Last of the Summer Vines

by Romy Sommer

  I shrugged defensively, though I knew Cleo couldn’t see. ‘Going to the movies wasn’t a date. The whole town was there.’

  Though to be fair, there’d been more people packed into the Royal Albert Hall when Kevin had taken me to the Proms, and that had most definitely been a date.

  But dates ended with goodnight kisses, didn’t they? Not with Tommaso stalking across the back yard as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Or with my chest tightening with anxiety, feeling as if I’d disappointed him, and having no idea why.

  Chapter 15

  Chi bene vive, bene dorme

  (He who lives well, sleeps well)

  The first time I ventured out alone, driving the winery’s battered pick-up truck, I went to Pienza, the pretty Renaissance town Luca had praised. There was a delicious freedom in wandering the streets on my own, not needing to keep pace with a companion. From one of the town’s outlook posts, I paused to watch sheep grazing in the fields below, and later discovered that the town was famed for its pecorino, the hard, salty sheep’s milk cheese. I browsed in the stores, bought new patio furniture to replace the old bench that had been crushed by the wisteria, stopped for chocolate mint gelato, and took my time looking at the Flemish tapestries and illuminated manuscripts in the Palazzo Borgia.

  Growing braver, I ventured further, all the way to Arezzo to attend the huge monthly antiques market. This sprawling city, more than an hour’s drive north of Montalcino, was in the Val di Chiana, with apartments and shops spreading out far beyond the town’s medieval walls. I wandered through the market, browsing through the stalls that spilled through piazzas and side alleys. I chatted to the stall holders, showing them pictures on my mobile, and by the time I headed home I’d secured promises from an art dealer, a book antiquarian, and an antique furniture dealer that they would visit the castello.

  A few days later, Carmelo the antique appraiser made his house call. He spent an age working his way through the house, stroking the furniture and making purring noises.

  ‘Are you sure you want to sell these?’ he asked with a frown, once we’d agreed a price for the furniture he would cart away.

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  Several days later, it was the art appraiser’s turn. ‘Are you sure you want to sell these? Some of these paintings are very old and valuable. Surely they must have been in your family for many generations?’

  ‘Not my family.’ I thought of the old marchese. He was probably rolling in his grave about now. John’s passion had always been the vines, but he too would probably not have approved of me selling off the castello’s contents.

  But I wasn’t selling off the house’s contents to make myself rich. I was selling them to make the house liveable. I thought of the cost of contractors, of the front door that was impossible for one person alone to open, of the water damage in the library, and the rotted wood trellis I’d only just started to clear, of all the good the cash could do. And then I thought of the winery’s debts, and the way Tommaso’s eyes lit up when he spoke of his wines, and I knew I was doing the right thing.

  I had no doubt both John and the old marchese would vote to save the winery rather than a bunch of old paintings.

  The book antiquarian spent half a day sorting through the least damaged books in the library, and though he wasn’t exactly purring, he seemed happy enough to be there. I was glad to leave him to it. I was far happier in the open air, hacking away at the downed wisteria, than stuck in there with that smell of decay.

  When the art dealer called to tell me the amount the castello’s artworks had raised at auction, I sagged back against the headboard of John’s bed. Closing my eyes, I imagined all the wonderful things I could do with the cash: new wallpaper for the drawing room, new drapes for the bedrooms. Maybe even a new stove for the kitchen. Or maybe not. That old wood stove really did bake the most amazing breads.

  ‘The money’s half yours,’ I said to Tommaso when he joined me on the terrace that evening. It was the first time we’d been able to sit out there since the Great Trellis Debacle, as I’d taken to calling it. Sawing off branches and rotted poles, and carting both to the skip, had been harder labour than I’d done in my life, and though it was far from done, at least we had a spot to sit again. But I ached all over. My strained muscles could do with another trip to the hot springs.

  ‘With your share, you could pay off some of the winery’s debt,’ I offered.

  For a moment he looked tempted to accept my offer, but then he pressed his lips together, shrugged, and settled into one of the new deep-backed Morris chairs I’d bought for the terrace. ‘Keep it. Consider it a down payment on the winery so you can go back to England.’

  Usually, I’d have bristled at the offhanded reminder that he wanted me gone. But I didn’t. I was too exhausted to take offence, and Tommaso looked just as tired. I was even stupidly grateful he’d made the effort to join me this evening, tired as he was. In that, at least, he was unlike my father.

  I studied the wine in my glass. ‘Actually, I’d like to re-invest the money in the castello. It’s looking more presentable, but before I put it on the market, I need to do some basic repairs, and pretty the place up. If that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Are you asking if I mind that you’re fixing up the house, or if I mind that you still want to sell it?’

  I huffed out a dramatic sigh. ‘I’m pretty sure you don’t mind me fixing up the house. Have you eaten dinner yet?’

  ‘No. I was with the accountant until late, and then I sat looking at the books on my own for a while after that.’ He stretched cramped muscles. He looked as stiff and sore as I felt. Clearly sitting at a desk all afternoon was as hard on him as manual labour was on me.

  ‘I’ve already eaten, but I can make you something if you’d like – how about cheese on toast?’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  When I returned to the terrace a short while later, with grilled cheese sandwiches made with the pecorino cheese from Arezzo, and fresh rosa tomatoes and basil from the herb garden, I had to wake him to eat.

  ‘And scones!’ His eyes lit up at the sight of the second plate I set beside him. ‘I can’t even remember when last I ate scones.’

  I’d slathered them in Beatrice’s blackberry jam, and Tommaso wolfed them down. ‘The only two things I miss from back home are scones and cream buns. My grandmother – my Scottish grandmother – used to make the best cream buns. I’d come home from school and she’d have them still warm on the kitchen counter.’

  I remembered the year his grandmother died. Tommy was twelve, and I was nine, and he arrived later than usual to visit Nonna that summer, because his Gran had been so ill. He’d only flown to Italy after the funeral, and I’d been so excited to see him. I’d been bored out of my mind the three weeks I’d been on my own at the castello. Those were the weeks I first started baking with Nonna, just to fill the loneliness.

  ‘You don’t miss anything else about Edinburgh – the buzz of city life, the noise, the traffic, the constant rain? Not even warm beer down at the pub, or late-night kebabs?’

  ‘Those are all the reasons I left Edinburgh.’ Tommaso laughed, but there was a bitter sound to it, and for a moment I wondered if there was some other reason he’d left.

  Since he hadn’t shut me down yet, and since that shuttered look hadn’t descended, I probed deeper. ‘There’s no one there who misses you?’

  ‘My father still lives there. He’s more Scottish than I am these days. He still works and is very involved in the local golf club. I don’t think he misses me much. And he has a girlfriend.’

  ‘I’m … sorry?’ I suggested tentatively.

  This time Tommaso’s laugh was more genuine. ‘No need to be sorry. I’m happy for him. Mary’s a nice woman, and it’s been years since my mother died. Besides, that’s what normal people do, don’t they? They move on.’

  There was that bitter undertone again. Had someone moved on and left him behind?

  I looked away,
out into the darkness. I had no clue what normal people did. Neither of my parents had ever had a relationship that even remotely resembled normal. John was a virtual recluse, obsessed with making wine to the exclusion of all else. In all my life I’d never once known him to go on a date, let alone have a girlfriend.

  Geraldine had more than made up for that, though. She’d moved on, and on … and on.

  Tommaso pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m sorry I’m such bad company tonight. It’s been a long day, and numbers give me a headache.’

  ‘You’re not bad company. And you do know I’ve worked in finance for over a decade? Is there anything I can do to help?’

  He leaned forward in his chair, cradling his half-empty wine glass in his hands. ‘Maybe you can. I need to calculate how much profit we can turn with the next bottling, and I’m also trying to calculate the net worth of the vineyard so we can arrange an equitable division of your father’s assets.’

  So that he could buy me out. So I could leave. It hadn’t hurt earlier, but it hurt now. I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘I’d love to help.’

  The next day, I cycled around the hill to the cellar, on the squeaky, blue bicycle I found in the garden shed. The ride was pleasant, gold-green light shining prettily through the vine leaves.

  ‘Cream buns?’ Tommaso’s eyes widened when I walked into the office with the box I’d stowed in the bicycle’s basket.

  ‘I won’t hope they’re anywhere near as good as the ones your grandmother made, but they’re still warm.’

  He sat and ate the cream buns, licking the whipped cream from his fingers while I tried to concentrate on the spreadsheet he showed me. It was a simple cash flow projection for the vineyard, but it wasn’t the one I’d glimpsed before. This one was far bleaker. And Tommaso had bigger worries than just buying me out. If the accountant’s projections were right, the vineyard was running on a very tight operating margin, and Tommaso was going to have a tough time keeping up with his loan repayments. Why hadn’t he accepted my offer of the cash last night? It might not be much in the grand scheme of things, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  The first hurdle was the easiest to deal with. ‘You have too many loans. You need to consolidate your debts.’

  ‘That’s what the accountant said. But it’s beyond his level of expertise, so we’d need to hire in a financial consultant – which I can’t afford.’

  I eyed him levelly. ‘You have one sitting across the desk from you. If I can consolidate your debts into one loan at the best possible interest rate, will you let me do it?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’ Tommaso shrugged. This shrug said I’m weary and I don’t really want to think about it.

  ‘Next: why have you estimated your yields so low for the coming year? You’ve cut your predicted yield by twenty per cent from last year.’

  ‘Climate change. Experts are predicting that this year Italy will have its smallest wine harvest in over half a century, what with water shortages and uneven ripening. We had to adjust our expectations accordingly.’ He smiled, but it wasn’t a convincing smile. ‘But it’s not all doom and gloom. The good thing about fewer wines reaching the market is that scarcity will drive prices up.’

  My forehead furrowed as I looked back at the spreadsheet. So much of the winery’s success relied on factors that were completely beyond Tommaso’s control: weather, climate, trends. I didn’t know how he managed to sleep at night.

  There had to be other ways, more stable and dependable ways, for the vineyard to boost income, which didn’t depend on weather or water. I remembered the spreadsheet he’d had open on his screen before and swung my chair to face him. ‘What is agriturismo?’

  ‘It’s farm stay accommodation. A lot of vineyards are doing it these days to bring in additional income. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You had a plan for the vineyard that involved agriturismo.’

  Tommaso paced to the window, turning his back on me. ‘Not anymore. It was a stupid idea anyway.’

  ‘But your background is in hotel management, and the castello would make a lovely farm stay destination if it were fixed up. It’d be a perfect fit.’ Then … oh heavens, I was such a fool! ‘You and John already had plans to convert the castello into accommodation, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not John, and it doesn’t matter now.’ He stared out at the linden tree, as if engrossed in its foliage. ‘I had a partner who was going to work with me to set it all up, but it didn’t pan out. That was a long time ago.’

  He’d planned to invest a great deal in that new venture. Surely he wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t believed it would succeed? I frowned at his intractable back. ‘But it’s still possible. It shouldn’t be hard to find locals to cook and clean.’

  Tommaso shifted to look at me.

  ‘And pici making lessons seem popular at other guest houses.’ Okay, now I was babbling, but his hard gaze unnerved me.

  His shutters were down again, putting the frown lines back on his forehead. ‘It can’t have escaped your notice that I can’t afford to buy out your half of the property and still invest in making this a going concern.’

  ‘But what if you could? What if you could sell just one piece of the vineyard in return for enough cash to buy me out?’

  ‘What piece of the vineyard?’ His voice was low and steady, but the narrowing of his eyes didn’t bode well.

  I took a deep breath. I’d given this a great deal of thought since Luca had made the suggestion over lunch in Montepulciano. ‘Fifteen hectares. Luca’s father has offered to pay a substantial amount for the fifteen hectares that adjoin his land.’ I said it quickly, to get it over and done with.

  Tommaso’s eyes turned hard as steel. ‘I know the land he wants. He’s been after it for years.’ Now his voice was a growl. ‘But even if it that land was utterly barren, I wouldn’t sell it to Giovanni Fioravanti. He believes his money can buy him anything he wants. But it can’t buy talent or taste, and it can’t buy me. My answer is no.’

  ‘You can’t just say no. We’re equal partners. We should discuss this.’

  ‘We have discussed it, and my answer is still no. And as you so rightly point out, we’re equal partners, so you cannot sell any part of this castello or vineyard without my consent.’

  I rose to face him. ‘Why do you have to be so stubborn? I thought you’d be more realistic. This offer makes sense. You can clear the vineyard’s debts and get rid of me. Isn’t that what you want?’

  He glared, not saying anything. The silence stretched between us, taut as an elastic band about to snap. Then he heaved out a breath. ‘I will never let Giovanni Fioravanti turn our years of hard work into vinegar.’

  ‘You’ve turned into a snob, Tommaso di Biasi. A wine snob.’ Hands on my hips, I glared back at him. ‘What does it matter what kind of wine he makes? What does it matter if he chooses quantity over quality? This is business, and in business you sometimes have to make compromises. This compromise could save the vineyard.’

  With a careless shrug, and his hands in his pockets, he strode across the room. The door banged shut behind him.

  I sank back down into the chair and stared at the spreadsheet on the screen without seeing it. John’s premature death had wrecked Tommaso’s plans. I had wrecked his plans. No wonder he was grumpy so much of the time.

  Not that he’d been grumpy these last few weeks. Ever since I’d shown an interest in the winery, it had been almost like having my old friend back.

  But now I wasn’t so sure I even knew him anymore. My childhood friend had been stubborn, but he hadn’t been stupid. This offer was his chance to save the vineyard, to clear his debts so he could grow the business, and he’d rejected it. All because he didn’t like their wine? I didn’t get it.

  That night Tommaso didn’t join me for our usual glass of wine on the terrace, and it was only in the early hours that I heard his car on the drive. He hadn’t come from the direction of the cellar, but along the main road from
town.

  He had gone into town. And for some reason, all I could think of was Beatrice’s words: ‘he picks up women in bars’. I didn’t know why that thought bothered me so much, but it was a long time before I fell asleep.

  Chapter 16

  A caval donato non si guarda in bocca

  (Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth)

  ‘You are phoning to finally accept my invitation for pici?’ It had been nearly two weeks since I’d last seen Luca, and absence hadn’t lessened the impact of his voice any.

  I grinned. ‘No, I’m shamelessly using you.’

  ‘Lucky for you I like to be shamelessly used.’ His teasing tone gave way to a dramatic sigh. ‘What shopping do you need to do this time?’

  ‘Not shopping. I just want someone to keep me company on the drive to Grosseto.’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to go there? There are other, far prettier, places to visit. Let me take you to Cortona or Volterra or Monteriggioni instead.’

  ‘Yes, but do they have vintage sinks at bargain prices?’ I’d spent half a day at my father’s desk in the winery searching for the identical sink to the cracked one in the kitchen. If there’d been another that would fit the kitchen unit anywhere else north of Rome, I’d have driven there too. With or without the comfort of an air-conditioned sports car.

  He laughed. ‘Okay, that I cannot help you with. And if I drive you to Grosseto for a sink, you will let me take you to dinner?’

  ‘I think that can be arranged.’ I suppressed a delighted smile. So far I’d resisted all his invitations to dinner. Maybe it was silly, but somehow dinner seemed like a much bigger deal than lunch. I didn’t fancy having my willpower tested if – when – he inevitably asked me to stay the night. But … vintage sink.

  ‘You look happy,’ Tommaso observed as he strode into the office a short while later.