by Romy Sommer
I really shouldn’t say yes. I was supposed to be resting, and Cleo would have a fit if she found out I’d taken a job, even a job baking. But what Cleo didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt her… ‘Okay, but on three conditions.’
Beatrice waited for me to continue, her dark eyes alight.
‘First, I want to use my own kitchen.’ That way I could still oversee house renovations and keep up a semblance of being on holiday.
Beatrice nodded.
‘Second, I don’t have a car, so you’ll need to send someone to collect from me each day.’
She nodded again.
‘And third, it’ll only be for the summer. I have a job in London I must get back to at the end of September.’
‘You have a deal!’
We shook hands on it, and I laughed, Beatrice’s delight infusing me with sudden warmth. As we lingered over the cheese board and frothy cups of cappuccino, we chatted about breads and cakes and quantities, and I’d never been happier – and it wasn’t entirely the effect of the mellowing wine.
This enforced holiday no longer seemed as bleak and terrifying as it had a couple of days ago. Now I wouldn’t have to sit idly and count down the days of my exile. All I needed was a stove that didn’t have it in for me.
Chapter 7
L’uomo giusto arriva al momento giusto
(The right man comes at the right time)
The next morning I was in the pantry, purging the shelves of expired tinned foods, spider webs and grime, when I heard the familiar throaty roar of Tommaso’s vintage car pull up in the yard behind the house, then a few minutes later a quick knock at the open back door.
‘You can come in,’ I called. ‘I’m in the pantry, but I’m unarmed.’
He was dressed for work, in jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, with heavy work boots on his feet. He loomed so large in the low entryway that he blocked out most of the light. ‘If you’re going to be baking for the trattoria, we should get that chimney cleaned.’
‘I was kind of hoping I could carry on using your oven.’
His mouth ticked up at the corner. ‘Coward! You used to be more kickass than that. But seriously, bread baked in a wood oven tastes better than that baked in an electric one.’
He was right, much as it galled me to admit it. I followed him back into the kitchen and eyed the old stove with trepidation. My initial wariness of it had morphed into full-on distrust since what I referred to as The Smoke Incident. ‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘I don’t suggest you do anything. I suggest we check the chimney first.’
How chivalrous that he was offering to help, but it still didn’t answer my question.
Tommaso held out his mobile phone. ‘Old-fashioned trick passed down through the generations.’ He unhooked a wooden pizza paddle from the wall beside the stove and laid his mobile face-up on it. Then he slid open the hatch in the side of the stove. I bent forward, curious, as he switched on the phone’s camera, set it on video mode, and slid the board into the hatch. When he slid the phone back out, I leaned even closer, my head almost touching his, to watch in fascination as he replayed the shaky video. On the screen, a full moon shaped ball of light was visible at the end of the flue.
‘No nests or any other obstructions blocking the flue, so it’s probably just old residue lining the chimney walls that needs to be cleaned out.’ He shut the hatch, then looked up, and my breath stuck in my throat. Our eyes were nearly level, our faces so close that if either one of us moved an inch, our mouths would meet … I jumped back.
‘Old family trick, huh? Where did you really learn to do that?’
‘From television.’
When my eyebrows arched in incredulity, he laughed. ‘Yes, I still have a dark side.’
I clearly watched the wrong kinds of TV shows. The Great British Bake-off hadn’t taught me how to light a fire or check a chimney for obstructions.
‘I suppose that means I’ll need to get a chimney sweep in.’ Was there even such a thing these days? Probably just an expensive contractor who’d charge me the equivalent of a limb for ten minutes’ work.
‘Or we can do it ourselves,’ Tommaso offered. ‘If you don’t mind getting a little dirty?’
He’d already seen me in my pyjamas, choking on smoke. How much worse could a bit of dirt be? ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Lay a few dust cloths around the stove. I’m going up on the roof.’
Dust cloths were the one thing there was no shortage of in the house, with the exception of spider webs, so I hurried off to collect an armful. When I returned to the kitchen, the reverberation of Tommaso’s footsteps sounded extra-loud on the tiled roof above. I laid the cloths over the floor, table and counters, then hurried outside, anxious to check on his safety. Standing far back in the yard so I could see up on the roof, I shielded my eyes against the morning light to watch as Tommaso bent over the square, redbrick chimney. He had already removed the chimney cap and was now screwing a square-shaped chimney brush onto the end of what looked like a very long, stiff hose. Had he learned to clean chimneys from television too?
He twisted the brush down the chimney, pumping hard to extend the brush all the way down the chimney. As he brought the brush back up, he coughed on the cloud of sooty black dust that billowed up.
Just as well it was him up on that roof and not me. I’d already swallowed enough smoke and ash for one week.
Partially silhouetted against the rising sun, his body was clearly outlined. Tommaso might be built bigger than Luca, but there was no spare fat on him. He was all lean muscle and sinewy strength. As he worked the long brush up and down the chimney, his arm muscles bulged beneath the taut fabric of his shirt. I’d always liked a man with strong arms. I swallowed a very inappropriate sigh and looked away.
When he’d removed the brush and its hose attachments, and replaced the chimney cap, I moved to the base of the ladder leaning up against the wall to hold it steady. Tommaso came down the ladder rung by rung, his boots coming first into my line of view, then his denim-clad calves and thighs. The soft denim was worn into the shape of his body, hugging the lean thighs and firm backside that drew level with my gaze.
I coughed and averted my gaze. This was Tommy, the boy I’d played with as a kid. I didn’t want to think of him in any other way. Especially in any way that would make me go weak-kneed or lose my head.
Until the castello sold, or he bought me out, we were rivals for this property. Luca’s contract might call us partners, but we still had to negotiate the terms for divvying up my father’s inheritance between us. I couldn’t afford to forget that or go soft on him – which was most likely the only reason he was being so helpful, anyway. Either that or to make sure I wasn’t in his space any more than necessary. I wasn’t sure which of those reasons was most offensive.
‘Thank you,’ I said gruffly when he’d jumped from the bottom rung to stand back on solid ground.
‘Shall we get a fire going, and see if it’s working now? I brought some well-seasoned wood.’
As much as I wanted to say ‘thanks, I can take it from here’, and as much as I didn’t want to owe him any more than I already did, I couldn’t refuse the offer. Reluctantly, I led him back into the kitchen.
The dust cloths had done their job, though there wasn’t as much soot in the kitchen as I’d expected. The oven was thankfully well-insulated and would need little more than a wipe down, but the firebox inside needed a good brush out. I used the brushes from the big copper pot beside the oven to clean out the soot, while Tommaso carried in armfuls of piney-smelling wood from his car.
He showed me how to build and start the fire, using kindling and air for an effective blaze, rather than simply piling in the wood. Then, once he was satisfied, he stood back, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. ‘No smoke! That should sort you out now.’
The scent of the burning wood smoke definitely added a homelier feel to the kitchen. A way homelier scent than clouds of acrid smoke.
�
��Thank you,’ I said again, meaning it, but clearly my tone didn’t carry as much gratitude as I intended, because Tommaso frowned.
‘Are you always this grumpy about accepting help?’
Pots and kettles. I turned away to collect the armful of dust cloths. ‘Just out of practice. I don’t usually need anyone’s help.’ And two times in as many days was about as much as I could handle.
Tommaso shrugged, his expression back to its usual surly look. ‘Well, that’s okay then, because I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Beatrice. True Tuscan breads and desserts should be baked in a wood oven for authentic flavour.’
For Beatrice. Of course. The sudden spike of jealousy was completely irrational. I knew that, but it didn’t stop me from feeling it. I dumped the dust cloths beside the big sink and washed my hands. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you from your work for too long.’
And why on earth was he still hanging around, when his expression so clearly showed he didn’t want to be here? Instead, he hovered just a few feet away, his presence so dominating he might just as well have been standing right beside me. I dried my hands on a tea towel and turned back to him, eyebrow arched enquiringly.
He didn’t look at me as he ran a hand through his thick hair. ‘You should come up to the cellar. Take a look at the improvements we’ve made. Your father cared very deeply about the winery.’
If my back hadn’t already been up, now it was. I didn’t want to see the winery, and I didn’t need to be reminded that my father loved the winery more than he’d loved anything else. And if Tommaso thought for even one moment that mentioning the winery or John was going to make me soft and sentimental so I’d cut him a good deal, then he clearly didn’t know me. I was practical and efficient, and never let sentiment get in the way of the numbers. ‘Thanks for the invitation, but I have a busy day planned.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He slammed the kitchen door as he left, and the shutter outside the kitchen window fell to the ground with a heavy clunk.
I rolled my eyes heavenwards. Now what had gotten into him?
I didn’t watch as he strode back to his car. I had bread to make, and bread wasn’t complicated like people. Bread didn’t have a hidden agenda, didn’t have an attitude, and didn’t get grumpy just because a woman didn’t fall for emotional manipulation.
‘So what exciting adventures did you get up to today? I could do with some light entertainment,’ Cleo asked. There’d been a tube strike, it had taken her hours to get home, and she sounded exasperated.
I had to rack my brain for something to say. ‘I checked out my old playmate’s butt, and he’s actually kind of hot’ didn’t sound appropriate, much though it would cheer Cleo up.
‘Tommaso cleaned out the chimney, and I unblocked a bathroom drain. It was riveting stuff. Want to hear about it?’
‘God no! Not until I’ve had at least two glasses of wine. Have you heard from that sexy lawyer of yours?’
‘Nothing. Not even a text.’ Though to be fair, since the castello didn’t have signal maybe he had tried. I hoped. And then hated myself for hoping. ‘What’s been happening at the office?’
‘This and that.’
Uh-oh. Cleo was hedging. ‘That bad?’
‘I met the guy from the Delta Corporation today. The one I’ll be working with for the next few months.’
‘Please don’t tell me he’s twelve and still has acne.’
‘Worse.’
‘Balding, paunchy and single, and already asked you out on a date?’
‘Nope. He has a full head of hair.’
‘So married or gay then. Oh well, that’s just typical.’
‘No…’ Cleo was definitely hedging now.
‘So…?’ I prompted.
‘He’s the most arrogant, annoying…’ She sucked in a breath, as if she’d said too much.
I bit my lip. ‘I am so, so sorry. It’s my fault you’re in this position and having to work with the man.’
‘Bullshit. It’s not your fault he’s an arse.’
‘What did he do? Try to feel you up in the break room?’
‘Worse. He asked me to make his coffee. As if I’m some twenty-year-old Girl Friday!’
‘And did you?’
‘Well, yes, but that’s beside the point. Even if I survive the week working with this man, I think I might need to join you on “garden leave”.’
‘Great idea. You can help unblock the drains.’
‘On second thoughts, maybe I’ll hang in here a little longer. But if I get arrested for murdering him, would you put up bail for me?’
‘Of course. And I promise I’ll find you a very sexy lawyer.’
At last Cleo laughed. Job done.
Chapter 8
Chi ha la sua casa, poco gli manca
(He who owns his own house, lacks for nothing)
I was up early the next morning, though not as early as Tommaso. His car was already gone from the yard when I wandered into the kitchen and switched on the kettle for tea.
The driver who’d collected the bread loaves and desserts yesterday had brought a box of goodies from Beatrice, including a glass bottle of milk with a layer of cream floating on top. I surveyed the ingredients I’d spread across the kitchen table, feeling like a contestant in a cooking show. A jar of raspberry jam with the Rossi farm logo, which would take care of the ‘locally sourced’ requirement, almonds, creamed cheese, and precious, blessed yeast…
I heaved out a breath. Baking in a big old kitchen a half hour drive from the nearest store required a whole lot more creativity than baking in my high-tech kitchen in Wanstead with a Tesco’s in walking distance.
What could I make with what I had?
Et voilà! Okay, wrong language, but right sentiment – I would make mini raspberry bakewell tarts, with a sweetened cream cheese filling. Mary Berry, eat your heart out!
With a smile worthy of any on-air contestant about to annihilate the competition, I washed my hands, and set about creating the tart dough, sifting flour, sugar and salt together, digging my fingers in to rub in the butter until the mix formed a pastry of fine crumbs. Then I added eggs and milk to create a firm but soft dough, careful to ensure the dough became neither too warm nor too sticky. Wrapping the dough in cling film, I set it aside in the pantry to chill, and took a fresh cup of tea and a plate of toast out to the terrace.
The sun had risen to its zenith, filling the valley with warm, bright light. The trellis that covered the paved terrace sagged beneath the weight of a massive wisteria, its vivid purple blossoms turning towards the sun. It was the largest wisteria I’d ever seen, easily triple the size it had been when I was last here.
I sat on the wooden bench, which was set at the optimum angle to take in the view, and propped my feet up on the sun-warmed balustrade, breathing in the fresh air. A tractor hummed in the distance, birds sang, and cicadas buzzed loudly in the still, heavy air.
For the first time since I’d woken, I thought of the office, wondering how Cleo was coping with The Arse. It was probably raining in London. I lifted my face to the sun. A little sunshine could fix almost anything. Maybe Cleo should come out for a few days before the summer was over.
I breathed in deeply, tasted the rosemary, lavender, and dark earth.
How long had it been since I’d done nothing but sit idly in a patch of sun? When last had a day stretched out before me, with no To Do list, a day where I didn’t have to be responsible to anyone? Not since I was a teen, for sure. Maybe I really did need this holiday.
My eyes fluttered closed, and I let out a long sigh. The sun’s glare battered against my eyelids.
The distant tractor sound choked and cut off, and I frowned at the rude interruption of my reverie, reminding me this wasn’t a holiday, and that I was still here, in a decrepit castello in need of some serious TLC. But at least I had dough rising in the kitchen. As long as there is dough, there is hope, Nonna used to say.
Back in the warm kitchen, the dough had risen faster than it
would have in the cooler English climate. I rolled it out, lined Nonna’s sturdy muffin pan with it, then added baking paper and baking beans, before setting the pan in the oven to bake.
While the pastry cases baked, I whisked up the creamed cheese, adding butter and caster sugar, and beat the mix until it was light and fluffy. Then I added yet more eggs (I’d need to buy a whole lot more of those soon), ground the almonds and folded them into the mix, and finally added a touch of lemon zest – also locally sourced, right off the lemon tree in the back yard. I’d never baked with ingredients I’d actually picked myself before.
The kitchen filled with the warm, satisfying aroma of baking pastry, and I hummed as I worked. When the pastry cases were done, I removed the beans and paper from the tart pans, spread a thick layer of raspberry jam over the pastry crusts, spooned in the sweet filling, then slid the tarts back into the oven.
I was raiding the overflowing patch in the herb garden for fresh strawberries to use as garnish, when a car turned into the castello’s long drive. I shielded my eyes against the sun, and my heart did a silly little skip as I recognised the silver sports car.
Luca wasn’t alone, though. He’d brought the real estate agent to value the house.
The realtor was a woman – a curvy woman with lustrous dark hair swept up in a loose tumble of curls, and wearing a figure-hugging dress in fire engine red, and heels I wouldn’t be able to walk in.
Beside the realtor, with floury hands stained pink with sticky strawberry juice, and dressed in the ridiculous floral apron I’d found in an upstairs closet, I felt woefully plain.
The estate agent wandered from room to room, tut-tutting, and making copious notes on her clipboard. I trailed after them but, since they spoke mostly in Italian, I was only able to understand every other word. And Luca was no fun today. He was all business – no sidelong smiles, no casual touches, no flirting. I was pleased when the mobile in my apron pocket buzzed to warn me the tarts were done, giving me an excuse to escape back to the kitchen.