by Romy Sommer
‘You live in Montalcino? Do you live with your parents?’
Could I be any less subtle? He was a grown man in his thirties. Of course he didn’t live with his parents.
Luca’s espresso-dark gaze stayed steady, direct and guileless. ‘I have an apartment in Montalcino, not far from my office, but my parents own the farm next to yours. It has been in our family for hundreds of years.’
Well, no one could say he wasn’t being completely honest. I swallowed a long sip of the wine before I answered. ‘I heard. I also heard your father wants to buy Castel Sant’Angelo.’
‘It’s more a point of honour with him. There is a matter of fifteen hectares that have been in dispute between our two farms for centuries.’ He shrugged, expression rueful. ‘Of course, we could use the extra land, but I don’t think he even cares about that. He sees it more as settling an old score – winning a rivalry with a family that died out a generation or more ago. He inherited a vendetta from his father, and his father before that.’
I toyed with my pasta, twirling it around the fork. ‘And you haven’t inherited it?’
There was that Latinate shrug again. ‘If Tommaso could be encouraged to sell, I would be happier if the vineyard sold to us, rather than to outsiders, but if he doesn’t … I’m a lover, not a fighter.’ Luca spread his hands wide in a gesture of surrender and smiled. The dimple flashed in his cheek, making it hard for me to think. ‘And I would rather not be saddled with that wreck of a house!’
Definitely, no one could say he wasn’t being honest. Brutally honest. But I felt oddly defensive. ‘It’s not that bad. It has lots of potential.’
‘It is a money pit! Toscana is littered with abandoned farmhouses and villas from more prosperous times. There are plenty of foreigners and city people with too much money and a romantic view of our region who are willing to throw their money at a building that will give them nothing in return. They think we are all fields of sunflowers and rolling hills covered in vines. They don’t see the work.’ He leaned forward to whisper. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I hate to work. Life is to be savoured, not sweated.’ And with that, he topped up my wine glass.
Had Luca ever had to work for anything? The car he drove, his fancy watch, the easy assurance with which he carried himself, were the marks of someone raised with wealth. And with his good looks, whatever money couldn’t buy, I was sure he could buy with nothing more than charm.
I, on the other hand, had had to work hard for everything I had. My terrace house in Wanstead, the healthy bank balance, security … I worked my ass off to afford those things.
After lunch, we wandered through the city, and Luca pointed out the sights – the palazzos and churches, of which there were many. We stood in the monumental Piazza Grande, at the highest point of the city, possibly the only flat expanse in this city of sloping streets, and I wasn’t sure if my breathlessness was due to the imposing sights, the climb to get there, or the man standing half a pace behind me, not quite touching, but close enough that I was aware of his every breath in a way I really didn’t want to be.
He set a hand on my waist, turning me in a slow circle as he pointed out one building after the next, and I had to force myself to concentrate on his words. The Renaissance palaces enclosing the piazza were impressive, but they also seemed austere after the homelier buildings of Montalcino. The town hall with its decorative crenellations may not have been built for defence, but it certainly had been built for intimidation. And when we turned another half circle to look at the duomo, the Romanesque cathedral with its forbidding, unfinished redbrick facade, I shivered.
The duomo’s Baroque interior, decorated in exquisite detail, was a revelation, as different to the outside as I could have imagined. The glorious, airy church was quiet, the space dominated by a magnificent triptych above the main altar, a three-panelled painting of the Assumption of the Virgin, set into an ornate frame of gold leaf. The painting’s colours took my breath away; coral pinks, dusky blues and eye-catching reds, still vibrant after hundreds of years.
Painted by Taddeo di Bartolo in 1401, was all I managed to read in the printed brochure before Luca whisked me away. I wanted to linger, but ‘churches are boring,’ he said, taking my arm. ‘Now I take you wine tasting instead.’
I rolled my eyes. What was it with Tuscan men and wine?
We entered the cellar by passing through an unassuming door from the street, then descended a flight of dimly-lit, never-ending stone stairs into the bowels of the ridge on which the town was built. In places, the roof dipped so low Luca had to bow his head to pass through, and the steps were uneven enough that I clung to the hand railing. The temperature dropped the deeper we descended, and Luca offered me his jacket. It was a lightweight jacket, but warm from his body, and still smelling of his subtle, masculine cologne.
I laughed softly as I imagined myself as Buffy descending into the Hellmouth, my laugh bouncing eerily off the rock walls. Tommaso would get a kick out of that. The echoes of my laughter died. Why was I even thinking of a certain grumpy Scot when I had my own personal GQ-worthy tour guide?
‘This town is built over a honeycomb of wine cellars,’ Luca said, placing his hand against my lower back. ‘We are going down into one of the old Etruscan caves. These caves were used to store wine in the time before Christ, and they’re still used today, though this winery has only been around a few hundred years.’
Only a few hundred years. For Luca, at the end of a long line of vintners who had worked the same land for generations, maybe that didn’t seem so mind-blowing, but I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the concept. My own father hadn’t wanted to hand his land down even one generation.
At last we entered a warren of caves, lined with wine barrels of differing sizes, and separated by high vaulted arches of red brick which disappeared into even higher ceilings of rough-hewn stone. Then we entered one cave with a ceiling so high it looked more like a cathedral nave than a cellar. The cave held the most enormous wine barrels I’d ever seen. My awed whistle bounced off the walls. ‘Wow, these things are huge!’
‘At least ten thousand bottles in one barrel.’
‘That’s a lot of … bottles of wine.’ I’d very nearly said boxes of wine, and only just caught myself. ‘Must be scary for the winemaker if something happened to one of those barrels. Is that why they’re stored all the way down here?’
He shook his head. ‘These caves keep the wine at the perfect temperature. No need for fancy air cooling when the limestone does it for free. First, the wine is stored here, then it is moved into the smaller barrels you saw before, which are used to get the tannins just right.’
We emerged into a vaulted tasting room, where we sampled a selection of local wines, Luca stepping back to allow the knowledgeable server to guide me through sampling the different varieties of Vino Nobile on offer, including a local Vin Santo.
I breathed in the rich golden-red liquid as Luca and the server had done. ‘Sweet, like port,’ I offered.
The server nodded. ‘It is a dessert wine made from dried grapes. The name means holy wine, as it was often served at mass.’
I took a sip and closed my eyes as I let it linger on my tongue. Caramel, honey, hazelnut. I could imagine drinking this on a cold winter’s night, with snow falling outside the windows, and a log fire roaring in the grate.
‘The wine is made with the Trebbiano and Malvasia grapes that grow in your vineyard,’ Luca added.
My eyes rounded. ‘Do we make a Vin Santo?’
He nodded, and I didn’t miss his odd look, as if he expected me to know what wines our vineyard produced. Perhaps I should.
When we emerged into daylight once again, through another entrance on the lower levels of the town, the sun was already angling down, casting golden light over the mellow stone buildings. We wandered along the medieval city walls to admire the views as we slowly made our way back towards the parking lot.
When we arrived back at the castello, and Luca pulled up bef
ore the portico sheltering the front door, I waved him on, towards the yard at the back. ‘Until I can get a carpenter to sand it down, I’m avoiding the front door.’.
He carried my purchases into the kitchen, but before I had a chance to invite him to stay for coffee, he said, ‘I need to get back to my office. I must catch up on the work I missed today.’
‘Thank you. It’s been a fantastic day.’
He smiled a sexy smile that made his dimple flash and my knees turn to jelly. ‘Si. We should do it again sometime.’
‘Even the shopping?’
His smile deepened. ‘For you, even the shopping.’
Then he slid an arm around my waist and pulled me against him, his lips capturing mine. He tasted of Vin Santo, sweet and intoxicating, and his lips were firm and demanding. My hands slid around his waist, as I gave myself over to his kiss.
Then he let me go and I stepped back, dazed.
No holiday romance. No holiday romance. Maybe if I repeated it often enough, my sex-starved hormones would get the message.
‘If Tommaso ever changes his mind about selling the vineyard, you’ll let me know? Even just those fifteen hectares. My father will make a very generous offer.’ His smile flashed again. ‘Arrivederci.’
I stood on the drive to watch until the silver sports car disappeared from sight. I was still wearing Luca’s jacket, I realised. I hugged it tighter, breathing in his lingering scent.
No holiday romance. Absolutely not. Don’t even think about it.
Chapter 12
A saper aspettare c’è tutto da guadagnare
(Everything comes to those who wait)
The craving for Wi-Fi finally drove me to brave the hike to the winery. After one of Beatrice’s farm workers had driven off in the little van loaded with lemon meringue pie and big round loaves of pane all’olio made with marinated olives I’d bought at the market, I changed into clean jeans and a blouse, and headed out.
Today’s driver had brought a container filled with thin slices of freshly smoked prosciutto, so I armed myself with a platter of juicy melon slices wrapped in the dry-cured ham. Even at his grumpiest, Tommaso couldn’t say no to prosciutto, and as I said before, I’m not above bribery!
The road was dusty and longer than I remembered, following the curve of the hill through a plantation of olive trees, then through the cool depths of a forest of pine and chestnut. Wild white lilies grew at the side of the road, along with tangles of sweet blackberries which I picked and added to the platter. Patches of pink cyclamen lifted their heads above the rough, dry grass.
Then I emerged back into bright heat, the road twisting uphill through regimented rows of vines sleeping in the sun. By the time I arrived at the complex of traditional stone buildings which housed the nerve centre of the winery, I was pink-faced, dusty, sweaty, and irritable. My arms ached from carrying the platter, and my mood wasn’t improved much finding the cellar as deserted as the rows of vines had been. There were no sounds of workers’ voices or machinery, and no vehicles in the gravel forecourt, not even Tommaso’s vintage Alfa.
Was this the thriving business he was so desperate to hang onto?
‘Hello?’ I called, pushing open the heavy double doors and peering into the darkened tasting room. My voice echoed off the walls, and I slipped inside. It was cooler here, and my footsteps across the stone floor sounded overloud in the unexpected silence.
I had only vague memories of the winery. John had said it wasn’t a place for children, and sent us packing if we intruded too far. The public tasting room was the only place we’d been allowed, and that had changed dramatically from what I remembered.
It was still dark and cool, but there the resemblance ended. The back wall behind the bar counter had been completely removed and replaced with a glass wall that offered a floor to ceiling view into the winery itself – and that too had changed beyond belief. The mountains of small barrels I remembered had been replaced with massive stainless-steel vats. Everything looked high-tech, new and expensive.
The tasting room had been brought very firmly into the twenty-first century too. The modern stainless-steel light fittings, sleek leather sofas and bleached oak bar wouldn’t have looked out of place in a trendy London wine bar.
I set the napkin-covered platter on the bar and tiptoed across the long room to the door which led into John’s office.
Two large windows flooded the office with sunlight. Outside was the linden tree Tommaso and I had loved to climb, twice the size I remembered, its lowest branches surely too high now for any kid to reach.
The same two battered wooden desks stood where they had always stood, though now they sported modern desktop computers. One wall was covered in shelves of books. Looking closer, I realised they were ledgers, one for each year, starting at the turn of the century – the nineteenth century – and ending eight years ago.
Was that when Tommaso had started to work here? Because the computers were certainly his doing. My father had had the pre-computer generation’s mistrust of technology.
I turned away from the ledgers and a computer screen caught my eye. No screensaver, just a spreadsheet. My gaze slid across the data, and I leaned in closer, intrigued. This was Tommaso’s plan for the vineyard’s future, laid out in numbers.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ The office door banged explosively against the wall, and I started. Tommaso stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, face glowering. His angry stance wiped away my momentary guilt at being caught snooping.
‘This was my father’s office. I have every right to be here,’ I shot back.
‘Well, it’s my office now. And I’m busy. I don’t have time to indulge you in a trip down memory lane.’
Too busy for you. His words set off that distant echo that stirred my indignation even further. My chin jutted out. ‘You don’t look busy. The entire cellar is deserted.’
‘That’s because everyone is out working in the fields. We’re thinning the Brunello vines today.’
Breathe in. Count to three. Relax.
I’d intended this visit to be conciliatory, not to make things worse. ‘You did say I should come look at the cellar.’ I was pleased my voice didn’t sound defensive. Not so pleased when it came out breathy. Because Tommaso had begun to peel off his soil-stained T-shirt and was reaching for the crisp white collared shirt hanging on a hook behind the door.
Oh good Lord. How long had it been since I’d seen a man’s bare torso that I was practically salivating over Tommaso? Yes, sure, he was rather fit for a man approaching forty. Okay, exceptionally fit. And tanned.
And he had those sculpted V-shaped lower abs that I’d only ever seen on American TV shows or Outlander.
I swallowed and averted my gaze. First Luca, and now Tommaso. I seriously needed to watch a Thor marathon. A few hours of seeing Chris Hemsworth’s torso should sort me out and stop me from acting as if I were twenty years younger. Pity John hadn’t owned a television.
I only risked glancing up again when I was sure I had my blush under control – and Tommaso had finished buttoning up his clean shirt.
‘I have a tour group due any minute,’ he said impatiently. ‘They’ve booked a tour of the cellar as well as a tasting.’
‘Well, that’s perfect then. I’ll just tag along, and it’ll save you having to show me around another time.’
He scowled but didn’t disagree. Turning on his heel, he headed back into the tasting room just as the unmistakable sound of a bus engine struggling up the hill penetrated the cellar. I skipped after him. ‘Though you might want to try smiling before they arrive. You’ll scare off the customers with that face.’
He shot me another withering glance and strode to the front door to meet the guests. By the time I caught him up, he looked at least less forbidding, if still unsmiling.
The group consisted of more than a dozen American tourists, lively, enthusiastic, and already relaxed into their week-long Tuscan wine tour.
‘Thi
s is Sarah Wells, and she’ll be joining your tour this afternoon,’ Tommaso announced, ending any hope I had of following quietly and unobtrusively.
‘Do you know anything about wine, hun?’ one motherly woman asked, herding me along with her.
‘Almost nothing,’ I whispered back confidentially.
She patted my arm. ‘Then you stick with me. My Gordon is a huge wine buff, but for twenty years I’ve managed to fool him into thinking I am too. My name’s Lila.’
The group gathered around Tommaso.
‘Here at Castel Sant’Angelo we produce over 100,000 bottles per year, from a selection of grapes,’ he began. ‘We grow two whites, the Malvasia and Trebbiano grapes, though these make up less than ten per cent of our vines, and several reds, including the Sangiovese from which we make our prize-winning Super Tuscan blend, and the world-famous Brunello, a clone of the Sangiovese family.’
His audience nodded knowingly. They’d no doubt heard similar spiels from other vintners on their tour.
‘Brunello means “little dark one” in the local dialect. It is grown in higher elevation vineyards, with shallower soils, and a mix of rocky lime and clay, which is nature’s own fertiliser, producing fruitier wines.’
As he shepherded us through a set of double wooden doors into a long, thin room, one of the younger women in the group sidled up beside him. ‘You’re not from here, are you? That is such a sexy accent!’
‘Half-Italian and half-Scottish,’ he replied, smiling at last, and I rolled my eyes.
Was this woman Tommaso’s ‘type’? If so, I didn’t think much of his taste in women. She had to be nearly half his age. Geraldine had been nearly half John’s age when they met too.
The room we now found ourselves in had clinical white walls, and one long side contained roller doors which opened out onto the gravel drive. ‘This is the processing room, where the grapes are brought as soon as they’re harvested,’ Tommaso said.
He walked us through the state-of-the-art equipment currently sitting silent and unused: a vibrating sorting table, the crusher which was used to de-stem the grapes, and finally the pneumatic press which separated the grape must from the skins. ‘Our white grapes are pressed straight after harvest, but the red grapes are de-stemmed then crushed to break open the berries. Keeping the red grapes in contact with their skins during primary fermentation gives the wine its gorgeous deep colour.’