He must have sensed her presence, though, because he suddenly snapped out of his trance and turned towards where she stood, just inside the doorway, Matteo behind her. She grinned and raised a hand to wave, and Samuel straightened up and beckoned her over. She tiptoed through the crowd of music lovers and bent to hug him. He patted her back as a father might, and she crouched down on her haunches to gaze at him.
‘Welcome home,’ he said.
‘It’s so good to be here. And look at this,’ she said, gesturing to all the people around the room.
Samuel chuckled. ‘Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ He scratched at his head in disbelief. She rubbed his other arm, pleased to see the cast off and him all better.
‘Are you happy?’ she asked, looking around. People seemed to fill every corner, their faces illuminated by firelight and candles and strings of fairy lights, drinking, eating, laughing, pulling books from the shelves and flipping pages, the young ones texting and talking.
He nodded, seemingly lost for words to express just how happy he truly was.
‘What about Carlo?’
‘He’s supposed to be coming,’ Samuel said, his face falling. She wished she hadn’t asked.
‘Who’s supposed to be coming?’ came a booming voice from behind them.
And there was Carlo, looking almost exactly as Lara had last seen him, except for a thick grey cable-knit jumper snug around his girth. He stared straight at Samuel.
Everyone stopped talking. Lily’s fingers faltered on the keys and then stopped. A child sitting at the long table squealed and was shushed by an older cousin.
‘Carlo,’ Samuel said, his voice barely audible.
Lara got to her feet and held out her hand to Samuel. He took it and, with some difficulty, pulled himself up from the lounge. Lara handed him his stick, and he straightened his shoulders and walked over to Carlo, who towered over him.
Samuel stopped in front of him and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Carlo looked at Samuel’s outstretched hand, then back at Samuel’s face. He shook his head and Samuel dropped his hand.
Lara gasped quietly, her gaze flicking to Matteo, who was still standing near the doorway. He chewed his bottom lip.
Then Carlo stepped close to Samuel and took his shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks and said, ‘Little brother. It has been too long.’
68
The table was near to overflowing with food. Wooden boards piled with prosciutto-wrapped melon, pastrami and pancetta bumped up against platters of olives with slivers of preserved lemon and capers, anchovies and tomatoes. Hudson returned for crostini and white bean dip again and again. Daisy had eaten her own weight in bruschetta and chunky pesto dripping in olive oil. Teresa had taken a shine to Daisy immediately, and sat next to her on the bench seat, teaching her Italian words for plate and knife and glass.
‘They seem to be taking to this Italian thing,’ Sunny said, sitting to the right of Lara, a glass of red wine in her hand. ‘You know, I think it’s going to be okay.’
Lara smiled. Actually, she simply grinned wider, her face aching from the endless smiling and laughing. Beside her, Matteo had barely taken his hand off hers since they’d sat down. He was talking in Italian across the table to his brothers and sisters-in-law, but often stopped to talk to Eliza, who was to his left. Lara signalled to her mother by leaning behind Matteo’s back while he was busy with his brothers, raising her eyebrows. Well? What do you think? Eliza beamed and nodded her approval.
Gilberta carried in plates filled with her handmade tagliatelle and rich red sauce, grated pecorino sprinkled on top, its aroma making Lara’s mouth water. Mario followed with more plates, carrying six at a time.
‘Gilberta, you must sit down and eat,’ Lara said, then murmured in delight at the charred zucchini strips adorning the plate in front of her. ‘You’re working too hard.’
‘This is the fun part,’ Gilberta said. ‘I can to feed you all!’
Mario placed his dishes down in front of the children, singing to them and doing a little sidestep shuffle, making them all laugh.
Henrik was at the head of the table, still in conversation with Aimee, two scientists together discussing the glory of the microbial world.
Samuel was diagonally opposite her, flanked by Giovanna and Gaetano, the three of them deep in conversation. Samuel was too far away, with too much noise from the raucous crowd around them, for Lara to talk with him. But she was enjoying taking in the sight of him, observing his face light up as he looked at his much-missed children, watching him sit a little straighter and pat down his formal shirt whenever it puckered. She would have time to talk to him. Lots of Italian time. She would be here for him, as long as he needed or wanted her.
Lucia was next to Gaetano, in surprisingly close proximity to Samuel, and Lara had seen her pass him a smile and a cheese board a couple of times. There would be a long way to go for them, she suspected. But it was the first little trickle of hope.
When all the pasta was gone, Matteo’s brother Salvatore sent the nieces and nephews to clear the plates, giving Gilberta and Mario a break, and Carlo cleared his throat, loudly, as he was able to do with his stentorian voice. A few heads turned his way, sentences tailed off. He was seated at the other end of the table, and had a single chair to sit in rather than the bench seat. He pushed it back and stood. All voices hushed and all eyes turned to him.
‘It is not my place to make a speech here to welcome you all to this villa,’ he said, speaking in English for the benefit of the Australians, Lara supposed. There was some translation for the younger guests, in whispers, mums and dads leaning towards eager ears. ‘But I do come here to confess.’
Lara peeked at Samuel, whose face was apprehensive, a slight wobble in his chin. Giovanna and Gaetano appeared guarded too, the exiles returning to the family home.
‘I was wrong.’ Carlo put his hand on his heart, gazing at Samuel. ‘We were all very wrong,’ he said gravely, looking at Lucia first and then at others around the table. ‘Assunta was our much-loved sister, aunt and mother. Her passing was terrible.’ He paused. Giovanna had started to weep quietly, pulling tissues from between her breasts.
‘We blamed Samuel.’
Samuel lifted his chin and swallowed.
‘But we were wrong.’
The room was silent, bar the crackling of the fire.
‘We have mourned Assunta too long. We still have so much life to live. Let us not waste it.’ Carlo picked up his wine glass and raised it high. ‘To Assunta’s memory,’ he said.
‘To Assunta,’ came the collective reply, more glasses held aloft.
‘And to Samuel,’ Carlo said, bowing his head in Samuel’s direction.
‘To Samuel,’ came the response, with many smiles and a few cheers.
Samuel stared at his plate and Lara could see the tremor in his hands.
‘And I want to give you back this,’ Carlo said, pulling the wine-coloured jewellery box from his pocket. He left his spot and walked around the back of the bench seat and stopped behind Samuel, who’d lifted his head. Carlo put a large hand on Samuel’s shoulder and placed the box on the table between Samuel and Giovanna. ‘It belongs in your family.’
Giovanna opened the box and took out the necklace. She exclaimed in Italian and stood up to hug Carlo, who patted her back and murmured in her ear.
Samuel looked up at his old friend. ‘Thank you.’
Carlo, seemingly lost for words now, simply patted Samuel’s shoulder and returned to his seat, where he picked up his wine glass and drained it.
Matteo put his arm around Lara and kissed her on the temple. ‘Look what you did,’ he whispered.
‘Nice job, Sprout,’ Sunny said beside her.
Eliza reached behind Matteo’s back and squeezed her hand, staring at her proudly.
Then Samuel caught her eye and lifted his glass to her.
She returned the gesture. ‘Thank you.’
Late in the evening, when t
he twins were falling over with fatigue and Sunny had bade her farewells, leading them up the stairs to their new bedroom, and Eliza was nursing a coffee and chatting with Lucia, Lara pulled Matteo into the receiving room. Yet another fire burned brightly in there, warming it so much she had to take off a layer. She collapsed happily onto the chaise longue, Matteo joining her, wrapping his arms around her, his lips meeting hers.
‘I’d invite you upstairs to my room but now there are children up there,’ she said, smiling against his mouth.
‘There is always my cabin back at the farm,’ he suggested, his hand on her thigh. ‘Except we have had too much wine,’ he added sadly.
‘Tomorrow,’ she whispered.
Matteo gazed at her as if he couldn’t believe she was really here. He ran the back of his hand gently down her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. ‘You know, you are all part of the family now—once you meet us and feast with us, it’s a done deal. The Italian way.’
‘That’s lucky,’ she said, lacing her fingers through his, ‘because Gilberta has already adopted the kids as grandchildren.’
He stilled and his eyes widened. ‘Did you see your mother and my mother?’
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘They looked like old friends.’
Matteo shook his head in disbelief, but smiled at the idea. He rested his elbow on the back of the chaise longue and studied her. ‘Thank you for coming back to me.’
‘Tell me when I wake up tomorrow that this won’t have all been a dream.’
‘It’s not a dream.’
‘I’m really here?’
‘You really are.’
‘I made it,’ she said, almost not believing it. That one sentence meant so much.
I made it.
Out in the living room, Lily had begun playing the piano again and Mario was just warming up for an operatic piece. There were cheers and whistles.
‘What shall we do tomorrow?’ Matteo asked.
‘Honestly, I’d be happy to hang out with you in the goat shed and feed berries to Meg and Willow. Actually, I think I’d be happy to do that every day for the rest of my life.’
‘Then I think that’s what we should do.’
Lara thought back to those three gold coins she threw into the Trevi Fountain—one to return to Rome, one to find love, and one for marriage. The first two had happened. Would the third? She didn’t know. What she did know for sure was that life didn’t always turn out the way you might have thought it would, but that she could survive anything, and even the darkest of days would one day turn bright again.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I love writing acknowledgements. Creating a book is a long and potentially treacherous journey into creative oceans, but I am always buoyed by so many beautiful souls along the way.
This book wouldn’t even be here had I not attended Vanessa Carnevale’s writing retreat in Tuscany in 2016, where I made the bold decision to throw away fifty thousand words of a different novel, to instead embrace the story that wanted to be told here, born in the garden of the villa in the Tuscan hillsides. Thanks to the writing sisters on that retreat, Vanessa, Amanda, Tracey and Pascale, for giving me the push I so needed in order to let go. And to Fabio, Gilberta, Mario and Jen for the feast of a lifetime. Gilberta Sangiorgi Nuccitelli, again, for your pasta-making tutorial and your permission to use your recipe, as well as a fictional character named after you (I hope you like her!), and to Mario for the same.
And very importantly, to my husband, Alwyn Blayse, who encouraged me to take the trip in the first place and who is always my number one fan (and even threatens to be the founding member of ‘The Moonies’ fan club, bless him).
Christian Nobel from Fromart here on the Sunshine Coast for inviting me to come and visit your lush green hills to ask a hundred questions on what it is like to be a cheesemaker.
Alison Brien and her YouTube videos on Channel Cheese TV for so many mouth-watering episodes, particularly those in Northern Italy.
My sister, Amanda, for being my travel assistant, making sure I turn up to the airport on the right day (!), and making me laugh till I cry, all in the name of research and cheese-eating extravaganzas. (But I will never be able to eat Stilton. Ever. Though I will accept the cider that goes with it.)
My publisher, Annette Barlow, for being flawless in your confidence in me to write a book at all, let alone one you’ll love; your faith is both gracious and nerve racking. All at Allen & Unwin who work so very hard to bring out the best in my book and promote its socks off to find new readers. My agents, Fiona Inglis at Curtis Brown (Australia and UK) and Haylee Nash for doing what you do best.
To my early readers (I’m sorry you had to endure such a poor quality draft, but I promise your feedback really did help it grow up into a real book): Vanessa Carnevale for checking all my Italian words (and of course any errors are totally mine); Dr Tracey Hay (aka ‘Big Sis’) for medical matters (again, any errors are mine); Haylee Nash for great structural advice and much-welcomed enthusiasm; Clara Finlay, my favourite ninja of the editing world, who endured not just one but two completely different (and much poorer) versions of this novel (including the abandoned fifty thousand words)…I hope for both our sakes that next time I crack the story on the first draft; Marie-Louise Willis for picking me up when I was lost out at sea, and your helpful feedback on characters and plot; and the multi-talented Kate Smibert, who always sees to the heart of my stories.
Hilary Reynolds for your keen eye for detail and helping make my words shine. This is a much better book for your efforts. Thanks also to Genevieve Buzo for overseeing the book’s progress through to publication.
Sharyn Wagner, from Briese Lawyers, for advice on family law matters. (Again, all errors are totally mine.)
Rosie Batty for your courageous testimonial at the parliamentary inquiry into family law and family violence. I don’t have enough words to express my gratitude for the work you do for the women and children of this country.
My goats, Meg and Wilbur, for lending me your personalities for these fictional goats.
I read through countless recipe books while writing this novel, too many to name here, but I do want to mention Jamie Oliver’s Jamie’s Italy, a book that is as brutal as it is beautiful and made me think deeply about our relationship to food.
To Jill, Nicky, Sam, Misty and team at the Goodness Gracious cafe in Yandina, for taking care of my caffeine and cake needs and for the love notes of encouragement that came with the coffees. I am superstitiously glued to ‘my seat’ now, so please don’t ever renovate!
And my final but largest thanks go to Flynn, just for being you, the most precious gift of all.
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