by Romy Sommer
Alone, I admitted my disappointment. What the hell are you thinking? No holiday romances, remember? This is for the best.
Except it didn’t feel like it was for the best. This was why I hated dating. That up and down, ‘Does he like me? Doesn’t he like me?’ nonsense. My friends might have thought Kevin was dull, but at least I’d never had any doubt about his interest in me. Right up until I realised I wasn’t the only one he’d been interested in.
Half an hour later, when the tarts were cooling on the kitchen table, Luca and the statuesque estate agent traipsed back into the kitchen. She handed me a list that was several pages long. ‘You fix these, then we take pictures and put the house on our website. But the way the castello is now, no di certo! No chance! There are already too many rundown farmhouses on the market.’
I glanced at the list, and my mouth fell open. Some seemed easy enough: fix the front door, re-paint the interiors, clear the clutter, but the rest…! Plumbing, wiring, plastering, the access road to be re-tarred – I might as well re-build the castello from the ground up to make it sellable. Maybe a fire would have been a blessing. I would certainly need a contractor to tick off at least half the items on this list.
I walked them out to the car, the list still clutched in my floury, sticky hand. For one brief moment as we said goodbye, with the estate agent already seated in the car, I caught a glimpse of the Luca who’d taken me to lunch and charmed me with his attention.
‘You need help hiring a contractor?’ he asked. The mischievous spark was back in his eyes, but it didn’t have its intended effect. What was it with all these men treating me like a delicate flower? I needed Luca’s help even less than I’d needed Tommaso’s.
‘I’ll be fine.’ Making a few phone calls and getting quotes was hardly up there with brain surgery. Or with structuring private equity deals.
A day later, I no longer felt quite so confident. I cradled the old rotary phone in my lap and resisted the urge to smack it violently against the bedpost. How was it possible there wasn’t a single building contractor in the whole of Siena province willing to look at the house before Christmas?
I was in the kitchen, pounding out my stress on a fresh ball of bread dough, this time for my own consumption, when Daniele arrived in the farm’s battered pick-up truck to fetch the daily delivery for the trattoria. He carried in a basket of brown eggs and set them on the counter beside the kitchen sink. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘Nothing.’
He chuckled. ‘When a woman says “nothing” it definitely means “something”.’ He leaned against the doorjamb. He wore work-stained cargo pants, scuffed boots, and a checked shirt, and looked as if he’d just stepped off a tractor. I’d never before thought a farmer could be sexy, but I was rapidly changing my mind. If I were ten years younger, I’d be salivating about now. Instead, I simply felt old beyond my years beside his youth and vitality.
I eased up on the pummelling I was giving the dough and wiped my hands on the apron. ‘This place needs urgent work done, and I can’t do it on my own. But I’m struggling to find a single contractor who will even meet with me to give me a quote.’
Daniele shrugged. ‘Most contractors in Tuscany book up years in advance. But I’ll ask around. My father knows everyone in the area – maybe he can find someone who can at least give you a price?’
I smiled for the first time in over an hour. ‘Thank you. I’d really appreciate that.’
‘That’s what neighbours do.’ He leaned over the box of fresh ciabatta loaves and small dinner rolls I’d packed ready for him to take away. ‘Mmm. Something smells good in here.’ He reached inside and, knowing exactly what he was going for, I playfully swatted his hand away. ‘Those are for the trattoria, not for you!’
He pulled a face, looking like a big kid. ‘But zeppole are my favourite! Did you make them with cream or custard?’
‘Neither. I made them with ricotta.’ I laughed at his expression. ‘No don’t tell me – ricotta zeppole are your favourite?’
‘But of course!’
‘There’s another batch in the fridge. You can have a few if you promise to ask your father about the contractors.’
‘I promise.’ He was already headed across the kitchen to the old fridge, and I laughed again. He returned a moment later with a handful of the deep-fried doughnut balls. ‘You are a goddess! How is it possible some man hasn’t married you yet?’
I made a face. ‘Probably because I don’t need a husband.’
Daniele grinned. ‘No woman needs a husband. But wanting one is a different matter entirely.’
I had a pretty good idea now how Beatrice felt when she was badgered by her brothers. ‘What about you – you plan on marrying any time soon?’
Daniele laughed, his grin deepening. ‘I want a lot of women. Until I find one who makes me stop wanting all the others, I don’t plan to marry.’
Typical man. They all wanted to have their cake and eat it too. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to the trattoria? Your sister will want this stuff before the lunch rush starts.’
Taking the hint, Daniele loaded up the box and headed out to his truck, whistling jauntily. I didn’t watch him leave. I contemplated the egg basket, my mind already moving on to fresh possibilities. Would John’s private cellar contain any sweet wine? I’d never made zabaglione before, but if I could find a nice Moscato … I barely even heard the truck pull out the yard.
The next day Alberto arrived with a contractor friend of his – a small, round, balding man with a moustache that over-compensated for the lack of hair on his head. I was so pleased to see them both, I could have hugged them. Instead, I settled for a polite handshake, and handed over the realtor’s list.
The contractor muttered to himself as we traipsed after him through the castello.
‘It’s bad. Very bad,’ he said at last, when we returned to the kitchen.
Of course it was bad. I could see that much for myself. ‘But what will it take to make the place at least look habitable?’
The little man shrugged, making the Italian palms-up gesture for ‘who knows?’ I slid a bowl of fresh zeppole in front of him, this time sweetened with strawberries from my own garden. I wasn’t above a little bribery.
The contractor popped two of the doughnut balls in his mouth while he thought about it. When he’d finally swallowed, and named a staggering number, I should have been sitting down. The point of this exercise was to sell the castello, not sink my life’s savings into it.
‘I don’t need a miracle – just a coat of paint and some carpentry. Maybe even just half the items on the list?’ I asked hopefully. After all, the realtor surely couldn’t expect the house to be in mint condition to sell?
The man shrugged ruefully and explained something in Italian to Alberto who then passed on the translation. ‘This is a heritage building. Not important enough to get historic conservancy funding, but all the renovations have to fit the tight regulations that govern older buildings. It can be very expensive.’
The little man nodded fervently. ‘If you wait to the new year, I will give fifteen per cent discount,’ he offered in his slow English, as he eyed the remaining zeppole hopefully.
‘But I can’t wait until after Christmas!’
Alberto spread his hands. ‘What’s the hurry? Fifteen per cent is a lot of money.’
They didn’t understand. It wasn’t about the money. I had a job to get back to, a life to get back to. It was one thing to use my enforced summer holiday to get the house fixed and sold, but I didn’t want to be tied to this place any longer than necessary. And I had no faith that a single bottling going to market would earn enough to enable Tommaso to buy me out. How much could a few barrels of wine really make?
No, the best Christmas present anyone could give me would be to be shot of Castel Sant’Angelo, and everything it represented.
If I couldn’t get a contractor in, then I’d simply have to do the work myself. I was a competent modern woman, not afra
id of hard work, and I knew how to use YouTube. How hard could it be to do a little painting and plastering?
Chapter 9
Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro
(He who finds a friend, finds a treasure)
I woke to a puddle seeping out of John’s room and into the hallway. A pipe in his bathroom had burst and not for the first time, I was sure, considering the damage in the rooms below. By the time I’d found where to switch off the water supply to that bathroom, I was sopping wet, filthy, and in desperate need of a shower and tea. I was also way behind schedule with my morning’s baking. Thank heavens I’d already prepared the bread dough the night before, but there wasn’t time for the elaborate and delicately layered sfogliatelle pastries I’d hoped to make for the trattoria’s daily dessert. Instead, I fell back on an English favourite: bread and butter pudding.
In the absence of sultanas and currants, I substituted the dark chocolate chips intended for the sfogliatelle.
I was only halfway through mixing the warmed milk and eggs, using Nonna’s Fifties’ aqua-coloured Sunbeam mixer, when a car entered the yard. It wasn’t the the unmistakable sound of Tommaso’s vintage car, the familiar rattle of the Rossi farm van, or the purr of Luca’s sports car. Curious, I switched off the mixer and headed to the door, wiping my hands on the big floral apron.
The car that parked beside the house was a cherry red Fiat hatchback, and from it Beatrice emerged, looking as effortlessly elegant as she had before, though today’s dress was a simple halter neck in primrose yellow that set off her gorgeous olive skin.
‘Buongiorno!’ she called, waving. She shut the car door and crossed the yard, gliding in her low heels as if the gravel yard was smooth as tar.
There definitely had to be something in the local water. Hopefully some of that effortless style would rub off on me if I stayed long enough.
‘Buongiorno. I’m afraid I’m not yet ready with today’s delivery,’ I apologised, welcoming her into the kitchen.
‘Scialla. No worries. Today I take you to the market.’
An outing! I’d been dying to get out of the house all week, and was desperately low on provisions, but… ‘That’s kind of you, but I still need to finish today’s dessert.’
‘I will wait until you’re finished, then we drop the pastries at the trattoria on the way to town.’
I poured the milky mix over the oversized baking pan layered with buttered bread slices and chocolate chips, then sprinkled cinnamon across the top. Once the pan was safely stowed in the oven, I settled the old kettle on the hob. Aside from saving electricity by using the already-heated wood stove, there was something rather satisfying about the whistle of an old-fashioned kettle. In less than a week I’d become a convert.
As we sipped our tea, Beatrice peeked into the box destined for the trattoria, just as her brother had done, humming her appreciation as she breathed in the aroma of fresh baked bread and sighed. ‘You have a magic touch!’
She pulled up a chair across the table from me and sat, resting the steaming cup of tea between her hands. ‘Your ricotta zeppole were such a hit. We’ve even had a review on TripAdvisor praising them.’
I glanced at the porcelain wood stove, and the vintage mixer still propped over the equally vintage Tupperware mixing bowl. ‘I wish what I was offering you was more professional. This kitchen may not look like much, but at least it shouldn’t violate any health codes.’
Beatrice waved that expressive hand in the air again, dismissing my concerns. ‘It looks just like our old farmhouse kitchen. It looks like home. And that is what we promise our customers: good, home-style food.’
This wasn’t my idea of the ideal home, but looking around, I could see what Beatrice meant. Perhaps not the sort of slick, modern interior design I’d choose for myself, but the sort of home where people would pile around the table for noisy meals. It had to have been at least three decades since this kitchen had been the heart of any lively family meal. John and I had usually eaten our meals alone in the dining room, or when he was working, I had eaten in the cottage with Nonna and Tommaso.
Beatrice looked around too. ‘I’ve always wanted to see inside this castello. Papà used to come here to play briscola, the card game, and sometimes your father would come to our house, but I’ve never been inside.’
‘I’ll give you a guided tour, but don’t expect much. The house is in a very bad state.’
And yet, as I led Beatrice from room to room, the house no longer seemed as depressing as it had a week before. With the dust cloths removed, and the vacuuming, dusting and de-cluttering I’d managed, and with the shutters open to the gorgeous summer sunshine, the rooms looked a great deal more cheerful than when I’d arrived. I could even overlook the cracks in the plaster, or the peeling wallpaper. I avoided the library though, and when we’d passed through the dining room with its faded frescoes, Beatrice had a first-hand glimpse of the small mountain of assorted chairs, spindle-legged tables and other odds and ends which I’d dumped beneath the staircase.
‘There is a furniture shop in town that does repairs,’ Beatrice offered. ‘We will ask Bernardo if he can fix and sell some of this for you, if you want?’
I nodded vigorously. There were only so many side tables one house could hold. Some rooms in the house looked like they belonged in an episode of Hoarders.
When the bread and butter pudding was done, I rid myself of the apron, and we loaded the box into Beatrice’s little car, where it filled the back seat.
First, we drove to the trattoria, where Beatrice’s cousin Matteo took possession of the box, cooing over its contents in incomprehensible dialectic Italian. Then, with the car’s air con turned up high, we headed towards Montalcino, chatting loudly over the voice of Taylor Swift on the car’s sound system. The rolling countryside of the Val d’Orcia spread out around us, farm houses sprinkled across the landscape, between seas of vines and patches of dark woods, the same classic views that decorated guidebooks, tourism posters and calendars the world over.
The road twisted and turned, circling westward around the old town perched on its hill. At last, in the middle of a hairpin bend that had me clinging to my seat, a gate opened up a view through the walls into the village. Barely slowing, Beatrice continued past it, across a roundabout with a statue of Bacchus, god of wine, at its centre, then along the wall of the fortezza, the ancient medieval fortress which dominated the town. She drove straight past the large paid parking lot too, to an unpaved area beyond.
‘This is where the locals park,’ she said, tapping her nose. ‘It’s our little secret. I always find a spot here, even when the town is full with visitors, like today.’
It was gone half ten when we arrived at the market set up in the Piazza del Popolo, where the market stalls and wagons were already thronged with people. The atmosphere was lively, the piazza filled with colour, music, voices, and enough scents to make even the most die-hard non-foodie’s mouth water.
There’d been a time I’d considered myself something of a foodie, when most of my shopping had been done at Borough Market, or on Berwick Street, rather than at Tesco’s, back in the days before long working hours and the relentless urge to stay ahead of the game had kicked in. Now, standing in the heart of the bustling market, buffeted by the scents and sounds, I felt oddly as if I’d come home.
‘Next week, we come earlier,’ Beatrice said. ‘Montalcino is at its best in the early mornings and late afternoons, when it’s not so hot, and the tourists are not so many.’
I’d thought the co-op was well stocked with fresh produce, but it was nothing on the goods on display here: flowers, fruits, vegetables, preserves, and even fresh meat – and none of the cheap mass-produced tat that I remembered from the markets in Rome. ‘I’ve died and gone to heaven.’
Beatrice laughed. ‘Of course, we don’t import from all corners of the globe, like in London, so you won’t find the same range of choice. Here, the produce is all seasonal.’
While she focuse
d on her shopping list for the trattoria, I lost myself among the food stalls. The bargain-priced produce on display was nothing like the hard, early-picked, never-going-to-ripen-but-perfectly-shaped produce more likely to be found these days in supermarkets, but they were the luscious kind of fruits I remembered from childhood, blemished, less than perfect, and dripping with juice.
My mouth watered as I wandered through the stalls, admiring the salamis and zucchini, olives, fat pears and tomatoes – not the watery, pale, over-sized tomatoes mass-produced for the big chains, but misshapen tomatoes full of colour that still smelled of earth and sun. I pointed to the wooden crate. ‘Two dozen, per favore.’
The stall holder began to select tomatoes and pack them into a brown paper bag for me, but then Beatrice materialised at my shoulder.
‘È questo il tuo amico?’ he asked, glancing between us.
‘Sì, this is my friend Sarah. She is baking now for the trattoria,’ Beatrice replied.
With an apologetic shrug, the man emptied the brown bag back into the crate and bent down to dig under the stall’s counter, to re-pack the paper bag from an unseen stash.
‘The stall holders keep the best produce aside for regulars,’ Beatrice explained in a whisper.
‘You try?’ the man asked, holding out one of the smaller tomatoes. ‘I grow everything myself.’
With a smile, I bit into it, and the succulent, sweet flavour exploded on my tongue.
I wiped my chin. ‘That’s so good! Do you have celery too? Then I can make tomato-and-herb bread.’
The stall holder grinned, and handed me the brown paper bag, now filled with the reddest, lushest tomatoes I’d ever seen and several giant sticks of celery.
I’d never had so much fun shopping before. We wandered from stall to stall, with Beatrice introducing me to more people than I could hope to remember, and by the time the stall holders began packing up their wares at noon, we’d filled the wheeled basket Beatrice had brought. We packed our purchases into the little red car, then I insisted on treating my new friend to lunch at one of the town’s sidewalk cafés.