on her Italian, Emilio practised his English with her, which Holly usually found so sexy. Italian men seemed to elongate the words. This time, although she had to admit it still sounded sexy, it didn’t melt her insides.

  After promising to let them show her around, Holly excused herself. With Guido and Emilio fighting over who was going to carry her bags to her room, she headed off to take a shower. Her room was surprisingly large, with two shuttered windows. Although it was only May, it was stifling. There was no air-conditioning that she could see. Anxious to catch a glimpse of the view her bedroom offered, she risked opening the shutters and immediately a whoosh of heat struck her. Peering out, she gazed upon the valley below. There were two villas nearby; one villa almost conjoined to theirs and one about a mile away. The one next to her exhibited large wrought iron gates and she could just see into their garden, which encompassed perfectly tended lawns, with a large fountain in the midst of some strategically placed shrubs. Tearing her glance away, she looked at the house on the hill. It seemed a far grander establishment. Some rich tourist had probably bought it and didn’t even appreciate it, she thought cynically. It looked to have a vineyard to the right of it. She could explore later. Gulping in some unwanted, fetid air, Holly closed the shutters and started unpacking.

  *

  Steaming jets of water poured over Holly’s tired body. What a bonus to have a power shower in such traditional premises. Pouring a generous dollop of shower gel onto her bath mitt, she vigorously rubbed her aching limbs. She decided she could do with a little snooze after her shower. Surely she must be entitled to a siesta in this heat?

  Holly woke with a start. She could hear a phut, phut, phut noise. Sleepily, she opened the shutters and beheld a tractor. The land to the left of the villa must be farmland. Then she noticed Guido astride the tractor, waving. Grinning, she waved back. Revived, Holly arched her body and shook herself out. She felt miles better. Turning on the cold tap, she splashed water on her face and re-applied her moisturiser. Her skin became so dry, with the heat here. It must be around thirty two degrees and it’s only May, thought Holly. Pulling a fresh t-shirt
over her head, she regarded herself critically in the mirror. She still looked a bit tired and her hair resembled a bird’s nest, from having fallen asleep on it, whilst it was still wet. Picking up her satchel and her notebook, she headed downstairs.

  “I’m going to explore,” Holly told Sig.a Tagliaferri. Her hostess smiled and asked if she would like to join them for dinner. Holly readily agreed and thanked her for the invitation.

  She passed through the automatic gates and sauntered down the dirt track, her flip flops soon filled with tiny pebbles. Cursing, she switched swiftly to the grass.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Holly found her thoughts returning to Dario as she padded down the windy road and up the hill to the centre of Bibbiena. It was a little as she had expected. There were bumblebee striped canopies and green chairs stacked on top of tables, at what she could only assume was one of the restaurants on closing day. A group of teenagers stood around chatting and flirting. Holly strolled past them and spied ahead of her twenty or thirty stalls with canvas awnings. So, there is a market, thought Holly. Continuing, she noticed a bar on the opposite side of the road, where four octogenarians played chess. Holly watched them for a few minutes and then, conscious they had stopped chattering and were looking in her direction, briskly moved on.

  She crossed the road a little further up and turned up into the village centre, where she saw a sign for the church. The buildings were of roughly hewn stone and reddish brown in colour. Eighteenth century was Holly’s guess. Today she wanted to absorb the atmosphere, without having to remember she had to write about it. She passed a tabac, a lawyer’s office, an accountant’s, until finally she came across a bottega. As she peered through the glass in the door, the owner sprang to open it, so that she fell forward into the shop, almost colliding with him.