The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  Jack grinned and patted the dusty black dashboard with affection. Pip looked at her feet, surrounded by a familiar pile of debris. Offcuts of wire, secateurs, yellow leather gloves. Crushed cans of Orangina and a green bottle of Peroni. The go-to kit for a global viticulturist.

  ‘Now about you coming here—I wasn’t surprised that you were flying into Pisa, but that you were coming to visit me at all. I thought you were kidding when we broke up and you said you may still come see me in Europe. Sure didn’t seem very likely, after—well …’

  Pip jiggled her feet some more and looked out the window as they wound around an entrance ramp to the freeway. She could just make out the familiar silhouette of the Leaning Tower of Pisa a few hundred metres away. ‘That’s it?’ she blurted. ‘That’s the tower? It’s tiny.’

  The white marble tower with its elegant columns and arches reminded her of an elaborate wedding cake decorated with layers of hand-cut fondant. Her stomach flipped and her head ached. What the hell was wrong with her? She pushed thoughts of wedding cakes from her head, focusing on the tower instead. ‘It’s got scaffolding propping it up,’ she observed. ‘It’s hardly leaning, is it? Have they made it straight?’

  Jack laughed. ‘They’re just stopping it from falling over. Probably repairs.’

  ‘It doesn’t look very big. I’m surprised. It’s smaller than the pine trees at your place in Tassie.’

  ‘No, it’s pretty tall. Just over fifty metres I reckon. It’s a bit hard to judge the scale from here but you’ll get a chance to see it a little closer as we loop around again to join the motorway to Lucca.’ Jack glanced in the rear-vision mirror as he changed lanes and then looked across at her. ‘We can stop and go see it if you like. There’re always long queues, though, especially at the moment because only a few people can go up at a time.’ ‘So it doesn’t topple over with all the extra weight at the top? No thanks. I’ll pass on the queues. I get the gist.’

  Jack grinned, shook his head and shot a quick glance her way. She wanted to reach over and brush the curls away from his face. Then lay her head down on his lap.

  ‘You’re looking a bit skinny, Pip. Don’t get me wrong, you look great, but it doesn’t look like you’ve got much meat on you at the moment. I was expecting a bit of a Spanish doughnut after nearly four months working in a restaurant kitchen. Aren’t chefs meant to be fat? Fat and shouty.’ He laughed at his own joke. She’d missed that throaty chuckle.

  ‘Like Dan? Not at all. I worked double shifts at least five times a week, and I got into swimming the bay at Zurriola—that’s the main surf beach there—so I got really fit. It helped keep my strength up.’

  It was a relief to fall into a pattern of familiar banter and catch-up for the next forty minutes as she described San Sebastián, Zurriola and the Camino all the way back to Lucca. No need to mention Pedro. Besides, she and Jack were not together, and what would she say anyway? Instead she described Abiega Ozeano, how to make dehydrated apple chips and the seasonal garden landscapes they made on plates.

  ‘Anyway, I’m excited about Paris. Just getting access to that database, growth simulations, sediment samples, toxin samples—’

  ‘Backtracking a bit, aren’t you? It would have been easier to train it to Paris from San Sebastián than come here first.’ An upward inflection. Was she imagining it or did Jack’s voice sound hopeful?

  ‘Probably.’ She didn’t trust herself to say anything else.

  They had now left the smooth five-lane motorway, bypassing the walled city of Lucca, and were heading into the foothills. This road was rough bitumen and the back of the car skidded a bit as Jack navigated the sharp corners. Pip used an elbow to brace herself against the door and wondered if she should put the other hand on her head to stop it hitting the roof. ‘I see you still fancy yourself a rally driver. What happens if there’s a car coming the other way?’ She eyed the crumbling stone wall at the edge of the road. Even though it was clearly ancient—a jumble of random rocks and limestone covered in moss—it looked resilient. Much tougher than this tin can of a car.

  ‘We swerve! There aren’t so many cars around these parts anyway. Mostly locals. The occasional tractor. That’s trickier. You just reverse back until you get to a driveway, or a wider apron on the road.’

  ‘Of which there are so many, I can see.’

  Unconvinced, Pip looked out the window as the patchwork of ploughed fields, purple crocus and grapevines gave way to rugged slopes of dense shrubby forest. The landscape was a surprise—she’d been expecting the rolling fields of sunflowers and olive groves that Tuscany was famous for, but the only groves she had spotted so far were on tiny terraces in front of pockets of houses nestled into the hillside. The terraces were more tightly packed than those in northern Spain. Sheep and chickens grazed on grass in some, while in others she could make out nets lying on the ground. ‘What’s with the fishing nets under the olive trees?’ she said as they looped around another tight corner piled with houses.

  ‘The olive nets? They put on them on the ground and then whack the branches so all the olives fall off.’

  ‘Huh? Of course! I’d love to see that.’ She peered over a wall into a vegetable patch cultivated on a terrace beside a crumbling stone lean-to. Was that even a house? It was minuscule. The garden was crammed with rows of dark curling leaves of kale and silverbeet, low sprawling marjoram, a giant rosemary bush and dots of what she assumed were red and white cabbages. She could just make out the straight branches and delicate yellowing leaves of tarragon and a line of soft white and purple pom-poms hovering above. Giant garlic, perhaps? Onions? Along the side was a border of creeping thyme. She could imagine the strong woody perfumes trapped behind the wall. She wished her mother could see this garden. Pip knew Mary would appreciate the blend of artistry and workmanship. She sighed. She must remember to take some photos of this area for her parents. And Megs. Pip assumed there was clean running water here, making this an appropriate holiday destination for Megs.

  The garden disappeared with the next turn and the view widened to take in a hillside of towering oak trees. Thick branches were covered in rusty leaves backlit by the sun. Pip felt the heat of the sun on her arm and face, and turned her head to soak up the warmth. Underneath the oak trees was a verdant lawn so smooth Pip could imagine rolling down the hill like a child.

  The car slowed and they veered onto a tiny dirt side road. Jack pulled over and parked. Peering out her door, Pip saw the terrace give way to a thirty-metre drop.

  Jack, who was watching, grinned. ‘Yeah. Better get out this side, I reckon.’

  He jumped out and opened the boot while she clambered over the bench seat and gearstick, trying to maintain some dignity. Not so easy in a sundress.

  He pulled a wicker basket out of the back and in it Pip could glimpse a corner of focaccia, a salami and a bottle of red. ‘Welcome to Tuscany, babe.’ He spread an old blanket out on a patch of grass, running his hands to smooth it out and picking out any sharp rocks lurking underneath. Pip smiled and turned to look out at the view.

  A wild jumble of hills and valleys, dotted with tiny stone villages and layered with dark forest, spread to the horizon. Jack pointed out the walls of Lucca, which she could just make out if she squinted. The valley seemed blurry and her shoulders slumped as she realised it wasn’t fog but a dirty haze. They didn’t show this in romantic pictures of Tuscany.

  ‘It’s magic, isn’t it?’ said Jack as he unpacked the basket and arranged jars of olives and grilled eggplant, wedges of hard cheese unwrapped from paper and some cold meats.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Pip. The smog had knocked a corner off her excitement. ‘Shame about the pollution though,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Yeah, some days are worse than others. It’s been fine, mostly, while I’ve been working here. It’s just these still autumn days where it gets trapped. We need the south-easterly off the ocean. Brings the sea salt right up to these hills and dries out the grapes. Olives too. Here. Taste it.’ He handed her a gla
ss of red.

  ‘Thanks.’ She took the glass, looked at the dark blackberry colour and sniffed. It smelled of currants, dust and damp earth. The aroma was invigorating. She took a swig and grimaced. It tasted gritty after the smooth Riojas she’d been downing the past few months.

  Jack chuckled—a rumble from deep in his belly. ‘Sangiovese. Full of tannins. Chockers. Perfect for cignale.’ He cut a thick slice of salami and handed it to Pip.

  Pip raised her eyebrows and took a sniff. Her mouth watered with the rich liquorice scent of fennel seeds.

  ‘Wild boar.’ The slice of salami melted on the tip of her tongue. ‘Here, put some on focaccia.’ He tore a hand-sized chunk of bread and passed it to Pip as she took another sip of the sangiovese. The red wine dissolved the oils and filled every corner of her mouth. It was a rich, silky transformation. She bit into her hunk of focaccia and was surprised at the crisp crust. It was nothing like the soggy focaccias sold in Australian delis. This bread was a little charred on the outside yet soft inside and dusted with salt flakes. It was possible she’d just bitten into the perfect piece of bread.

  Jack watched Pip close her eyes, tear another section off the focaccia and stuff it into her mouth. When he’d first seen her he thought she’d looked a bit skinny, sickly even, but now she was sitting in the sunlight he could see the contours of her upper arms, the curve of her calves and thighs. She was wearing a floral aqua sundress. It looked a bit retro, like something his grandma would have worn to a dance. He hadn’t often seen Pip in a dress and he thought it suited her. It was nice and snug over her hips and cut low at the chest. He could just make out the edge of a pink bra edged with black lace and realised he’d never seen it before. Pip was usually a Bonds girl. Sports bras were more her thing. Was this new bra, this new look, for someone else? Maybe she’d met someone in Spain. Inevitable really. A smart, gorgeous girl like Pip. All those smooth Spanish blokes would have a crack, for sure. He could hardly blame them. Besides, he’d been the one to call it quits. So why on earth was she here?

  She looked strong. Fit. Happier than he’d seen her in ages. Her auburn fringe fell over her eyes and he could see a streak of new freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her face was tanned and she turned and grinned right up at him. He had to stop himself from reaching for her hand and kissing it.

  ‘Nice dress, babe. Suits you.’

  He could see her blushing. He wanted to kiss her. Push her back onto his picnic rug. He wouldn’t, of course. They both knew before he flew out that it was over and there was no going back. It was pretty clear they had no future together.

  Still, he was happy to be friends. They were adults, after all. But he was surprised by the woman sitting in front of him. He was surprised by his yearning.

  But nothing was going to happen. After all, there was Valentina to consider.

  Chapter 23

  Tenuta Di Falgino, Lucca, October 2014

  Back in Jack’s car after the picnic, Pip was still buzzing from a happy blend of sangiovese and sunshine. She’d loved hearing all about vintage, and Jack had seemed fascinated when she told him about Azure, especially when she’d described how the owner Eduardo had converted a draughty old family villa into a commercial restaurant. He’d asked a million questions about how they located a commercial kitchen in an old site, whether they had punched out walls to make a single large space or whether it was a collection of rooms. Was there an outdoor area? What did they do in winter?

  It was sweet of Jack to prepare a picnic—they’d shared so many picnics over the years: shivering on the Friendly Beaches in autumn after hours of bodysurfing, hiking the Overland Track in spring when snow still dusted the rocks and ferns. She shivered a little as she remembered in detail what they’d shared under those tattered picnic rugs over the years. Had he been camping at all since he’d been in Tuscany? Pip looked down, concentrating on taking slow breaths through her nose. She glanced across at his boots—his worn dusty Blundstones—and closed her eyes. Told herself she was just tired. She’d had to get up at dawn to get the bus, then train, to the airport. Pedro had kindly offered to drive her. She’d given him a hug at the end of service last night and told him there was no need. Things had been awkward between them since their night in Mendiluze. As he drove her back to San Sebastián the next day, Pedro had had a go at her for choosing to finish her research in Paris. He made it perfectly clear he thought she was making the wrong call—she should be a chef in Spain. They had hardly spoken since. Instead, Pedro presented daily at her station with downcast eyes and clear instructions. There had been no further invitations to the spice room.

  She opened her eyes and noticed the hem of her crushed cotton dress had ridden up to the top of her thighs as the Panda bounced and skidded along the dirt roads. Subtly, she tried to pull it back to her knees, and tugged on the end of the dress hard. It looked like she’d need to hold it with both hands to stop it riding up and exposing her thighs and new pink knickers. This was exactly why she didn’t wear dresses much. Too fiddly. Not to mention uncomfortable. Her cleavage was flushed. Her cheeks were tingling hot and cold. She glanced over at Jack to check he hadn’t noticed all the slipping and sliding and indecent exposure happening over the other side of the vehicle. But his eyes were on the road and his fingers tapping the steering wheel in time to an imaginary tune.

  ‘Okay, here we are at Tenuta di Falgino,’ he said as they sped past a pair of twenty-metre pencil pines that Pip assumed marked the front entrance to the estate. Ahead, she could make out a pale gravel driveway lined with low white rosebushes and studded with oversized terracotta pots filled with lemon trees in fruit. Pip sat up and gasped. Her mother would really love this driveway.

  The garden was terraced flat—a giant green wedge cut from the side of the mountain. How had they excavated such a massive space without earthmovers? It must be hundreds of years old, at least. Older than any building she had seen in Australia. From the lawn rose the villa, softened only by the subtle line of rosemary dancing along the front. The villa was about fifty metres wide with faded blue shutters and a peeling ochre lime wash. A blazing crimson grapevine smothered the bottom storey. Brown, scaly trunks of twin palm trees sat beside the arched oak front door and reached past the wide terracotta-tiled roof, dark green fronds offset by the crisp autumn sky.

  ‘You are kidding,’ said Pip as she threw back her head and laughed. ‘It’s like something out of Under the Tuscan Sun. I didn’t know people actually lived in places like this. I could get used to staying here.’

  ‘It’s pretty special,’ agreed Jack. ‘But that’s not where I live, I’m afraid.’ He swerved right off the driveway to a service entrance that ducked behind a stout two-metre bay hedge marking the villa’s boundary.

  Pip rolled down her window to catch a sniff of the bay—she’d never seen such a large herb hedge before—as they pulled up at the front door of a two-storey ramshackle stone barn. The old outbuilding was built into the back of the large stone wall that surrounded the garden of the main villa. Gnarly grapevines threaded through climbing roses and looked like they were holding together the ancient wall. Pip could just make out a peeling white door with an old cowbell for a door chime and a row of four terracotta pots with a mix of succulents and lipstick-red pelargoniums.

  On the other side of the driveway was some kind of small work barn. Bushy clumps of lavender, rosemary and marjoram ran riot. Beyond the driveway was a field that sank into a valley before rising into a steep hill opposite. As far as Pip could see, every surface area was cultivated, with ribbons of vines threading themselves up and over into the horizon. No wonder Jack was here for months. Harvest and vintage would take forever. She turned to him, and he shrugged and raised his eyebrows in an I-told-you-so kind of way.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Pip with a smile.

  ‘Right, let’s get you inside,’ said Jack as he reached into the back seat and grabbed Pip’s backpack. ‘Jeez, been doing a bit of shopping.’ He staggered as he swung the bag over
his shoulder.

  ‘Cookbooks,’ she explained, blushing.

  ‘In Spanish? Be a bit tricky to follow, won’t they? Or did you learn the lingo?’

  ‘Nah. But they have lots of pictures. Got some gardening books too. Make a nice present for Mum and Dad. Remind me to post them when you drop me back at Pisa, okay?’

  ‘Perfect present for your mum. Great idea. I should remember to get something from around here for my folks too.’

  ‘Good idea. Your mum would go nuts over these villas, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe. I reckon she’s over big old houses, though. All the cleaning and maintenance. Hard on her hips going up and down that staircase all day, and bending over clipping vines. This winter was her last in the paddock. That’s what she says, anyway.’ He laughed. ‘The folks will be happy with a slick city pad after they’ve finished their travels. They’re at a trade show in Singapore at the moment. We still haven’t come to an agreement. Nicko’s howling like a dog from New York. I’m trying to get the finance sorted. It’s not easy.’

  Pip swallowed and hung her head.

  Jack continued: ‘If I can swing it, Dad will still do some of the wine fairs. All the marketing. He likes the travel. Loves Asia. Thinks it’s a rush. Mad about the food. Dumplings, noodles, chewy chicken feet. You should talk to him! It’s like a second career for him after all those years on the farm and vineyard. I won’t be able to do the travel anyway, if I get this expansion underway. The new winery will cost a bit, might need to buy some grapes in until we reach capacity.’ Jack kicked a pebble on the ground and then looked directly at Pip. ‘So, yeah, I might be moving into the big house,’ he said as he dropped his shoulder and pushed the little door to the barn open. The doorway was so low he had to tilt his head to one side to enter.