by Romy Sommer
He nodded for me to continue, but his hands didn’t stop working.
‘That last summer we were here together, you were studying for a business degree in hospitality management. And then a few years later Elisa told me you were working for a major hotel chain in Edinburgh and doing really well. How did you land here?’
He straightened and turned to look at me. ‘I didn’t “land” here. I chose to come here. You might have stopped visiting as soon you were old enough, but I still visited Nonna every summer. Your father taught me a bit about the wine business, and I was hooked. After my mother died, when Nonna’s health was deteriorating, I chose to move here full time to learn the trade from your father.’
Or had he seen an opportunity, and thought that inheriting a wine farm held more appeal than managing someone else’s hotel?
But then I remembered the way his eyes had lit up as he led the tour group around the winery, and his passion for the winemaking process. Maybe I was doing him an injustice, suspecting him of duplicity just because I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of giving up a successful career for this life.
Tommaso moved on to the next stretch of vine. ‘You ready to give it a try?’ He held out his shears, and I backed away, hands held up in front of me as if to ward him off.
He clucked like a chicken, and I pulled a face. ‘Okay, fine!’ I grabbed the shears, and strode past him to the vine he’d been pruning.
‘Like this.’ He moved behind me, placing his arms around my waist, and his hands closed over mine. Against my back, the heat and pressure of his hard, male body sent an electric current through me. What was happening here? I was too old to behave like a besotted teen. Especially since I wasn’t at all besotted. No way.
Maybe this heat flashing through me was nothing more than a memory of my teen self. That last summer I’d have died and gone to heaven to have Tommy pressed up against me like this.
Together, we snipped at the vine, as he showed me just how much of the leaves to prune back.
‘There. Now you do it on your own.’ He stood back, and I had to catch my breath, wanting that annoying, teasing, exhilarating sensation back.
Tommaso hovered to watch my progress, and I felt as self-conscious as I had at seventeen. When I reached the end of the row, and he was satisfied, he disappeared, returning moments later with another pair of shears. We moved on to the next row, working side-by-side, a few feet apart. The sun dipped behind the tall trees edging this section of the vineyard, but the air didn’t get much cooler, as a warm breeze floated up from the valley.
‘Everyone keeps talking about tannins,’ I said, hesitant and hating to expose yet more ignorance, or open myself up to another jibe about not knowing anything about my father’s business – but I bit the bullet anyway. ‘What are they?’
‘Tannins are plant-derived polyphenols.’
He might as well have spoken in Greek, for how much of that I understood. ‘And now in English?’
He laughed. ‘They’re biomolecules that bind to proteins and kick-start a chemical reaction. Tannins are the structural element which gives a wine its form and grip.’
He picked a grape from the vine and held it up to the light. For such strong, calloused fingers, there was a great deal of gentleness in the way he rolled the grape between his fingers. ‘Tannins are present in the grapes’ skins, stems and seeds. White wines generally have no tannins, or at least very little, since they’re fermented without their skins, but red wines are fermented on the skin. Tannin ripeness is essential for a good mouthfeel, as unripe tannins give a green, stalky taste to the wine. Like that earthy taste you identified earlier. They soften with age, which is why ageing a wine for the proper length of time is so important.’
He held the grape out, and I leaned closer, hand outstretched. But he didn’t hand me the grape. He raised it to my lips, and I bit into it and swallowed. ‘Ugh! It’s sour!’
‘That’s the unripened malic acid you’re tasting. When they’re ripe, these grapes will have a much higher sugar content and should be ready to harvest.’
‘When will that be?’
‘How long is a piece of string? We’ll harvest when the grapes taste right.’ Tommaso shrugged. ‘While there’s some science involved in winemaking, it takes gut instinct to make a really good wine. Everything we do here is governed by gut instinct.’
I shook my head. ‘That doesn’t sound scientific at all.’ It sounded downright unreliable. I preferred to make decisions with my head, decisions based on facts and numbers. I trusted my head. My gut hadn’t been particularly effective in the past. My gut hadn’t warned me that Kevin couldn’t be trusted, and it hadn’t protected me from getting hurt.
I was glad Tommaso wasn’t looking my way as I pushed those feelings back into the past where they belonged.
‘Perhaps,’ he answered. ‘But that’s also where the magic lies. With so many variables, there are an infinite variety of options available for the oenologist to play and experiment with. It’s what your father loved most about winemaking: experimenting. Not just the act of creating something out of nothing, but the art of discovering something new and wonderful.’
The way I felt about baking. With nothing but flour and sugar, milk and eggs, an endless combination of wonderful things could be created. It was rather startling to realise maybe I had something in common with my father after all. Pity it was too late to share that connection with him now.
At the approach of cheerful voices, Tommaso looked over his shoulder. Most of the workers were packing up and heading our way, and one of the older workers gathered up our tools in a big wicker basket.
‘Tomorrow is another day,’ he said to Tommaso in Italian.
Tommaso clapped him on the back. ‘A domani.’
We strolled back through the lengthening shadows towards the castello, hot, dusty, sweaty, and in better accord with one another than we’d been all week long.
‘I owe you a dinner,’ I said when we reached the yard between our houses. ‘If you like, I can throw together a pasta? I’ll supply the meal, if you supply the Rummikub.’
Though his face was in shadow, I was sure he was smiling another of those half-smiles, the kind that kicked up the corner of his mouth and lit his eyes. ‘I’ll have to check my calendar. Because, you know, my social diary is so full these days.’
I fought to keep a straight face. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’
Chapter 14
A goccia a goccia, si scava la roccia
(Drop by drop, water carves through rock)
As June passed into July, I made good use of the new détente between me and Tommaso. A few times each week I carried my laptop to the winery to use the Wi-Fi to research the rules and regulations governing the renovation of heritage buildings, until I became a pro in what I could and couldn’t do. Though without skilled labour, I didn’t make much progress.
On Fridays, Beatrice and I dawdled through the market until I knew all the stall holders by name. And twice more, I let Luca take me out to lunch. He was more than eager to play tour guide, driving me to little towns that barely featured on any tourist map, and introducing me to new wines.
Often now, Tommaso joined me on the terrace for a glass of wine in the evenings. Occasionally we ate together, but more often we simply sat in companionable silence, listening to the night birds, and the owls calling to each other through the dark, as we sipped our wine. When the sky grew dark, we searched for satellites against the velvet sky. The nights no longer seemed quiet, but a rich tapestry of sound, and the dark house was no longer terrifying in its emptiness. It was as if the house had been sleeping and was slowly coming awake.
One evening I showed Tommaso John’s journal, and together we pored over the cramped handwriting. From then on, with each bottle of wine we shared, we added our own notes to the journal. I learned to detect the tannins in the wines, and identify which wines were young and which were well matured. Sometimes Tommaso brought a wine from which he�
��d removed the labels, and he made me guess the grape varietal from the taste alone.
‘With time, you’ll be able to taste the vintage too. You can taste the yearly floods and heat and rains and frosts that are in each wine,’ he said.
I raised a sceptical eyebrow. Sure, sometimes I imagined I could taste the sun in a wine, but the rain…?
Tommaso nodded. ‘In 2010, this region was drier than the rest of Tuscany. That year we had a long, slow ripening which resulted in a truly exceptional vintage which still has excellent ageing potential. I will bring you a bottle, and you’ll taste the difference.’
‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’ I didn’t share his confidence in my palate.
One sweltering summer’s day, Luca drove me to the small town of Bagni San Filippo on the eastern edge of Monte Amiata, where we hiked through shady forest to reach the white-blue thermal pools set amid impossibly white calcium rocks. The stink of sulphur hung in the air, but the heated springs were surprisingly pleasant to swim in. The pools were all the more stunning for being set outdoors in the heart of the Tuscan Forest, though the best view wasn’t the landscape. Without a doubt, the best view was the sight of Luca in nothing but swimming trunks and wet skin.
A hand offered to help me into a pool, a brush of thighs, an arm around my waist, a gentle caress of my shoulder as he pushed back my braid … Luca found every excuse to touch me, each touch inflaming me, robbing me of breath.
Today there was no doubt in my mind about whether his touch was merely casual or meant something more. It meant everything.
The heat in his eyes made me feel like a goddess. Not like a boring banker in her mid-thirties, still single, but a woman who was wanted. So who could blame me if I let him kiss me when he drove me home? A few passionate kisses pressed up against the front door didn’t count as a holiday romance, right?
Besides, men like Luca should come with a health warning: liable to cause sex-starved women to lose their heads.
After Luca’s car disappeared down the long drive, I walked around to the back yard. Tommaso’s vintage car was parked there, so, feeling charitable with the world, I knocked on his door. There was no answer. Odd. If his car was here, so should he be.
Frowning, I headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and that was when I heard it – a muffled voice shouting my name. When I reached the drawing room, Tommaso’s voice was louder, distinct enough that I could hear his exasperation.
I turned to the French doors that led out to the terrace, and my jaw dropped. The room no longer had a view across the valley. Now it had a view straight into the wisteria. The trellis hung at a precarious angle, sloping down across the French doors, the big purple blossoms and thick foliage obscuring the view. No way would I be able to open the doors with all that weight pressed up against them.
‘Tommaso?’
‘About bloody time! The ladder’s fallen. Bring it here!’
A please would have been nice. My golden glow fading, I circled the house to reach the terrace. Only when I got there did I understand why he’d been so rude.
Tommaso hung by his fingertips from a gutter pipe more than a storey up. His legs flailed in mid-air, and the pipe creaked ominously. I gasped.
I had to crawl on my hands and knees beneath the trellis to reach the old wooden ladder that was only just visible. The dense branches snagged at my hair and clothes.
‘Hurry!’ he called.
‘I am hurrying!’ I slid the ladder out from beneath the tangled wisteria, crawling out again after it, and set it hastily beneath where Tommaso’s feet hung. The ladder was rickety, and I had to hold it firm while he swung his legs to reach the top rung. When his feet connected, he let go of the gutter and my heart stopped until he’d gained his balance at the top of the ladder. Then he collapsed onto the top rung and sat rubbing his arms.
‘What were you doing up there?’
‘I heard a sound and came to investigate. One of the beams of the trellis seemed to be hanging at an odd angle, so I got the ladder and some tools to fix it. Then, when I was up there, the whole damned thing came down, knocking the ladder out from underneath me.’
I giggled.
Tommaso glared back. ‘It’s not funny. I can’t feel my arms.’
I straightened my face. ‘How long have you been up there?’
‘Five minutes. Ten minutes. Eternity.’
‘And do you plan on coming down any time soon or will I be propping up this ladder all night?’
Another glare. Slowly, painfully, he climbed down, the ladder wobbling treacherously. I gripped it harder, bracing my whole body against it. Though that was in part to hide the fact that my shoulders were shaking with laughter. Yes, I knew it wasn’t funny, but still … all that testosterone dangling from a gutter pipe. Next time he got all scowl-y with me I was going to enjoy this memory.
Then Tommaso was on the ground, wisteria leaves tangled in his thick hair, and an expression like a thundercloud. His nose wrinkled. ‘What is that awful smell?’ He sniffed harder, leaning towards me. ‘Have you been rolling in a dung heap?’
‘It’s sulphur. I went to the thermal spa at Bagni San Filippo today.’
He took a comical step backwards. ‘That’ll be it then.’ He glanced towards the collapsed trellis. ‘The wood’s rotted through. It couldn’t hold the weight of the wisteria any longer.’
I glanced up at the house’s façade. The creeper had pulled away from the wall, bringing with it great big chunks of stucco. I guess I should have added ‘remove wisteria’ to my list of things to do. They were famous for getting between bricks and causing havoc. The rotted trellis had probably done me a favour, collapsing before the wisteria brought the whole house down. ‘I need a drink.’
‘You and me both.’ His surly expression had eased a little now he was back on solid ground, though he still rubbed his arms vigorously to get the blood circulating again. ‘But it’s going to have to wait. I came home early to invite you to movie night. The Rossis have invited us to join them for a picnic before the film starts.’
‘Movie night?’
A ghost of a grin flitted across his dark features. ‘An outdoor cinema is set up inside the old fort, and everyone brings picnics. It’s a major event in the town’s social calendar.’ He brushed the leaves from his hair, suddenly looking awkward. ‘Of course, the film will be in Italian. I’ll understand if you don’t want to go—’
‘No, I’d love to go.’ What better way to improve my language skills? ‘I just need to get changed.’
His nose wrinkled again. ‘You might want to shower first too – and you’ll probably need to burn your swimsuit.’
I giggled. ‘And you’re definitely going to need to brush out your hair, or everyone’s going to wonder what you’ve been up to.’
‘You too.’ He brushed a leaf from my hair. There was an unexpected twinkle in his eyes. ‘Or we could go as we are and have everyone wonder what we’ve both been up to.’
I laughed.
The car park was packed, and the entire town seemed to be headed in the direction of the fortezza. Within its high medieval walls, we wandered through the crowds, stopping to chat with people Tommaso knew.
‘John Langdon’s daughter,’ they all said, as if I were some sort of local celebrity. I’d never felt more like a phony in my life.
We joined the Rossis, who were camped out in the very centre of the wide open space, with a prime view of the enormous screen that no one seemed to be watching. Tommaso opened up several bottles of chilled vino rosato from our own vineyard and shared them around.
Darkness fell, and lamps were lit. Children darted between the picnic blankets and the assorted chairs that had been sent out. Adults wandered from group to group, sipping wine and visiting.
I must have met every single inhabitant of the town tonight. All except the man who’d kissed me senseless just a few short hours earlier.
Maybe Luca was working late to catch up on everything he hadn’t got
done at the office today while playing tour guide. Though I rather suspected he wasn’t so dedicated to his job that he’d forego a night out on the town. So where was he?
Later, when the crowd grew mellow, we stretched out on the picnic blankets to watch an Italian comedy on the big screen. With Beatrice and Tommaso on either side, each giving me a running commentary of the movie, I didn’t need to understand a word of the language to enjoy the film. I wouldn’t have heard a word of it anyway.
It was well after midnight when we drove home. Tommaso walked me to the castello’s back door, and we paused on the doorstep, in the patch of yellow light spilling out from the kitchen.
I smiled up at him. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening.’
He nodded. ‘If you need to get into town on your own, we have a truck at the winery you can use. We keep the keys behind the bar in the tasting room. If I’m not in, just leave a note to let me know you’ve taken the truck.’
Had he figured out that Luca had been driving me around? Was this his way of trying to keep us apart? Sheesh. I might as well be back in fourteenth-century Verona. ‘Thank you, but I’m fine. I can manage on my own.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You need to be able to get around.’ He shrugged, as if it made no difference to him, but his eyes told a different story. It was as if shutters had suddenly slammed down over them. He took a step back.
Now what was that all about?
‘Let me get this straight – you spent the whole day half-naked with a Latin god—’
‘Demi-god. He’s not immortal.’
‘Fine, demi-god then,’ Cleo huffed. ‘But then you went out to movies with the man you hit over the head with an iron?’
‘His name is Tommaso, and he’s my business partner.’ I had no idea why I felt so prickly. It had been the perfect day, right up until that moment on the kitchen doorstep.
‘Stop interrupting! I’m having a hard time here processing that Little Miss “I don’t believe in holiday romances” is now dating two men on her Tuscan holiday – and I’d like to point out that you met both of them organically.’