Last of the Summer Vines

by Romy Sommer

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for arranging the cremation and everything.’

  ‘Of course. John Langdon was well respected here in our little community. He was a good man.’

  I blinked away an unexpected blur in my eyes and focused on the man still holding my hand. A man this hot had to be married. I sneaked a look at his left hand. No wedding ring. Okay, so probably gay then.

  I retrieved my hand and turned away to pay the driver, then while Luca carried my cases from the car, I wandered around the corner of the building to look at the long front side of the house that faced south over the valley.

  It was more than just peeling paint that made the house seem tired. The stucco plaster was coming loose in great chunks, revealing streaky grey travertine blocks beneath. Some of the shutters hung skew on their rusty hinges.

  Rapidly, I revised my hopeful estimate of the asking price down by half a million euros. The buyer would need to do a great deal of cosmetic work.

  The house also seemed smaller and less impressive than I remembered. There were still towers on either side, topped with the crenelated turrets of my childhood memory, but now I could see they were mere decorations, pretentious additions to make an ordinary villa look more like a castle.

  With a sigh, I turned away. The taxi was already halfway down the drive, taking all my childhood illusions away with it, and leaving me stranded in cold, hard reality. At least I had the really hot lawyer to soothe the transition.

  I rejoined Luca on the front steps. He held a large ring of ancient-looking keys, and with a flourish, he slid the largest key into the lock, turned it, and gave the big brass handle a twist. The door stuck. I had to lean on it beside him to get it to finally open, and when it swung suddenly open, squealing on its old hinges, we both fell inside.

  Oh, great. Trust me to be clumsy and ungraceful in front of the most gorgeous man I’d ever stood within breathing distance of.

  ‘The wood has swollen a little,’ Luca observed, sounding inordinately cheerful considering the grim welcome.

  The hall inside was dark and gloomy, the effect no doubt of all the house’s shutters being closed. Luca set down my cases on the bottommost step of the stone staircase, then followed as I wandered through the downstairs rooms.

  Dust sheets covered the furniture, which loomed up out of the shadows, filling almost all the floor space. As a child, I used to play hide and seek in these rooms, and searched for treasure, but viewed though adult eyes it was simply cluttered, as if several hundred years’ worth of inhabitants had collected furniture as a hobby – and never threw out a single item.

  ‘The house is about a thousand square metres in size,’ Luca said as he trailed me through the rooms. When I turned a bewildered expression on him, he laughed. ‘That’s over ten thousand English square feet.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Feet! Not a very attractive language, your English. But the real jewel, of course, is the land. More than two thirds of the property is arable. There’s a fruit orchard, olive trees, and at least half the land is covered in vines. Mostly Sangiovese, but some Malvasia and Vernaccia grapes too.’

  ‘Do you know a lot about wine?’

  ‘Everyone in this region knows at least a little about wine.’ He smiled, and his dark eyes lit up. ‘And you?’

  ‘I know absolutely nothing about wine – except how to drink it.’

  ‘That is a good place to start.’

  I didn’t plan to get started. I had zero interest in learning anything about wine farming, and was just as happy drinking wine out of a box as out of a bottle with a real cork. I suspected if I admitted that out loud here in Tuscany, I might be deported immediately, inheritance or not.

  In the drawing room, the long room which faced down over the valley, I threw open the windows and shutters. The afternoon light streaming in did nothing to dispel the gloom, because now I could see the layer of dust and grime on everything, the threadbare carpet, the peeling burgundy wallpaper, and the dust motes stirred up and set dancing by the inflow of fresh, warm air.

  ‘How long ago did my father die?’

  ‘A little over two weeks ago.’

  This kind of neglect had taken a great deal longer than two weeks to accumulate.

  ‘Was he sick for a long time?’ I didn’t really want to know the answer. I felt guilty enough already. I should have known. I should have called. I should have made more of an effort to keep in touch with my own father, even though he made very little attempt to keep in touch with me.

  ‘No, he died very suddenly. He was in the winery when he had the heart attack. Tommaso found him there.’

  He spoke the name as if it should mean something to me, but I only shrugged and turned away. I hadn’t been here in nearly two decades – I could hardly be expected to remember the names and faces of my father’s employees.

  The only person I remembered was Elisa, John’s housekeeper. Nonna, I used to call her. Grandmother, though she was no blood relation. But Elisa died a few years ago. That much my father had told me in one of our rare phone calls.

  ‘He didn’t have any help in the house?’ I asked.

  Luca shrugged. ‘After Elisa died, your father never replaced her. He was an old man who didn’t like too much change, and he didn’t like strangers. He only lived in a handful of rooms these last few years.’

  That would explain the dirt and general shabbiness. Thank heavens the property still had all those acres of vines to attract potential buyers, or I’d be screwed.

  ‘I’d like to put this place on the market as soon as possible. Can you handle that for me?’

  ‘Si.’ He drew the word out, as if doubtful.

  ‘What price do you think I can get?’

  He studied the bubbling wallpaper as if fascinated. Now, I most certainly was not imagining his hesitance. ‘It is a little complicated,’ he said. ‘Your father having been a resident here for so long, naturally he chose to have his will drawn up under Italian law, so the rule of legittima applies. It will take some time to resolve.’

  What needed to be resolved? I was John’s only living relative. ‘How long?’

  ‘That will depend on the circumstances of the successione necessaria, the statutory shares.’

  I’d had enough experience with corporate speak to recognise when someone was deliberately hedging.

  ‘I need a cup of tea.’ I turned away from the scene of neglect and headed down the terracotta-tiled passage to the kitchen.

  Luca’s soft chuckle followed me. ‘So like your father. The one part of his English heritage he clung to was his tea.’

  The high-vaulted kitchen was at the back of the house, opening onto the back yard which almost seemed cut out of the hillside. The kitchen featured the same terracotta floor tiles as the rest of the ground floor rooms, and the same deep windows. Dusty Delft plates decorated one wall. At least this room looked cleaner and more lived in than the other rooms, though it still felt more like a museum than a home. In the two decades since I’d last been here, the only new appliance to find its way into this kitchen was an electric kettle. And thank God for that.

  Dismayed, I eyed the antique wood stove, with its blackened top and grimy porcelain façade. It had been my lifelong dream to own a home with a great big old-fashioned Aga. This vintage stove was nothing like that Aga of my dreams. Surely this couldn’t be the same stove Nonna taught me to bake in?

  Beside the kettle, I found a tin of loose leaf tea that still smelled fresh, and a china teapot decorated with delicate pink roses. Setting the kettle to boil, I rinsed out the teapot at the enormous sink, noting the deep crack in the side of the marble, then brewed a strong pot of tea. The comforting, familiar smell in this alien place calmed me. Though I’d been fully prepared to drink the tea black, I discovered fresh milk in the fridge. Someone had anticipated my arrival. Luca?

  I poured out two steaming cups, then sat across from Luca at the big wooden kitchen table. ‘Okay. I’m ready to hear it. What haven’t you told me?’

&nb
sp; He looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Under English law anyone making a will has the “testamentary freedom” to choose whoever they would like to inherit their estate.’

  I nodded. That was easy enough to follow.

  ‘However, here in Italy we have the rule of legittima, of forced heirship. This means that in Italy, the person making the will cannot freely determine who gets what. Italian law is set up to protect the inheritance of family members who might have been … overlooked.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Here in Italy we cannot threaten to disinherit a family member who has displeased us, since everyone knows the law will decide who inherits and who will not, to ensure that all heirs receive a fair share.’

  I sipped my tea. Could he just get to the point, already? I didn’t see how any of this was relevant, since I was John’s only child.

  Luca’s expression turned serious. ‘You see, under Italian law it is obligatory for certain immediate family members to inherit a proportion of the estate, regardless of what it says in the will.’

  It finally occurred to me where this conversation was headed. ‘You’re saying there’s another heir? Someone else with a claim who might want to contest the will?’

  He nodded, relieved I’d got there ahead of him. ‘You are that someone.’

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. And an even longer moment for me to shut my mouth again.

  Slowly, I drained the last of the tea from my cup and poured another, careful to keep my hand from shaking. Only when I’d added milk and stirred, did I risk looking back at Luca, my emotions once again under firm control.

  ‘You are telling me that my father did not leave me any part of his estate. He left it to someone else. And it is only because of this law of legittima that I have any claim at all?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Who did he leave it to?’ My voice sounded astonishingly steady, considering my entire world had suddenly shifted beneath my feet.

  Sure, we were never close, but whose fault was it that my father and I were as good as strangers? I was the only child he’d ever had, and this was how little he’d cared for me?

  ‘He left it to Tommaso.’

  That name again.

  At my blank expression, Luca added: ‘John’s business partner.’

  I didn’t even know my father had a business partner. The last time we’d spoken, at Christmas on one of our semi-annual phone calls, we hadn’t talked about anything consequential. I’d asked after the vineyard, and John told me one of his wines had won some award. He’d asked about my work, and I told him everything was fine, as I always did.

  I cleared my throat. ‘So what are my chances of inheriting anything?’

  ‘The chances are good that you will receive at least half the value of the property. The courts are very fair that way, but Italian court cases can drag on for years, so we should try to settle. Tommaso is a reasonable man and we will talk to him. If we can persuade him to buy you out of your share straight away, then everything can be resolved amicably. Alternatively, the property could be sold, and you and Tommaso can split the profits equally between you once the debts are paid.’

  Of course there were debts. There always were. And no one knew better than I how to finance them, re-structure them, and turn them to good use. ‘How much debt?’

  ‘Several loans, and your father re-mortgaged a few years ago to finance new equipment for the farm. The balance still owing stands at nearly three million euros.’

  My breath whistled out. According to my research, properties this size sold for anywhere between three and five million. But they had fully renovated villas. So not only would I have to share the proceeds of John’s estate, I’d be lucky if there were any proceeds.

  I sipped my tea. It tasted bitter. Or maybe that was just the bad taste in my mouth. For so many years I’d resented this land because it was the only thing John ever loved. That it had so little value only made it worse. I’d been worth less to him than a crumbling building with grand pretensions and a heavily mortgaged farm.

  ‘I guess I need to call the taxi back then. If this property doesn’t belong to me, I can hardly stay here.’

  ‘Tommaso is happy for you to treat the castello as your own until this is settled.’

  How magnanimous. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘You sound like your father. Always so practical.’

  What else could I be under the circumstances but practical?

  Luca pushed away his cup of only partially-drunk tea. ‘We will need to complete the paperwork to prove who you are, and to confirm that you will contest the will. But since it is now nearly five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, there is not much more we can do today. Tomorrow morning at ten, you and Tommaso will meet at my office, and we will discuss how to proceed.’

  I walked Luca to the front door, where he handed me the massive set of keys. I took them, feeling like a fraud. This wasn’t my house. My father had chosen to leave everything to someone else, someone he valued more highly than his own daughter.

  Luca had to help shut the front door, him pulling and me pushing. It was not the most dignified of farewells, and with the door shut between us I couldn’t even say a proper goodbye. Instead, as his little sports car revved to life and roared off down the drive, I sank back against the big warped wooden door, energy spent.

  Perhaps I was more tired than I realised. I was glad I’d only have to face my father’s mysterious business partner tomorrow, because right now all I wanted was to curl up in a ball, with a duvet pulled over my head, and hide from the world.

  Chapter 2

  Chi cerca, trova, e talor quel che non vorrebbe

  (He who seeks, finds, and sometimes finds what he would rather not)

  I wrestled my cases upstairs. The stairs, made of stone, seemed solid enough, but the wrought iron hand railing wobbled at my touch. The house needed a lot of work. Maybe this Tommaso guy would be just as happy as I to be shot of the place?

  I couldn’t remember how many bedrooms the house had. Lots, it had seemed to my kid self. But considering how impressed I’d been by a few decorative crenellations, maybe not as many as I’d thought. I started with my father’s room, peeking inside, then shutting the door quickly. I wasn’t yet ready to face the tumbled emotions evoked by his personal space.

  Instead, I chose the guest room at the opposite end of the long corridor, the same one I’d used as a child. Both the shutters and the curtains were closed. I set my smallest bag down on the bench at the foot of the wooden four-poster bed, dropped the big wheelie bag in the middle of the floor, and hurried to open the windows. Dust motes danced in the light when I gingerly opened the drapes, but the room appeared reasonably clean, and the bed was freshly made, with new bedding; grey and masculine-looking pillows and duvet.

  Kicking off my shoes, I climbed under the duvet, pulled it up over my head, and let sleep take me away – away from the strangeness of Italy, this silent house and its memories, back to the only place I’d ever felt truly at home: that sixth floor corner office in Cheapside from which I’d been banned for four interminable months.

  When I woke, disoriented, and with my empty stomach complaining, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything since the quickie pain au chocolat and coffee in the airport that morning, the room was in pitch darkness. Silence reverberated in my ears. No distant hum of traffic, no muted sounds of the neighbours’ telly, none of the small, comforting sounds of my housemates moving in the house. I couldn’t remember when last I’d felt so utterly alone. Probably not since the last time I was in this house.

  Somewhere in the house something creaked, and I shot up off the bed.

  The castello felt very big and very empty. How far away were the nearest neighbours? Was there anyone else on the property at night, any workers, or a night watchman? Would anyone hear if I screamed for help? I hadn’t thought to ask Luca.

  Barefoot, I tiptoed to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it, but there were no other sounds. The door squeaked as
I opened it, making me jump.

  This is stupid. You’re a grown woman. You’re a competent, successful, twenty-first-century woman who can take care of herself. And I was hungry.

  The kitchen hadn’t seemed so far away when I was a kid. I made my way down through the darkened house, not switching on any lights. Even if I could remember where the switches were, I didn’t want to turn myself into a target on the off-chance there was an intruder.

  The vast kitchen with its high-beamed ceiling was eerily full of looming shadows, and the yellow lamplight spilling from the single overhead lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom. I filled the electric kettle, then rinsed out the teapot to brew a fresh pot. But tea wasn’t going to be enough to silence my grumbling stomach. Had the considerate person who’d left milk and made up my bed also left food?

  There was nothing in the kitchen itself, but John always loved biscuits with his tea. That would be better than nothing. So I headed into the pantry, and was still groping for the light switch when I heard a sound that turned my veins to ice. I froze. The outer kitchen door creaked open.

  The wind blowing open an unlatched door? Ghosts?

  But it was worse than ghosts. The high-pitched creak turned into an ominously final bang as the door shut again, and then there were heavy, booted footsteps across the kitchen floor.

  My heart leapt into my throat. It was beating so hard, I was sure I was at serious risk of a coronary. Forget the stress of a corporate job. This was a million times worse.

  With my heart thudding loudly enough against my ribs that the intruder could probably hear it on the other side of the pantry door, I clung to the door handle, steadying myself, relieved to be hidden here in the pitch dark. With my free hand, I groped behind me, and my fingers hit cold iron, rounding on a solid, heavy handle.

  The door handle twisted unexpectedly beneath my fingers and I squealed, louder even than the handle had, giving myself away.

  The pantry door swung open, and all my blood drained to my toes.