by Romy Sommer
I couldn’t wait for my own shower, but ‘aren’t you coming with us?’ I asked Tommaso, when he handed me his car keys.
He shook his head. ‘Now we start sorting the grapes.’
‘I’ll stay too. Equal partners, remember?’
He caught my hand and pressed it to his mouth, the rough stubble scratching teasingly against my skin.
Unlike the picking, sorting was no longer done by hand. A high-tech optical sorter separated the mouldy and flawed grapes from the best ones, which were then placed on a conveyor. With a grimace, I watched as the discarded berries were ejected. Ker-ching. Yet more wastage. Though it didn’t bother me as much as it once had. Only the best grapes could make the best wine, and Castel Sant’Angelo had a reputation to maintain.
When Tommaso and I finally returned to the castello, I was both surprised and relieved to find that Geraldine had prepared dinner, even if it was a strange concoction of eggs and vegetables that may or may not have been intended as an omelette. The dining table had been set, and there was chilled Malfy gin awaiting us.
‘John loved his gin,’ Geraldine said reminiscently.
I showered and changed, and though I felt less sticky and sweaty, it made little difference to my smell. My hair and clothes still smelled of grape must, and the aroma seemed to have permeated the whole house. We ate in near-silence in the dining room, too tired in both body and mind to talk. It was still light outside when I fell into bed and snuggled down to sleep.
It was the same again the next day. I lost track of how many vines I’d worked, how many rows, how many fields. Tommaso no longer harvested alongside us. Instead, he supervised the sorting and pressing of the grapes that now streamed into the cellar, tractor load after tractor load.
Geraldine found herself a new job too, collecting the filled crates and baskets, carrying them to the waiting tractors, and returning to place the emptied crates ready for the pickers. And so Per and I worked as a team, in friendly competition against other teams of pickers to see who could pick the most. Working side by side with him, I discovered that the taciturn Swede had a wry sense of humour. And I finally discovered why Geraldine was really here in Tuscany, why she’d thrown herself so whole-heartedly into the harvest.
‘I asked her to marry me,’ Per said.
I dropped my pruning scissors.
Per didn’t seem to notice my shock, or if he did, he took it in his stride as he did everything else. ‘We are on our way to Sweden so she can meet my family. My children are so excited to meet her.’
No wonder Geraldine was delaying. She’d never been good at playing at big, happy families. I averted my gaze. ‘I didn’t know you had children.’
‘Two sons from my first marriage. They’re in their late teens now.’
Hopefully then he wouldn’t want more children. I tried to picture my mother as stepmum to two boisterous teenage boys and smiled. As long as they were adventurous, and willing to ski or surf or dive, like their father, she’d probably get along with them way better than she ever had with me. And since she wouldn’t have to be responsible for everyday things like getting them to school on time, or ensuring they had a packed lunch, or a regular routine, or identifiable food, they’d probably like her just fine too.
That evening we ate in the kitchen, a quick supper of re-heated soup and semelle rolls.
‘I’m so glad we came here,’ Geraldine said, smiling at Tommaso. ‘This has been so much fun! Do you know that I met John right here on this farm at harvest time? My friends and I spent the summer travelling around Europe, and in September we came here to pick grapes. We hit it off straight away, and I remember how we talked late into the night and drank gin, at this very table.’
They’d done a whole lot more than talk and drink gin. I was the proof of that. But Geraldine only sighed and fluttered her eyelashes at Tommaso. ‘The eye candy is as good now as it was then. Do you always work shirtless?’
I choked on my soup.
Tommaso only laughed.
When supper was over, I caught up with Geraldine on the stairs. ‘Is one man not enough for you?’ I hissed, keeping my voice low so it wouldn’t reach the kitchen below.
‘Don’t be silly, darling. A little harmless flirting never killed anyone. You’re in Italy. Surely you’ve learned that by now?’ Geraldine tossed her abundant hair. ‘No, you haven’t, have you? If you had, you and Tommaso wouldn’t still be dancing around each other when anyone with eyes can see you’re crazy about each other.’
My hands fisted. ‘It isn’t that simple, and this isn’t about Tommaso. What about Per? Don’t you think your fiancé deserves a little respect? You don’t think he deserves not to have his future wife throw herself at other men in front of him?’
She went still. ‘He told you?’
‘Yes, he told me. Though it would have been nice to hear from my own mother that she’s getting married. For the first time in her life.’
‘I’m not entirely sure I want to get married.’
‘You’re not scared, are you?’
She pulled her shoulders straight. ‘Of course I’m scared. I’m fifty-three, love, and it takes an effort to stay fit enough to keep a man half my age interested. One day I’m going to lose that battle, and he’s going to wake up and realise he’s married to an old woman.’
I was grateful the dim lighting on the stairway hid my smile. ‘He’s not half your age. He’s only twelve years younger than you.’
‘Your father was twelve years older than me, and that felt like a lifetime of difference.’
‘Only because you were so young. But you’re not seventeen anymore. Don’t let what happened with John affect every decision you make.’ I took her hand, the first contact I’d initiated with her in I couldn’t remember how long. ‘Per is good for you.’ Certainly better than most of the men she’d dated. ‘Just don’t keep him waiting too long or you might lose him.’
She wiped her eyes and laughed. ‘Now if that isn’t a case of the pot calling the kettle black! Don’t keep Tommaso waiting too long either.’
I shook my head. She didn’t understand. Even I could see that what she and Per had went beyond chemistry. But Tommaso and I … there was too much at stake for this to ever be more than chemistry.
For another couple of days we worked at the same punishing pace, from the early hours into the heat of the day. The number of workers dropped with each passing day, as the tourists and volunteers returned to less strenuous activities. But the Rossis came every day, and the trattoria remained closed so that Beatrice could feed us all. Even Silvia insisted on coming every day, scoffing at the idea that her pregnancy made her any less efficient, and she was right – though after I’d whispered in Tommaso’s ear, he allocated her a less physical job out of the sun, helping to keep track of the loads arriving at the cellar.
At last the harvest was in. Only one field remained unpicked, the white Trebbiano grapes Tommaso had kept back to make Vin Santo. That last afternoon, all the workers gathered in the courtyard of the winery for a feast of epic proportions. A whole lamb had been grilled on a spit, and there was the ubiquitous wild boar, marinated to remove the raunchy flavours, both cooked to such perfection that the meat melted from the bone. There was eggplant parmigiana, gnocchi with lamb ragu, courgettes and canellini beans, chard served with pine nuts and garlic, and quiches made with goat’s cheese and asparagus. I served the biscotti and the panforte I’d kept ready, and of course there was wine, poured straight from the barrel.
The party went on until long after dark, and though I’d been up since the early hours, I didn’t feel tired at all. When the last of the guests finally departed, Geraldine and Per helped clear away the empty plates and glasses, then Tommaso handed them his car keys.
‘We’ll walk home once we’ve locked up the cellar,’ he said.
I didn’t argue. Though every muscle in my body ached, and I felt as if I hadn’t slept in days, I’d have walked to the moon if he asked.
As th
e little Alfa disappeared around the curve in the road, Tommaso and I switched out the lights and secured the doors, but when we were done, he didn’t lead me along the dirt track towards the castello, but away through the vines in the opposite direction.
The waning moon cast only a weak light over the valley. It was cooler now at night, and Tommaso offered me his denim jacket to pull over my work-stained clothes. We strolled down the long, gentle slope of the vineyard, across a narrow channel of water, and through a copse of juniper trees to the edge of the wasteland that had been left by the fire.
‘We would still have had another day of harvest if these grapes had not burnt,’ he said, when we paused at the edge of the blackened stumps of the vines.
I reached for his hand, twining my fingers through his, even though the touch made my pulse jump in a way that made resisting temptation very difficult indeed.
‘I hired Ettore to protect you,’ he said unexpectedly.
‘I know.’
Tommaso turned to look at me, his eyebrow raised.
I shrugged. ‘You hired an ex-con with a history of protecting vulnerable women the very next day after the cellar was sabotaged. It doesn’t take a genius to work it out.’
He smiled, but his eyes were dark and serious. ‘I had no idea who or what was behind the sabotage, and I wasn’t willing to risk your safety. For all I knew, maybe you had a vengeful ex.’
He said it like a question, and I smiled back, glowing with the realisation that even then he’d cared so much for my safety. ‘No exes that cared enough to follow me to Tuscany, let alone start a fire. And what about you – any vengeful exes I should know about?’ I managed a teasing tone, trying not to sound as if I were fishing.
He raised my hand to kiss my palm, in a gesture that was growing comfortingly familiar. ‘No one that matters.’
For a long while we stared out over the barren landscape without speaking.
‘What will we do if the insurance doesn’t cover the loss?’ I asked.
‘Le preoccupazioni del domani appartengono al domani. The problems of tomorrow belong to tomorrow.’
We turned back, cutting through the vineyard to reach the castello. We approached it from the front, a view I seldom saw of the house. In the pale moonlight, it looked like a picture postcard, with its fake façade of towers and crenellations.
I was going to miss this. The house, the smell of grape must, Tommaso … I blinked against a sudden blur in my eyes. I didn’t want to spoil these last weeks by torturing myself with things I couldn’t have. I wanted to make the most of what I did have.
He walked me to the door, not the back kitchen door as he’d done so many times before, but to the newly painted front door which opened now without protest.
I slid the old antique key into the lock and turned it, but when I moved to push the solid iron door handle, he placed his hand over mine, pulling me gently to face him.
And then he kissed me.
I opened my mouth to his tongue, inviting him in; savoured the taste and the feel of his mouth, as earthy and decadent and intense as any Brunello. His hands slid around my waist, hauling me close, and my hands were in his hair, and on his back, wanting desperately to feel all of him, his strength and his solidity. I pressed myself against him, felt the telltale sign of his desire against my stomach, and my own body ached with want and need. It was every fantasy I’d ever had come true.
When he broke the kiss and moved to step away, I clung to him. ‘Don’t go.’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘I thought you wanted more time?’
Time was the one thing I no longer had. I shook my head.
Grinning, he lifted me off my feet to kiss me again, even more hungrily. With only one hand, he swung open the door, its low creak overloud in the still night. I giggled, burying my face in his neck to stifle the sound. When he set me down again, I took his hand and led him across the threshold. He took more care to ease the door shut quietly, then we tiptoed up the stairs, hand-in-hand, like a pair of naughty teens. Up to my bedroom, where the big wooden bed with its fresh white linen made a pool of light in the darkness. Kicking off our shoes, we fell on the bed, breathless with silent laughter.
My hands were everywhere, sliding under his shirt to finally, finally feel those hard abs, which felt every bit as good as they looked. He stroked my face, kissed my collarbone and my neck, and I sighed and closed my eyes, smiling at the sensation of his mouth on my jaw, his breath on my cheek.
And then he yawned.
I laughed softly. ‘You really know how to make a woman feel desirable.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered against my neck.
I stroked the hair back from his forehead. ‘Sleep now. We have time.’ Two more weeks until the Germans were due to arrive. Not nearly enough, but I planned to make the most of every moment.
Chapter 30
Si canta sempre di cuore – quando si è pieni d’amore
(One sings from the heart when one is full of love)
I woke the next morning to an unfamiliar weight across my hip. My eyes fluttered open. Last night I’d been too tired to draw the curtains, and now blinding morning light flooded the room. I twisted in Tommaso’s arms to watch him sleep, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm, his face relaxed, his mouth curled up in a small smile. I kissed the edge of his mouth, but he didn’t wake.
We were both still fully clothed, and my jeans had left an uncomfortable imprint against my skin. We must have been truly exhausted to fall asleep as we were. I eased out of his embrace and tiptoed to the windows to pull the curtains closed. Tommaso shifted and sighed but didn’t wake. Then I found fresh clothes – the summery sage-green shift dress I’d brought from England – and headed to the bathroom to shower.
Geraldine and Per were already in the kitchen when I joined them. Geraldine had found the electric kettle and made a pot of tea, and even buttered some of the bread rolls she’d found in the pantry. I was grateful not to have to make breakfast. My entire body ached from the workout of the last few days.
‘Someone called Carmelo phoned for you,’ Geraldine said.
I sipped the scalding hot tea she passed me. ‘He’s the antiques appraiser.’
She sat down across from me. ‘I didn’t want to wake you, but he said you should call. He sounded very excited.’ Then she frowned. ‘I see you haven’t cleared out John’s things yet. Don’t you think your buyers might want to use that room as their own?’
I shrugged. Packing up John’s personal things felt too final, an acknowledgement that he really was gone. ‘I wonder what Carmelo wants?’ I said instead.
He wanted nothing, it turned out, but he had news: ‘There is a shop in Siena that has a whole pile of eighteenth-century hand-painted Neapolitan tiles. For the house you are restoring, they will be perfect. But you must be quick – they will sell soon!’
I thanked him profusely for the tip and was still sitting beside the old rotary dial phone when it rang again. I picked it up, cradling the receiver to my ear. ‘Hello?’
I expected Cleo to call, since we hadn’t spoken in days, but I wasn’t ready yet to tell her about me and Tommaso so I was guiltily relieved when a man’s voice, heavily accented, came down the phone. ‘Signora Wells?’
‘Sì.’
‘I am phoning in response to the insurance claim you submitted for the fire damage to your farm. The claim has been denied.’
My voice came out a whisper. ‘All of it?’ I’d spent hours and hours preparing the claim, calculating not only the loss to our profits over the next few years, but also the costs of re-planting.
‘Yes. In light of the special investigator’s finding of arson, this company will not pay out in terms of section eight of your policy, unless it can be proved beyond doubt that the arsonist was in no way connected with Castel Sant’Angelo. Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’ My heart was in my throat, making it hard to speak. ‘And was there any evidence of who the arsonist might be?’
‘The evidence is inconclusive.’ He sounded reproving, as if he suspected I might be guilty. I could hardly blame him. I blamed myself enough already.
I swallowed down the disappointment and fear. Disappointment because I’d hoped the investigators would find evidence that would link Giovanni Fioravanti to the fire. Without proof, it would just be my word against his. The visiting foreign girl against a well-respected and influential winemaker whose family’s history in the local area went back hundreds of years.
And fear, because we were still vulnerable, always watching over our shoulders. It hadn’t skipped my notice that there were always at least two workers on security duty at the cellar these days, even last night when everyone else was feasting.
I rolled out the tension from my shoulders. Without evidence, it wasn’t enough for the vineyard to keep up with loan repayments. Because this sure as hell had never been about restoring an old gambling debt.
The sabotage would continue until Tommaso finally defaulted, and Giovanni Fioravanti got the land he wanted. Not just those fifteen hectares, but all of it. And more than anything in the world, I did not want the Fioravantis to get their hands on even one hectare of our land.
There was only one solution. Everything now relied on Florian and Yusuf signing on the dotted line. I needed to sell the castello and repay the loan in full, as I’d told Cleo. Only then would we get Giovanni Fioravanti off our backs.
I rubbed my eyes tiredly and looked around John’s room. Aside from the re-paint, I’d done nothing with this room. His clothes still hung in the big wardrobe, his books and papers still filled the desk beneath the window, his bedding still covered the bed, and his toiletries still cluttered the bathroom shelves. Geraldine was right. This was the main suite, and Florian and Yusuf would no doubt want to use it as their own.
For the substantial sum they’d agreed for the castello, the buyers deserved this master suite to be renovated. If I could get those period tiles, and find a decent-sized hip bath, and a new toilet and basin, we could still finish this bathroom before they arrived.