by Romy Sommer
He laughed against my neck. ‘Only if you promise me you’ll leave your hair loose when you’re done?’
I grinned back. ‘Promise.’
I showered quickly, washing my hair in an attempt to disentangle it, more than a little disappointed that Tommaso didn’t join me. But when I re-emerged, wrapped in the fluffy hotel towel, he’d made coffee.
‘It’s only instant,’ he apologised as he brought the two steaming mugs to the bed. ‘But I’ve brought you more than coffee.’
I glanced down his naked body and grinned appreciatively. He was all golden planes and edges, covered in a smattering of hair. And he was already hard, his erection standing tall.
He set the mugs down, and expression intense, eyes burning, crawled onto the bed. I spread my legs, and a slow, heated smile curved his mouth. Then he bent to kiss me, his mouth warm against the exposed skin of my throat. He untied my robe and it fell open, and his hands stroked down over my skin, running sensuously over every inch, raising tingles and goosebumps, even though I wasn’t cold.
He slid all the way down my body, placed his mouth at my core, and I shuddered at the sensitive touch, at the sudden flick of his tongue. He took his time, in no hurry to rush this, and if I hadn’t already been in love with him, I most certainly was now.
When I’d come, he shifted up the bed, the weight of his body heavy against my sated limbs. I arched against him, my body still hungry for him. His laughter was a soft rumble against the tender skin of my throat, then he shifted away, reaching for the bedside table again and I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he kept his wallet well-stocked.
Long after, we lay in a tangle of limbs, sated and breathless. My cheek rested on his chest, where the thud of his heart slowly resumed its normal pace. As he stroked my damp hair, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift. Despite the stubble burn on my face, and the gentle ache between my legs – or maybe because of them – I’d never been happier.
Unbidden, a vision of my future unrolled before me, blindingly clear. Not a vision of my house in Wanstead with its tidy, modern kitchen and pocket handkerchief garden. Not my corner office with its floor to ceiling glass windows, and the hustle of people on the street below. Not a man dressed in a sharp suit and charming smile, like Kevin or Luca.
No, the image was of the high-ceilinged castello kitchen, with its porcelain-fronted vintage stove, and the stone hearth decorated with copper pots. Of Tommaso, in jeans and an open-necked shirt, dusty from a day on the farm, his eyes alight and smiling.
The vision was so real I could taste it, taste the rich, red wine on my tongue, and hear his throaty voice rumble ‘guess the vintage.’
I wanted to do what Geraldine had always done: grab what I wanted with both hands. And what I wanted was a man who was moody and grumpy, and passionate and thoughtful, and who looked sexy even with long hair and a shaggy beard. A man who was happy spending his evenings doing nothing but looking at the stars or watching supernatural TV shows, and who made love as if we had all the time in the world.
I wanted this life, the timelessness, the flow of the seasons, of veraison and la vendemmia, the slow lull of mornings spent naked in bed. More than anything, I wanted time: to watch things I’d created grow and take root. Like the bougainvillea clippings we’d planted on the terrace, and the grape must now fermenting in the cellar.
I shifted to look at Tommaso. His eyes were closed, but he opened them again, smiling lazily, and I lost myself in the depths of those extraordinary grey eyes.
And just like that, the vision shattered.
Because I wasn’t Geraldine, and I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself over a man who saw me as just another woman passing through his life.
I was Sarah Wells, responsible, practical, sensible. And the sensible thing to do was to sell the castello, pay the vineyard’s debts, and move forward with my life, even if that meant leaving my heart behind in Italy a second time.
I rose, swinging my feet off the bed onto the cold, tiled floor, moved to collect my discarded clothing from across the room, then headed to the bathroom.
Dressed, and with my hair once again tied up, I felt in command of myself enough that I could smile and laugh and chat as if I hadn’t just experienced the most life-changing night ever, as if I wasn’t completely in love with this man, and as if my heart wasn’t already breaking.
Two weeks was all I had, and I was not going to spoil one moment with what ifs and maybes and regrets.
The hotel’s terrace was quiet, and we ate breakfast alone, with no company but the unobtrusive hotel staff. Either the art historians had moved their arguments into the town’s conference rooms, or they were still sleeping off almighty hangovers.
‘When do you plan to return to London?’ Tommaso’s voice sounded almost absent as he focused on pouring honey onto his toast.
I sipped my espresso, scalding my tongue, and had to take a moment before I could answer. ‘As soon as the Germans sign the purchase papers, I guess. Two weeks at the most.’
He set his knife down carefully on the edge of his plate, then looked up at me. ‘Do you have to leave?’
Oh.
It took me a moment to unscramble my brain and remember to breathe. ‘I thought…’ I trailed off, unable to finish that sentence out loud. How could I say I’d thought that this meant nothing to him? That I thought he’d only made love to me because I was leaving.
He wanted me to stay?
‘But what about the castello? What about Florian and Yusuf?’
Tommaso shrugged. ‘Don’t sign the papers. With all the work you’ve done on the house, we could open the castello as an agriturismo in the spring. We might still have to forfeit those fifteen hectares to the company that gave us the loan, but with income from a guest house we could make it through.’
We. I stared down into the dark depths of my cup, unable to meet his gaze. He wanted me to stay. He was handing me everything I wanted on a platter. And yet … what was he really offering – a business partnership, friendship with benefits, or something more?
He hadn’t said he loved me.
Besides, I had a job in London, a mortgage, responsibilities I had to return to. I couldn’t just give that all up, could I?
‘Could I have a little time to think about it?’ I managed.
He nodded, and resumed spreading the honey across his toast, imperturbable as ever, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell into my life. Now I knew how he must have felt when I’d blindsided him with the antique iron.
Could I do this? Swap my old life for this new one? But making a life here would be very different from being on holiday. And without knowing what he wanted from me, how he felt…
My breath felt like sludge, choking me.
And then my mobile rang. I fumbled it out of my bag, and answered without even checking caller ID.
‘They’re here.’ Geraldine sounded breathless.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Florian and Yusuf.’
My heart started an instant, staccato beat. On top of the sludgy feeling, it made me feel almost light-headed. ‘But they’re not due for another two weeks!’
‘They arrived early. They flew in yesterday and booked into a bed and breakfast in Montalcino. They’ll be here in a couple of hours.’
‘A couple of hours? We’ll be home as soon as we can.’
Tommaso’s eyes widened in alarm, but I shook my head to reassure him. ‘The Germans arrived early. We need to get home.’
We checked out of the hotel and walked to the antique store. The tiles lay in a crate, packaged between layers of soft tissue paper, and they were beautiful: white ceramic with a painted pattern of twisting vines and great big sunflower heads, in forest green and canary yellow and lapis blue.
With great care, we carried the treasure to the car park, and stowed the crate in the boot of Tommaso’s little Alfa.
‘How fast can this car go?’ I asked.
Tommaso grinned. But the smile di
dn’t reach his eyes.
Not wanting to think about what Tommaso had asked over breakfast, I filled the journey home with mindless conversation. He let me get away with it, though he didn’t hold my hand as he drove this time, and his fingers beat a rhythm on the steering wheel that wasn’t quite in time with the indie rock playing on the car’s sound system.
We passed the turn off to the Abbazia di Monte Oliveto Maggiore, the Benedictine monastery we’d visited the day before. Would I still have a chance to hear the monks singing the Gregorian mass?
‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’ I asked.
Tommaso shrugged. ‘I need to check in at the cellar, see how things are going there, and I also need to arrange for the spring to be checked and cleaned. There may be a blockage somewhere, or a leak, as I noticed the water level in the stream wasn’t as high as it should be.’
‘The spring?’ I repeated, hearing a distant echo to my words.
He glanced across at me. ‘Yes, we have our own natural spring. It’s the source of the stream that runs through the castello’s gardens and feeds the garden well. Mostly we use the water for irrigation on the farm.’
He turned his attention back to the road, not noticing my sudden stillness. I remembered now why the words seemed to be an echo. The estate agent had asked Luca if I was the one with the spring. Goosebumps rose on my arms, and this time not in a good way. ‘Do most vineyards have their own springs?’
He must have heard something in my tone because he looked sideways at me, frowning. ‘Not really. And with the increasing water shortages, having our own water source is becoming increasingly important.’
I had to clear my throat to speak again. ‘Is this spring on the land Giovanni Fioravanti wants to get his hands on?’
‘Not on that land, but very close. Why?’
‘Near enough that he could divert the water’s course?’
Tommaso’s frown deepened, etching lines into his forehead. ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but not likely now. First he’d have to get past the company we took the loan from. I never thought there’d be a silver lining to losing that piece of land, but I guess there is: now we have a buffer along the border between us and the Fioravantis. I hardly think that company would let him divert the water away from our vineyard. If they did, one dry season and we might be put in a position where we couldn’t repay the rest of the loan.’
Oh shit.
How had I ever thought I’d be able to get away without telling Tommaso the truth?
My breathing seemed to have become shallow. But maybe I still could get away with it – as long as I sold the castello and paid off Giovanni Fioravanti’s loan.
But if there was no castello, and no agriturismo business, would Tommaso’s invitation from this morning still hold?
Chapter 32
A ogni uccello il suo nido è bello
(To every bird his nest is beautiful)
There was a hire car in the yard when we got back. Tommaso parked beside it, and I opened the door almost before he’d parked. He laid a hand on my arm to stop me. ‘What are you going to tell them?’
‘I’m not going to tell them anything. We need their money.’
His hand fell away. When I hurried towards the house, he didn’t follow. From the kitchen, I heard the Alfa pull out the yard and head towards the cellar.
Florian and Yusuf waited on the terrace where Geraldine had offered them coffee and some of my sage shortbread. They were younger than I expected, in their early forties. Yusuf was the darker and leaner of the two, while Florian, with his salt-and-pepper hair and warm chocolate eyes, reminded me of my father. They were an attractive couple, well-dressed, polite, and in raptures over the house. I’d be leaving the castello in good hands.
Too anxious to drink more coffee, I led them on a tour, and they oohed and aahed with satisfying appreciation at the renovations we’d done. The house and gardens had never looked more idyllic. The sun shone, not too hot, but bright enough to fill the rooms with cheerful sunlight, and to pick out the vibrant colours of the garden. The only time their enthusiasm dimmed was when we reached John’s suite.
‘I planned to have this finished before you arrived,’ I apologised. ‘I have the most gorgeous hand-painted tiles in the car. We brought them from San Gimignano this morning.’
I was babbling, but since that moment when I’d realised Giovanni Fioravanti’s true intentions, my stomach had been twisted in knots. I couldn’t afford to let this sale slip through my fingers. Who knew when we’d get another offer to purchase, especially one as generous as this, and especially with the local estate agent working for the Fioravantis. Because I had no doubt now that Luca had briefed her to deliberately stall me from putting this house on the market. He had never wanted me to sell, because he needed leverage over our vineyard. My hands clenched into fists.
Yusuf nodded and turned away from the bathroom. ‘We had unexpected time off and were so excited to see the house. Of course we’re happy to give you another two weeks to finish the renovations. I can’t tell you how happy we are that you’ve done this work for us! It’s saved us a lot of time and effort. This way, we can already invite our first guests to stay before the weather gets too bad.’
I coughed to release the lump in my throat. It didn’t work. ‘So you’ll take it?’
‘Of course!’
We sat on the terrace to sign the purchase agreement. Bees buzzed around the pots of white hydrangeas, their low musical hum interrupted only by the scratching of my pen as I initialled each page.
This was the right thing to do. Selling the castello would save the vineyard. But a leaden weight settled in my stomach.
I signed the last page and pushed the document toward Florian who beamed. ‘I’ll get my lawyers to arrange the transfer. Unless you have a local lawyer you’d prefer to use?’
I shook my head then managed a smile, since it was what was expected of me. ‘You’ll be very happy here. I have been.’
When they had gone, I stood alone in the castello kitchen and looked around. The room was so different from that first day when Luca had sat me down at the table and told me I wasn’t my father’s heir.
It was no longer just an oasis in a derelict house. It was the heart of a home. I sat down at the kitchen table, my legs no longer able to support me.
Here was the home I’d believed I’d never had. The place where Nonna had taught me to bake, where Tommaso and I had first met, as shy kids skirting around one another. It was as if the castello had always been here, waiting for me to claim it. And now I’d sold it to strangers. Lovely people, admittedly, but still strangers.
John would be so disappointed. I’d nearly cost him his vineyard. And because of me, the vineyard and castello would be forever separated.
‘Sarah, love?’ I looked up. Geraldine hovered in the doorway, looking unusually tentative. ‘Per and I are getting married.’
My heart lifted. ‘That’s great! I’m so happy for you. What changed your mind?’
She crossed the threshold and came to sit beside me at the table. She looked more at peace than I could ever remember her being. ‘We were in John’s bathroom, removing the old tiles, and I just looked at him, and it hit me. This isn’t a summer fling with him. Summer is over, and he’s still here. Oh, I’ll admit, that’s the way it started. I mean, look at us: he’s young and hot, and he could have any woman he wanted. I was flattered, and I figured “what the hell? Why not make the most of it while I still can?” But then he surprised me. It’s like he really sees me. There’s only ever been one other man who made me feel that way, and that was your father.’
I swallowed. ‘So why couldn’t you and John make it work?’
‘We tried. Not that first time, when we fell pregnant, of course. That was just a holiday romance, and it was romantic and passionate, and stupid. But later. You probably don’t remember that first time I brought you here? You were only about five, and John invited us to spend the summer, and it was ma
gical. For a while, I really thought we could make it work. But life isn’t just one long summer, is it? Eventually reality set in. I was only 23, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in this kitchen, being a housewife and a mother while he followed his passion. I wanted to find my own passion, chase my own dreams, and I couldn’t do it here.’
If the lump in my throat got any bigger, I’d choke on it. ‘I remember.’
Maybe not that my parents had been happy together, but I remembered that I’d been happy that first summer here. And the next year, Geraldine had left me here alone, and John had been distant and awkward, and I hadn’t understood why.
She smiled sadly. ‘Maybe it was selfish of me, but I’m not sorry for any of it. We had you, after all.’
I blinked.
She leaned forward, her arms crossed in front of her on the table. ‘We haven’t talked about Kevin.’
Oh no. Not now. This conversation had already dredged up more than I could handle. ‘It’s okay. You really don’t have to say anything. I’ll admit I was hurt, but you know, Kevin’s a grown man. He knew what he was doing.’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t excuse what I did. I’m your mother. Your feelings should have come first for me, and I’m sorry they didn’t.’ Geraldine sucked in a breath. ‘I told myself over and over again that I was having a mid-life crisis, that I was weak and vulnerable, but the truth is, those are just excuses. I’ve been very selfish and I am sorry. I know I can’t make it up to you, and I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me, but I’m asking you to try.’
I exhaled a long, slow breath. ‘It’s okay, Mum. Let’s put it behind us.’
‘That’s the first time in twenty years you’ve called me “Mum”.’
‘I’m sorry. It just slipped out.’
‘No, I like it.’ She reached across the table and laid her hand over mine. ‘I know I was a lousy mother, but since I’m the only one you’ve got, will you be my bridesmaid, or maid of honour, or whatever they call it these days?’
I laughed. ‘Sure, I’d like that. Just tell me when and where.’