Last of the Summer Vines

by Romy Sommer

  And if I was using the bathroom as an excuse to avoid the inevitable task of packing up John’s belongings, that was understandable, right?

  By the time Tommaso emerged, blinking sleepily and looking for coffee, I’d already plotted out my route. I’d take the winery’s pick-up. I waited until he’d finished his first cup of coffee and sufficiently woken up before I told him my plan for the day. ‘Siena is only an hour’s drive each way. I’ll be back this afternoon.’ And hopefully we could pick up where we’d left off last night … my stomach fluttered with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ he offered, depositing his empty coffee mug in the newly installed sink.

  ‘You don’t have to. You must have a ton of stuff to do at the cellar.’

  He took both my hands in his, and raised them to that full and generous mouth, the mouth that had been all over my skin last night. I shivered at the memory.

  ‘Tesoro mio, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s do a little sight-seeing, maybe have lunch somewhere nice.’

  I smiled, feeling again like that seventeen-year-old girl who’d first fallen head over heels in love with him.

  Because it was such a lovely day, Tommaso drove a meandering route through the rolling hills of vineyards and silvery olive groves and wild forests as we headed first east, then north. We drove with the windows open, and the heady scent of late summer wafted through the car. I breathed it in, trying to preserve it in my memory.

  In the large valley below the Rossis’ trattoria, lay the Romanesque Abbey of Sant’ Antimo, one of the most photographed scenes of southern Tuscany, its warm travertine stone glowing in the sunlight.

  ‘The church was built in the twelfth century,’ Tommaso said. ‘But did you know that there has been an abbey here since Charlemagne’s days?’

  I laughed. ‘Actually, I did. You told me that when we were kids.’

  ‘Was I really that boring when I was young?’

  ‘You were many things, but boring wasn’t one of them.’ I laid my hand on his denim-clad knee, and he wove the fingers of his free hand through mine. ‘Do you remember when Nonna took us to mass there, and we heard the Gregorian chants? I’ve always dreamed of going back there to hear the mass again.’

  ‘You’re a few years too late.’

  Dismayed, I swivelled to look at him. ‘They don’t do the chanting any more? But I read a blog post about it just a few months ago!’

  ‘The last monks moved out in 2015, after more than a thousand years of service.’ His eyes took on that devilish glint again. ‘The abbey is still worth a visit, but if it’s chanting you want, I can do better than that.’

  Since he refused to explain what he meant, I sat back and enjoyed the flow of the landscape around us. We passed Montalcino, basking on its hill in the midday sun, then falling behind us. Barely fifteen minutes further, Tommaso swung the car right, off the provincial road and onto a side road.

  ‘Where are we going? Siena’s that way.’ I pointed back the way we’d been headed.

  ‘Just a little detour to make your dream come true.’

  I rolled my eyes. It had to be in the genes, the way Italian men could turn anything into a grand statement.

  Our new destination turned out to be another abbey, an even larger one of charming red brick perched on top of a cliff and surrounded by dark forest. Tommaso parked, and we held hands as we walked the rest of the way, entering the abbey across a drawbridge watched over by a bright-painted statue of the Madonna and child.

  ‘This abbey is relatively new, since much of it was built only in the fifteenth century,’ Tommaso said. ‘But it’s still a working monastery, and their Gregorian chants are legendary.’

  We’d missed the morning mass after all, and the church was closed in the middle of the day, so we ate lunch at the abbey’s little café, killing time until the church re-opened and we could wander through the quiet cloister surrounding a courtyard of lemon trees to admire the frescoes that adorned the walls. Unlike Luca, Tommaso did not hurry me past, but let me take my time to admire the series of bright paintings showing the life of Saint Benedict. Now that the high tourist season was over, we had the place to ourselves, and we lingered, enjoying the air scented with lemons, and the serenity of the place. The library too was a revelation, cool and calm and filled with treasures.

  ‘I’m sorry we didn’t fulfil your dream today,’ Tommaso said as we returned to the car, ‘but perhaps we can stop in for vespers on our way home from Siena.’

  Once we reached Siena and had found parking and located the little antique shop Carmelo had directed me to, it was barely half an hour to closing time.

  ‘You are too late,’ the little man behind the counter said, spreading his hands wide. ‘The tiles went this afternoon to a shop in San Gimignano.’

  We stood outside on the cobbled street, and Tommaso glanced at his watch and cursed. ‘We won’t make it to San Gimignano before closing time. We’ll have to return home and try again tomorrow.’

  I smiled, an odd impulse nudging me. It was the kind of impulse that Geraldine followed all the time, but just this once I didn’t mind following its prompting. ‘We don’t have to go home. Geraldine and Per are old enough to take care of themselves for one night.’

  He arched a brow, and my smile widened. ‘We could be spontaneous and stay here in Siena overnight.’

  ‘You want to do something impulsive?’

  I laughed. ‘I’ve been living an adventure for nearly four months. I don’t think one more day of being impulsive and crazy will hurt. Italy must be rubbing off on me.’

  ‘We can only hope.’ He took my hand. ‘But as long as we’re being spontaneous, let’s go on to San Gimignano. It’s a beautiful town, and if we arrive at sunset, you will see it at its best.’

  We stopped for gelato, sitting on the sun-warmed tiles of the Piazza del Campo to eat them. The piazza throbbed with the energy of tourists and locals, with laughter and talk and music. I sent a cowardly text to my mother, explaining that we would only be home in the morning, not wanting to hear her gloat that for once I was doing something even remotely adventurous. Then we started on the journey north again, and we timed it just right, approaching the fairy tale hilltop town as the late afternoon light caught the many towers of its skyline, turning them to gold against the darkening blue sky.

  The buildings of the town were the colour of sienna, ochre and peach, aged by the endless passage of years and sun and ongoing lives. It felt as if I’d entered an alternate universe, a magical world separate from the one I’d always known. It was almost impossible to believe that people lived their everyday lives in this perfectly preserved medieval town, that they had jobs, that their children went to school and battled with homework, and that they stressed about bills and rent payments, just like my colleagues and neighbours in London.

  It was as if time stood still here. I wished I could make my own time stand still. I wanted to hold onto this moment forever – just me and Tommaso, holding hands as we joined the passeggiata, that evening hour when couples strolled, and neighbours visited, and children played in the streets.

  I pressed my eyes closed against the emotions welling up, against my grief for everything I would soon be leaving behind: this place where people took time to savour life instead of following a relentless need to be constantly on the move, where whole foods reigned, and where success was measured not by material wealth but by friendships and laughter.

  Despite the fact that tourist season was mostly over, we struggled to find a hotel with rooms available. Just as I was beginning to regret my impulsivity, we found a small, contemporary-styled hotel within the town’s medieval heart, not far from the Piazza della Cisterna, that wasn’t fully booked.

  ‘It’s a busy night,’ the clerk at the front desk said. ‘There is an art history convention in town, and every hotel is full, but you are in luck – we had some cancellations.’ She looked down her long Roman nose at us, noting the absence of luggage.
‘Will that be one room or two?’

  Heat flooded my cheeks, but Tommaso’s expression remained cool. ‘One room is fine.’

  Though minimalist and very white, the room was generously proportioned, dominated by the huge wrought iron bed dressed in clean white linen and scattered with pink rose petals. We stood awkwardly on either side of the big bed. My stomach pulled tight, a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

  The last time we’d faced each other across a bed like this, with the same desire weaving tight around us, I’d been so scared. It had been more than the fear of losing my virginity. It had felt so much bigger than that. It had felt life-changing. And I’d run.

  It still felt life-changing, and it still felt scary, but I wasn’t seventeen any more, and this time I wasn’t going to run.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk and see a little of the town before dinner?’ Tommaso suggested, not seeming to notice my hesitation. I glanced again at the rose-strewn bed and nodded.

  We strolled to the second of the town’s three encircling thirteenth century walls, and wandered along the path as the sun set, looking out over the scenic landscape.

  When we paused to admire the view, I let out my breath on a long sigh. ‘Italy seems truly eternal. England is old, but there it feels as if the past is just that – past. Gone, leaving only ghostly remains behind. But here, the past is a living, breathing thing. We stand here, under the same sky, looking at the same hills the Etruscans looked at, and the Romans, and the Benedictine monks, and the Medicis. And now here we are, a part of that endless cycle.’

  I spread my arms wide, as if I could take it all in, as if I could hold on to it. I wanted to bottle this moment, this feeling of peace and timelessness. Of rightness with the world.

  Tommaso stood close behind me. I leaned back, closing the distance between us, and his arm snaked around my waist. His chest was warm and solid at my back, his arms a safe haven. I breathed him in, his rugged, masculine scent, the enduring aroma of grape must.

  Then he pressed his lips against my temple, and my eyes fluttered open. It had grown dark while we stood there, and the sun was now little more than a glow over the western hills.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere to eat,’ he said. ‘Lunch feels like hours ago, and I’m starving. And the local white wine is worth trying.’

  I groaned. ‘If I never taste another grape again, it’ll be too soon.’

  He laughed. ‘Not if you’re your father’s daughter.’

  He was right. There must have been more of my father in me than I realised. I tried the local wine, a light, lively white made from Vernaccia grapes, unoaked, and it was refreshing and pleasant after the heavier reds I’d grown used to drinking.

  We dined at an osteria with red brick walls and crisp white tablecloths. Candles decorated the tables, setting a romantic mood – though the mood didn’t last long. A large group of academics arrived, pushing together several tables and taking over the restaurant. They were nothing like the serious, tweed-and-khaki set I remembered from my own uni days. These academics oozed confidence and were as well dressed as the fashionistas on the streets of Rome. They also grew increasingly lively as the wine flowed, and the arguments on the merits of one Renaissance artist over another grew more heated.

  To the horror of our waiter, we hurried through our meal, and skipped coffee and dessert. Instead, we queued for yet more gelato in the odd triangle-shaped Piazza della Cisterna with its big public well, then wandered back to our hotel, licking the dripping ice cream from our fingers. But the hotel was equally overrun with noisy and half-drunk academics. They filled the bar and the lounge and the outdoor terrace.

  ‘I’m still far too sober to be able to handle all this intense intellectual debate,’ Tommaso whispered in my ear. When I nodded, he ordered a bottle of chianti and two glasses from the bar, and we headed out into the garden, which was mercifully quiet.

  We stretched out on the grass to watch the stars, as we had so many nights through the summer. The moon was nothing more than a sliver against the velvet night, and the stars seemed hard and bright and crystal clear. At last, the chianti loosened the knot of tension that had gripped my stomach from the moment we’d stood beside the big hotel bed, and I’d realised the enormity of what I wanted.

  Now, with my head cradled against his chest, and the drifting scents of fresh cut lawn and the pine trees that surrounded the garden, it no longer felt as if I was about to take a life-changing gamble. It just felt right.

  I turned to face him, and Tommaso kissed me, a light, tender kiss that sparked and caught fire. Then I was in his arms, and my hands were under his shirt, exploring the planes of his lean abs, and his taste was on my tongue.

  He moaned, his hands sliding down over my back to cup my bottom and pull me against him. We rolled together on the grass, and my body was alight with need and desire.

  ‘Voglio sentirti sulla mia pelle,’ I whispered, repeating his words from that other night so long ago. I want to feel you on my skin.

  Chapter 31

  Il bacio sta all’amore come il lampo al tuono

  (The kiss is to love as lightning is to thunder)

  Tommaso rolled off me and onto his feet in one smooth movement, and helped me up. Without letting go of my hand, he pulled me in for another kiss, then together we hurried up the stone stairs to the terrace. The academics seemed oblivious as we rushed past.

  We took the stairs to our room two at a time and were laughing and breathless by the time we reached our door. Twice Tommaso had to slide the key card through the lock, and I was glad I wasn’t the only one as nervous as if this was our first time.

  I shook my head. It was our first time.

  Then we were inside the darkened room, both breathing heavily, and Tommaso pressed me up against the door, his hand sliding up beneath my dress, setting my body on fire. We kissed, and, barely breaking contact, frantically stripped off our clothes and stumbled towards the big bed, falling together in a mess of naked limbs onto the petal-strewn covers.

  His body slid over mine, his mouth on my collarbone, on my neck, on my jaw, the head of his cock rubbing against my desperate core.

  ‘Tell me what you want.’ His voice was a growl against my cheek.

  ‘You.’

  He shifted away, lifting himself off me to rest on one arm and look down at me. ‘Tell me what you want me to do to you.’

  I’d never been good at this, at expressing my desires or asking for what I wanted, but with Tommaso it seemed so easy. I held his gaze. ‘I want you inside me.’

  I arched against him, and his lips crushed mine again. His cock brushed once more against my entrance, and then he slid into me. The slow glide of skin against skin was exquisite. He paused, giving us both a moment to adjust, to enjoy the sensation of fullness. Then he moved, and I placed my hands on his waist, and gently but firmly held him still.

  ‘We can’t get carried away,’ I said with regret. ‘Not like this, no matter how much we want to.’

  Buried deep inside me, his cock trembled. Then with a sigh, he pulled back out, and rolled across the bed to reach for the wallet he’d lain on the bedside table. I hoped that wallet was a lot bigger than it looked. I hoped he’d had the forethought to bring more than one condom.

  By the time he rolled back to me, he’d opened the packet, removed the condom, and slid it over that breathtakingly beautiful cock. I was sad to see it sheathed, but there was no way we were going further without protection. At least I’d have the memory of that one golden moment, of his bare cock sliding into me, filling me, and stretching me, to treasure.

  I closed my eyes, opening them again only when he leaned back over me, bracing himself on one arm, his big, rough hand gently cupping my naked breast.

  ‘I don’t think I can go slow,’ he said, his voice low and hoarse. ‘After that taste, I want you, and I can’t wait.’

  I nodded, and held his gaze as he plunged, thrusting deep and hard, but I was ready for him, and lifted my hips, matching his
thrust with one of my own. He groaned and pulled back, driving into me again, setting a rhythm I was more than happy to follow.

  I lost myself in the movement, in the primal dance of thrust and glide, every part of my being focused on that point where our bodies met and merged. My pulse thundered in my ears. Even if he’d wanted to wait, I couldn’t have. My muscles began to bunch and contract, my moans grew loud, and then his body turned rigid. He shuddered, and for a wild, insane moment I wanted to feel him release without the barrier. Then my own climax wrapped me in its grip, and my head went back, my body taking over, spasming around him, dragging out his release.

  When the wave of my orgasm passed, he stopped moving and collapsed beside me, turning me towards him. I sighed, gently expelling my breath, and buried my head in the curve of his neck. He wrapped an arm around me, holding me close, as safe and strong and secure as I’d imagined those arms to be. And lying like that, with our chests rising and falling together, with our bodies still joined, I closed my eyes and let sleep pull me under.

  The campanile bells woke me with their echoing chorus, and through the gap in the white curtains I caught a tantalising glimpse of the town’s famed towers. I stretched luxuriously and rolled over. Tommaso was already awake and watching me. The sheet barely covered his waist, leaving his gorgeous tanned chest bare and tempting. I smiled and reached out to run my palm over all that solid muscle.

  He stroked the tangled hair back from my face, his fingers gentle against my skin, and I groaned, burying my face in his chest. ‘I must look such a mess!’

  In our first frantic tumble into bed last night, my hair had come loose and I’d been too preoccupied and too tired afterwards to braid it before falling asleep. I reached up now to pull it back, and he stopped my hands, encircling my wrists. ‘Don’t! I like it loose.’

  Then, still holding my wrists above my head, he straddled me, and kissed down the line of my throat. ‘I need a shower!’ I managed, though my voice came out rough and needy.