Those Blue Tuscan Skies

by Marion Ueckermann

  It was all simply beautiful.

  She turned her focus to the tall, green cypress trees that marked the road leading to yet another hilltop villa. Did Rafaele live in something like that? Perhaps even one of the stone houses she’d seen yesterday as she’d explored the immediate vicinity. What if his house was the one she stared at now?

  Pfft. She should be so lucky to stumble across him so easily. If fact, she would be lucky to stumble across him at all.

  Doubt slithered through her. What was she doing? Looking for a needle in a haystack would be easier than finding a man she’d met for a single night. After all this time, he could be living anywhere. She should just call Rose to get his address or number from Joseph.

  Jayne bumped the back of her head against the wall. No! She’d trust God that if this was His will, she would find Rafaele Rossi. If she didn’t, she’d go back home to England, having enjoyed the beauty of Tuscany for a few weeks.

  Jayne dressed in a white, sleeveless, Hepburn-styled vintage frock patterned with bright red cherries dangling from green-leafed stems. She then headed downstairs for breakfast, starved. Just a short walk down the narrow road to the steps that led to the reception, dining room, patio, and swimming pool. She wouldn’t be using the latter. She’d dipped her toes in yesterday, and the water was a little too cold for her liking.

  Outside the door that served as the entrance to the four apartments in her block, she slid her arms into the sleeves of the light jersey she’d brought with her. The day would warm soon enough, and in a while she’d take it off again. Prepared for anything, she’d also brought along a floppy straw hat which she carried in her hand. No use for it just yet, but she’d definitely need it later.

  Handbag, wallet, car keys, sunblock... Check. Everything she’d need for the day. She didn’t plan to return to her room until much, much later.

  With every step, she admired the red leather flowers covering the bridges of her feet as the soles of her sandals slapped against the narrow tar road, echoing between the two buildings.

  As Jayne entered the dining room, Brigida smiled and waved from across the way.

  “Buongiorno, Jayne Austin.” She stressed her name and giggled before hurrying over.

  Jayne groaned. Probably thanks to Hollywood and movies like Becoming Jane and Pride & Prejudice, the famous English novelist’s name was known even in the heart of Tuscany. What were Mum and Dad thinking when they’d named her? Didn’t they realize the inevitable question, “The writer?” would follow almost every introduction of herself she ever made? Still, it did make people smile. Wasn’t that worth hearing those two words over and over again?

  Matching the young receptionist’s grin, Jayne responded with her own greeting. “Buongiorno, Brigida.” Gosh, she felt half-Italian already.

  “You are having breakfast, sì?”

  Jayne nodded, her mouth salivating at the thought of that sunny-side up egg on toast with a rasher of bacon on the side. Perhaps a grilled tomato and fried mushrooms. And a pot of tea, of course.

  “Would you like to sit inside? Or outside?” Brigida spoke slowly, articulating each word. Jayne wasn’t sure if it was because the young woman really believed her to be a famous author—although one long dead—and wanted to impress her with her English, or if she merely had to think that hard about every word before speaking it. Still, Brigida did far better than she would if she were made to speak a sentence in Italian.

  Jayne glanced over her shoulder. Breakfasting under the hanging, purple flowers, the Tuscan hills in the background definitely trumped the dining room, elegant though it was.

  “I’ll sit outside, thank you. The view is too beautiful not to savor.” She pivoted and strolled over to a two-seater table, the wall beside it not much higher. Good. No hindrance to the picture-perfect scene. She sank into a chair, allowing her gaze to roam the beauty over the wall for a moment.

  “One breakfast with caffè?”

  Jayne swiveled her head to see the receptionist holding up her index finger.

  “Tea, please.” She sent a questioning look Brigida’s way. “I thought you worked in the front office?”

  “Reception. Restaurant. I go where I am needed.” Brigida turned to leave.

  “Oh, and sunny-side up,” Jayne called after her. “Thank you.”

  Brigida twirled on her heel, swishing one hand through the air. “Sunny-side up for you too.” Flashing a grin, she vanished inside.

  Jayne worried her lip. Hope she realized I was talking about my breakfast, and not the weather.

  Brigida soon returned, bearing a tray. She set the teapot, cup, and saucer down, and then placed a plate of food on the table in front of Jayne.

  Pastries? Without adornments like jam and butter? Where was her English breakfast?

  Offering a smile, Brigida pointed. “Cornetto—like croissants but smaller, less butter, and slightly sweet, with orange-rind glaze on top.”

  Interesting. She was used to a cornetto being a wafer cone filled with ice cream. She moistened her lips. This sounded far more delicious.

  “That there is a slice of crostata,” Brigida continued. “Italian breakfast tart filled with amarena…mi scusi, sour cherry jam.” She moved her finger, drawing Jayne’s attention to the final pastry. “Cream-filled brioche. Enjoy.”

  Jayne could feel the inches thickening her hips just looking at the dainties. She shifted her gaze from the food to the young woman standing beside her. “No bacon and eggs?” she asked, hoping she wasn’t pouting.

  Brigida laughed. “No, no, no. Eggs, sausage, toast only on the weekend menu at brunch.” She pushed the plate a little closer to Jayne with one finger. “Eat. It’s delicious.”

  “I have no doubt.” Jayne cut one end of the cornetto with her fork and popped it into her mouth. Hmm, it was delicious. She’d have to be careful she didn’t get used to this.

  “So…” Brigida rubbed her hands together. “What are your plans for today?”

  Jayne quickly swallowed the mouthful of pastry, brushing the tip of her finger over one side of her mouth, then the other, to ensure no flakes or sprinkled icing had attached themselves to her skin. “I’m planning to explore Buonconvento.”

  “Ah, a beautiful village. And it’s Liberation day today, so there could be some parades happening. It will be busy. Make sure to visit Gelateria Lella Golosa on Via Soccini.” She puckered her lips and smacked a kiss to her index finger and thumb. “Chocolate fondente, limone, mango… Sooo good.”

  Jayne folded her arms around her middle, her dress already feeling tighter in the waist.

  “There’s also a chocolate festival at Montalcino, a little farther south. It ends today, so if you have time this afternoon that would be a good place to go. But Buonconvento is a wonderful village to start your holiday. It means happy, lucky place, and I’m sure, Jayne Austin, you will find much happiness and luck there.”

  “I hope so. And please, just call me Jayne.”

  Brigida nodded then walked over to a nearby table a couple had just claimed, the empty tray clasped in one hand.

  Jayne forked another piece of cornetto into her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste. Perhaps, for her, Buonconvento’s happiness and luck would be in finding what she’d come looking for in Tuscany.

  True love.

  The day had been magical for Jayne, except for one thing—she’d had to wander the streets of Buonconvento alone. How much better it would’ve been to have explored the village with Rafaele—strolling hand in hand through the narrow, paved streets as they exchanged licks of gelato, each having chosen a different trio of flavors to adorn their sugar cones. Or enjoying that pici pasta lunch together. She could just imagine them each sucking one end of a strand of the thick, hand-rolled spaghetti-type pasta into their mouths, shortening the distance until their lips touched. Although it had taken some effort on her own with the thicker pasta.

  With sore feet, a full stomach, and her pale British skin sporting a light shade of pink de
spite the hat and frequent applications of sunblock, Jayne made her way back to the little cream Fiat 500 she’d rented. She loved the fact that it was a cabriolet. Plus, the red leather roof matched the cherries on her dress and the flowers adorning her shoes. She hadn’t bought much—except for some plump, fresh fruit from a street market—despite having scrutinized almost every little shop in Buonconvento. Looking for that familiar face. Listening for his voice.

  Nothing.

  Tiny needle. Giant haystack.

  Jayne stuck the key into the car door, her spirit deflated—stupidly—as this was only her second day in Tuscany, a fact she was fully aware of and yet had to keep reminding herself to remember.

  Suddenly realizing she was no longer in England, Jayne glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her faux pas. She breathed out a relieved sigh and hurried to the other side of the car—the side with the driver’s seat. She opened the door and sank into the beige leather, closing her eyes for a moment before shoving her handbag and shopping bag onto the passenger side floor. Leaning forward, she turned the key and fired up the engine.

  Soon she drove down the road—slowly, cautiously—heading toward the country house she’d call home for a few days. It would take a while to get used to being on the wrong side of the tarmac, her concentration draining the last ounce of strength she’d reserved for that walk from her car to her bed. What she wouldn’t do for a huge slab of chocolate right now. She really could do with a sugar rush for some energy.

  Brigida’s words earlier that morning drifted into her mind. “There’s a chocolate festival at Monta… Monti...” Mont something or other. Perhaps if she typed the first letters into her satnav she’d find the place. She pulled the car to the side of the road and leaned over to type in M-O-N-T- She’d barely passed three letters when a list of names popped up on the screen. She scanned them, her eyes drawn to one. That was it. She was certain. Almost. She selected the name and hit the ‘Go To’ option. A map of the area appeared on the screen and the familiar, clear-spoken female voice began spurting driving instructions. The place was little farther away than she’d thought it would be, but it was south…well, southeast…and certainly drivable. Only twenty minutes away. Fifteen minutes farther than her hotel.

  Why not? Yes, she was tired, but this could just be the kind of place Rafaele would go. This might be the place she’d bump into him. If she didn’t go, she’d always wonder. Always regret.

  She selected her new destination on the satnav then straightened her back as she drove away. Perhaps the upright position would perk her up a little until she found that chocolate festival.

  With only a couple more miles to go, the steering wheel shuddered without warning beneath her fingers. The Fiat tugged to the left, determined to plot its own course. She tightened her grip. What’s happening? Slowing the vehicle to almost a stop, she veered onto the grassy verge.

  Outside, a quick examination of the car revealed her problem. Front left tire—flat—the nail bent over in the tread claiming responsibility for the dastardly deed.

  Great. She’d never changed a tire before. Didn’t even know where to begin.

  And it would have to be the tire facing the road. It would be a miracle if she didn’t get herself flattened like roadkill today.

  She raised her head heavenward. I could do with a hero right about now, Lord. He doesn’t even need to be good-looking with a voice like fondant. He just needs to be able to change a tire.

  Failing that, or trying to change it on her own, she’d ask for help at the villa up the road.

  Shoes and socks discarded, and his shorts exchanged for swimming trunks, Rafaele reclined in one of the cushioned, wicker loungers under the wisteria-laden pergola. Even though his muscles ached from the morning in the sunflower fields, a sense of satisfaction washed over him as he stared up at the clusters of purple flowers. Since childhood, he’d loved coming down here during riposo. In the spring and summer months, he’d first plunge into the long, narrow pool—even though the water was still a little cold before mid-June. After swimming a few lengths, the family would enjoy lunch together then retire to their rooms for an hour or so to rest. As Nonna had just done. For many years now, Rafaele had preferred to remain under the pergola during this time.

  He glanced at his wristwatch. Thirty more minutes to enjoy the view over the valley and ponder life. Before returning to the freshly ploughed field, he’d take another dip. A little more exercise. Not that he needed it. Between the sunflowers, olive trees, lavender, and vineyards, there was plenty of workout to be had.

  Rafaele had driven to Villa Rossi after work yesterday, the public holiday offering him the perfect excuse to return so soon, even if just for a day. Finishing the planting of the sunflower seeds was of paramount importance, and he’d wanted to check that his instructions to the laborers had been carried out.

  They had.

  He’d also needed to run though last minute details with Maria for their dinner for eight this weekend. He still held on to the hope that nine places would be set at the table. He had to ensure she’d ordered the groceries as they’d discussed over the weekend for delivery on Thursday and prepared the rooms for their guests.

  She had.

  Even the extra one for Rachel. Just in case.

  Although Maria had been told about Rachel, Rafaele had decided not to say anything to his siblings and cousins until he knew for certain Rachel would come. No point in telling them if she chose not to have anything to do with them.

  His final reason for wanting to be here today was to inform Nonna about his decision to stop practicing law.

  That he still needed to do. Tonight, over dinner.

  When he’d discussed leaving the firm with Mr. Bianchi, his boss, the man had suggested he’d rather Rafaele take a six-month sabbatical. Time to sort out his nonna’s estate and get over the next plantings, pruning, and harvest.

  Time to grieve his father.

  But only Nonna and Villa Rossi required his attention. He had no need of time to grieve. He’d lost his father a long, long time ago and had grieved that loss along with his mother’s death.

  The feeling that he’d never go back to Bianchi & Russo, even though he’d been promised to be named a partner when he returned, was hard to shake. Bianchi, Russo & Rossi. Certainly a large carrot dangling before him.

  Good thing he didn’t care for the orange vegetable—the feeling of manipulation all too familiar.

  Rising from the lounger, Rafaele yanked his sleeveless T-shirt over his head once again and discarded it where he’d sat. Arms stretched above his head and toes curling over the edge of the pool, he catapulted himself into a dive. Ten lengths and he’d head back to dole out instructions to the laborers for the next three days. Then he’d be there every day, keeping his finger on the pulse of Villa Rossi. The thought sent tingles through his body.

  Excitement? Or the cold water?

  Refreshed from the swim, Rafaele climbed out of the pool and shook the water from his body. He gave his skin a quick dry with the towel before slipping back into the black shirt and beige, knee-length shorts. The last few weekends in the sun had tanned his skin to a golden brown. He perched on the edge of a chair and pulled on his socks before he shoved his feet into his hiking boots. The laborers would soon return to the sunflower fields. A good example to them would be showing up first after riposo.

  Raking his fingers through his damp hair, he strode off down the dusty road, his straw fedora in one hand. Soon as his hair dried, he’d wear it.

  From the top of the road, Rafaele spotted the small car parked near the entrance to the villa. Probably some tourist taking pictures, although at the moment there wasn’t much to photograph. In a few weeks there’d be a field of yellow sunflowers to snap, plus bales and bales of hay in freshly cut fields, the images a photographer’s dream. Of course, the lavender field looked its best now, but that was on the other side of the estate, out of sight of passersby.

  As he drew nearer, he not
iced that the leggy woman standing beside the car, hands on her curvaceous hips, was no photographer. Rather, she seemed to be having car trouble.

  He shoved his hat on his head and hurried closer.

  “Ciao.” His greeting came with a smile and a wave. “You need some help?”

  Her head snapped up, her face shadowed by the brim of her hat. “Yes. Thank you. My car’s tire is flat, and I have no idea how to even use a jack let alone change a tire. I thought I could figure it out, but it’s proved impossible.”

  Her voice… It seemed so familiar, even though she wasn’t from around here with that strong, English accent.

  He pointed a finger at her. “First of all, that dress is no outfit to be changing a car tire in.” Wrong color. Wrong length. But, mamma mia, did she look great in it. Like those cherries on the fabric—good enough to eat.

  He chuckled and walked around the car to where she stood. Soft, flowery notes tickled his nostrils. Double mamma mia! She not only looked good, she smelled amazing too.

  The woman removed her hat. Long, blond hair tumbled over her shoulders, taking his breath away. She stuck out her hand.

  Rafaele did the same, at exactly the same time, and gazed at her.

  “It’s you,” they declared in unison.

  Chapter Four

  RELUCTANT TO RELEASE HER HAND, Rafaele laughed, his mind whirling to remember her name. June? Joan? “I can’t believe it’s…you…” Another thing he couldn’t believe was how he’d managed to let this woman slip between the cracks of life. This J—

  She gave a soft chuckle, her cheeks flushing. Or were they a little sunburned? “Jayne.”

  Exactly the name he was about to say, recalling the joke he’d cracked when they’d first met at his best friend’s wedding.

  “Hi, I’m Jayne,” she’d said as she shook his hand.

  “And I’m Tarzan,” he’d quipped in return before asking her to dance. Once he’d taken her in his arms, he didn’t let go all night. Unfortunately, she’d flown back to England the following day.