Last of the Summer Vines

by Romy Sommer

  A little bronze plaque had been screwed into the stone below the painting. Its inscription read Arcangelo Raffaele alla piscina di Bethesda. Archangel Raphael at the pool of Bethesda.

  My knowledge of archangels was about what you’d expect for someone who’d devoted her life to working with numbers, but I had heard of the pool of Bethesda in Jerusalem, which was supposed to have healing powers. Though I somehow doubted there was a vineyard around the pool in Jerusalem.

  If this was the angel who’d given his name to Castel Sant’Angelo, then maybe, just maybe, he’d be inclined to helping me save the vineyard. Besides, I was his namesake in a way. My middle name was Raphaela.

  I closed my eyes. It had been many years since I’d prayed for anything, and I felt more than a little daft kneeling at a crossroads, surrounded by nothing but vines as far as the eye could see.

  ‘I need a fresh start,’ I said to the angel. ‘Because things can’t ever go back to the way they were. I’m not the same person I was four months ago, and even if I go back to London, my life will be very different.’ But that wasn’t really what I wanted, was it?

  I’d never been good at asking for what I wanted. It felt incredibly selfish to say the words out loud, but I said them anyway. ‘I want to stay here, at the castello. I want to make a life with Tommaso. I want him to feel about me the way I feel about him.’ Oh, and while I was asking for miracles… ‘I want my father to have loved and wanted me.’ As much as he’d clearly liked and respected and wanted Tommaso.

  I blew out my breath. There it was. I couldn’t ask for any more than that. Well, maybe one thing. ‘I want Geraldine and Per to be very happy together.’

  Since I didn’t have a votive candle, or any other kind of offering, I left Geraldine’s bouquet propped up at the base of the arch. I didn’t think she’d mind.

  Chapter 34

  Chi non fa, non falla

  (He who does nothing, makes no mistakes)

  I was relieved to see Luca’s car parked outside his office. Considering how little time he seemed to spend working, I’d been worried I wouldn’t catch him in.

  His assistant was a motherly grey-haired woman who ushered me straight in without announcing me. Luca looked up from his desk, startled at first, but then he grinned, his eyes lighting up.

  ‘You have forgiven me?’ he announced, rising to meet me, his arms outstretched.

  It was still impossibly hard to resist that melting smile, those dimples, and his contagious enthusiasm. But I managed.

  ‘This isn’t a social call, it’s business.’ The door closed gently behind his assistant and I faced him, hands on my hips. ‘We can do this the hard way, or … well, actually, there’s only the hard way.’

  That dimmed his enthusiasm. He even looked a little confused. Maybe there was still hope for him after all.

  ‘Would you like to sit?’ he asked, offering me the armchair beside his desk.

  ‘No thanks. I don’t intend to be here long. I only came to bring you this.’ I removed the cheque from my bag and placed it on his desk. It was a prop more than anything, since I hadn’t used a chequebook in years, and certainly not for this kind of money. But it was far more dramatic than offering an electronic transfer. All those zeroes looked a whole lot more impressive in black and white.

  ‘Payment in full for the loan. Not only will we retain full control of the land we put up as collateral, but if I remember correctly, there was a considerable settlement discount should we settle the debt before the due date.’

  Of course there was. I was the one who’d insisted on it.

  ‘You sold the castello. But what about your share of the property? Surely you’re not giving it all up now to settle Tommaso’s debt?’

  ‘Our debt. Thanks to that partnership agreement you drew up between me and Tommaso, we’re equal partners until such time as Tommaso is able to buy me out, and thanks to a number of “misadventures” we’ve experienced, he won’t be able to buy me out for at least another year. So it seems he’s stuck with me as his partner until then.’

  I didn’t know how well Tommaso was going to take that news. Hopefully not as badly as Luca, whose face had turned a strange sort of grey.

  Then he rallied. Even managed a smile. ‘I am very happy you have managed to clear the debt. I know you will not believe me, but I had no idea what my father intended, or how far he would go. But he is my father…’

  ‘I don’t believe you were involved in the vandalism or the fire.’ Luca was too transparent for that. ‘But you must have suspected after the fire. It was far too coincidental that the vandalism took place immediately after we signed the contract, and the fire was set soon after you discovered I had a buyer for the castello. Your father had to find another way to force us to default on the loan after that, didn’t he? And I was kind enough to even give you the idea, wasn’t I? Nothing short of flood, fire or act of God, if I remember correctly.’

  He paled, spreading his hands, as if pleading for my understanding. And I did understand. No one could understand as well as I did how it felt to spend a lifetime trying to win your parent’s approval. It didn’t take a psychology degree to realise we had that much in common.

  He frowned. ‘But what did you mean about doing this the hard way?’

  I resisted the urge to be petty and smile as I delivered my coup-de-grâce. ‘You were right about your father being a bad gambler.’

  Luca’s brow furrowed in confusion.

  ‘You are aware that I work for an investment bank?’ Though not for much longer. I’d sent Kevin my resignation letter this morning. I had no idea what I was going to do, but whatever it was, it wasn’t going to involve a sixth-floor corner office or a long commute. Maybe I’d open a bakery in Wanstead…

  ‘If you raise the money to finance a big acquisition – or to make a rather substantial loan – by selling shares, you’re gambling with a great deal more than a piece of land.’

  He still looked confused, and I took pity on him. ‘Your father didn’t have cash readily available to offer us a loan, so he raised the money through offering portfolio stock. That stock is now owned by my investment bank.’

  I gave him a moment to let that sink in.

  ‘My bank now owns a controlling share of the Fioravanti vineyard.’ Who’d have guessed there’d be an upside to having a boss who still felt guilty about cheating on me? And I owed Cleo a lifetime supply of wine. Not cheap box wine, but the real deal. After all, she was the one who’d reminded me to follow the money.

  Luca sat down heavily on the closest thing at hand, the same armchair he’d offered me not so long ago. ‘I cannot blame you for being angry,’ he said. ‘My father deserves this.’

  ‘I’m not angry. But I’ll admit, I was more than a little hurt to discover that you were only using me to get your hands on my vineyard.’

  He shook his head, and I was both surprised and relieved to see the indignant spark in his eyes. ‘I will admit to being many things, but I am not a liar. You are a beautiful woman, and I spent time with you because I like you, not because my father asked me to. I do not want you to think that I am not attracted to you, because I am.’ He shrugged. ‘It is just that I am attracted to many women…’

  As always, Luca was good for my self-esteem, but I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. ‘One day, Luca Fioravanti, that is going to come back to bite you. I hope you meet a woman you do want more than any other, and I hope she gives you a really hard time.’

  I opened the door but hovered on the threshold. ‘One last thing: you can tell your father that fire doesn’t destroy DNA. It’s surprisingly easy these days for arson investigators to get DNA off a burned cigarette stub. And if whoever he hired has any kind of record, their DNA will be in the system.’

  It was a long shot, and I had nothing to back up my guess but a hunch and what I’d learned from Google, but Luca nodded, his expression serious for the first time in all the months I’d known him. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Follo
wing the money trail and facing Luca was the easy part of what I still had to do. Making good on my promise to Geraldine was another matter entirely. But first, there was something else I’d put off for far too long.

  I started with John’s bathroom, throwing out his shaving cream and shampoo, and the body wash bottle that was nearly empty. Tomorrow Ettore would be stripping this room, ready to install the new fittings.

  Next was the big wardrobe. John’s clothes no longer smelled of him. Instead, the closet simply smelled musty. I boxed up the clothes and shoes for goodwill, then wiped down the shelves.

  The desk was next, and really – why had I made such a big deal out of clearing out this room? The desk drawers contained nothing more than the usual detritus that people accumulate in desks: bits of stationery, a letter opener, unopened packs of batteries, a few old bills. The bottom drawer contained paperwork which I saved for later – John’s expired passport, bank documents and identity papers, all the official documents that proved that a life had been lived.

  I stripped the bedding off the bed, and immediately the room looked bare and unlived in, all personality stripped from it. I was about to bundle up the bedding to take it downstairs to the laundry, when I realised there was still a box under the bed. Kneeling down, I pulled the box out. It was a large wooden keepsake box, with a smooth lid and carved side panels. I flicked the latch, lifted the lid, and my heart lodged in my throat.

  Brushing impatiently at my eyes, I lifted out the contents: the Mont Blanc pen I’d given John as a Christmas gift one year, the gold cuff links engraved with his initials which I’d sent him as a 50th birthday gift, the Piaget dress watch I’d sent him for his 60th, which I now realised was far too impractical to wear on a farm. And the photograph frame containing my graduation picture.

  I sat for a long time staring at these items, but I couldn’t tell if they’d been packed away out of sight or kept as treasures.

  There was a sheaf of handwritten letters underneath, neatly tied up with an old Fortnum & Mason chocolate box ribbon. I had no right to read those letters, but with my emotions already rubbed raw, I eased the ribbon off the pile and opened the first letter.

  It was addressed to me.

  And it was dated the day of my Master’s degree ceremony.

  My father’s scrawling handwriting filled the page, and it took me a moment to blink away the blur in my eyes so I could read.

  Dear Sarah,

  I wish I could be with you today as you receive your Master’s degree. I know your mother is there to support you as always, and I will be there with you in spirit. I am so very proud of what you have achieved.

  Today we start bottling a new blend I have created. In honour of your special occasion, I have named this wine Angelica, my little angel. For you are my own angel Raphaela.

  Why had he never sent these letters?

  The next was dated a few years later.

  Dear Sarah,

  Nonna is ill, and will not be with us much longer. Tommaso has come home to look after her. He is married now, and his wife reminds me in so many ways of you. She has your smile, your energy, and your drive. But Tommaso does not look at her as he used to look at you. Or maybe I am being fanciful. There was a time long ago, when I hoped you and he would fall in love and be happy together.

  Another was dated the day after I told him I’d called off my engagement. I’d told John that Kevin had cheated on me, but I hadn’t shared the details, and I most certainly hadn’t told him who Kevin had cheated on me with. Instead, I told him I was all right, that it was better this way, and then I’d changed the subject and talked about work. I’d been so proud of myself for how calm and together I’d been.

  Dear Sarah,

  I know how it feels when your heart breaks, and the temptation you feel to hide from the pain by burying yourself in work. You are too much like me, and you use numbers as a refuge. But I beg of you that you do not do as I did, and let work become your whole life. Because one day you will look around and realise you have lost everything of value.

  There is a difference between being content and being happy. Happiness requires that you take a risk. When your mother left, I should have asked her to stay. I should have gone after her. But I was too afraid, and I did not take that risk, and I lost both her and you. Do not let fear rule you as I have done. Take that risk. Do not settle for content. You deserve happiness.

  I set the letter down. I wasn’t really able to read much more anyway. My eyes were too blurred. He was right. Numbers had always been my refuge. They were predictable, they could be controlled, unlike emotions. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. We’d been more alike than I ever imagined. Or maybe I’d spent so many years trying so hard not to be my mother, that I’d turned into my father instead.

  The last letter in the pile was dated Christmas Day – the last time I spoke to my father.

  Dear Sarah,

  If you are reading this letter, it is because I am gone. By now you will know that I have left my estate to Tommaso. I hope that you will not be angry with me, but this is the only way I can think to bring you home. If I split the vineyard between you, it will be too easy for you to wrap up the estate and go on with your lives. This is Italy, and you will not be left without your share, but this way you must come here and work with Tommaso to settle the estate.

  I love you both, and it hurts me to see you both so alone. Maybe you believe you are happy, but you don’t remember the way it was when you were young, when you loved each other, when you both laughed. My one wish for you both is that you find your way back to that, that you remember what it is to be happy.

  I am not good with words or with feelings. But I want you to know that I have always loved you. You will always be my little angel.

  Thank you Archangel Raphael. Two out of three was really good odds. But if I was going to go for broke and see if the third thing I’d prayed for could also come true, I was going to have to take my father’s advice, take a risk, and put my heart on the line. Even if it meant finding out that Tommaso didn’t love me.

  Chapter 35

  Chi non risica non rosica

  (Those who don’t try can’t win)

  A sixty-hectare vineyard is a very big place when you’re searching for one person.

  Tommaso wasn’t at the cellar, and Marco didn’t know where on the farm he might be. So, with no real destination in mind, I struck out through the vineyard, heading south, towards the border with the Fioravanti property.

  This was the area that hadn’t yet been harvested, where big, green grapes still hung on the last of the summer vines, their sweet scent heavy in the September sunshine. The vines reached only to chest height, enabling me to see in all directions, so it was a surprise when I heard the sound of a waterfall. Then, around a gentle spur of land, the vines suddenly parted to reveal a mound of rocks from which water gurgled, falling into a pool before running away down the hillside between the vines. The small waterfall flung up a fine mist, spattering cool droplets against my skin.

  It was the same pool that was painted on the shrine at the crossroads. Not the pool of Bethesda after all, but our very own spring. This pool had no angel beside it, only Tommaso, knee deep in the water as he bent over, straining to move a rock that had been lodged in the channel. It seemed the course of the water had indeed been diverted, in such a primitive way that it could almost have been an accident.

  I paused to watch; to appreciate the sun tangling in his thick hair, and the bulge of his muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt as he heaved at the rock. Then suddenly the rock shifted, rolling sideways, and Tommaso was knocked off his feet, falling backwards into the water.

  I laughed. He looked up at me and scowled.

  The stream, re-directed, began to flow again down the dry channel bed.

  Tommaso picked himself up, and waded to the water’s edge, looking terrifyingly like a vengeful angel. ‘What are you doing here?’

  His wet shirt clung to his torso. I think I may hav
e licked my lips.

  ‘Looking for you. I have good news and I have bad news.’

  When he didn’t take the bait, I carried on regardless. ‘The good news first: I’ve paid off the loan from Giovanni Fioravanti. In full.’

  Tommaso’s eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose you’d like me to say thank you?’

  ‘That would be a good start.’

  ‘You want more?’

  ‘I always want more. I’m an over-achiever, remember?’

  He didn’t respond. But he did take off his wet shirt, pulling it up over his head and giving me an even better view. My mouth was suddenly dry.

  ‘So what’s the bad news?’ he asked.

  ‘The bad news is that I took out another loan.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Well, strictly speaking, I raised a private equity investment to pay off Giovanni’s loan. It turns out quite a few investors see a future in the wine business. There’s just one little problem…’

  He balled up the shirt and tossed it up on the grassy bank. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘You see, now that Castel Sant’Angelo has a big debt to pay off, you won’t be able to buy me out any time soon, which means you’re going to be stuck with me as a partner for a while longer.’

  ‘I agree. That is bad news.’ Tommaso set his hands on his hips, and though he still stood ankle deep in water, shirtless, with his jeans covered in mud, and I looked down at him, he still managed to look like he was the one in command of this situation. ‘What sort of partnership did you have in mind? The in-my-face, pain-in-the-neck kind, or the kind who’s already packed her bags and booked a flight back to London?’

  Be brave. Take a risk. Channel Buffy Summers. ‘That very much depends on you.’

  He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  ‘You asked me to stay. Was that as a business partner, as someone to run your agriturismo business, or…’