From Florence With Love

Around the tractors laden with baskets of grapes, the air was alive with the hum of bees. Everyone was covered in sticky purple grape juice, the air heavy with sweat and the sweet scent of freshly pressed grapes, and over the sound of excited voices she could hear the noise of the motors powering the pumps and the pressing machines.

‘It’s fascinating,’ she yelled, and he nodded.

‘It is. You can stay, if you like, see what we do with the grapes.’

‘Do you need me underfoot?’ she asked, and his mouth quirked.

‘I’m sure I’ll manage. You ask intelligent questions. I can live with that.’

His words made her oddly happy, and she smiled. ‘Thank you. They seem to be enjoying themselves,’ she added, gesturing to the laughing workers, and he grinned.

‘Why wouldn’t they be? We all love the harvest. And anyway, it’s lunchtime,’ he said pragmatically as the machines fell silent, and she laughed.

‘So it is. I’m starving.’

The lunch was just a cold spread of bread and cheese and ham and tomatoes, much like their impromptu supper in the middle of the first night, and the exhausted and hungry workers fell on it like locusts.

‘Carlotta told me there are about sixty people to feed. Does she do this every day?’

‘Yes—and an evening meal for everyone. It’s too much for her, but she won’t let anyone else take over, she insists on being in charge and she’s so fussy about who she’ll allow in her kitchen it’s not easy to get help that she’ll accept.’

She nodded. She could understand that. She’d learned the art of delegation, but you still had to have a handle on everything that was happening in the kitchen and that took energy and physical resources that Carlotta probably didn’t have any more.

‘How old is she?’

Massimo laughed. ‘It’s a state secret and more than my life’s worth to reveal it. Roberto’s eighty-two. She tells me it’s none of my business, which makes it difficult as she’s on the payroll, so I had to prise it out of Roberto. Let’s just say there’s not much between them.’

That made her chuckle, but it also made her think. Carlotta hadn’t minded her helping out in the kitchen this morning, or the other night—in fact, she’d almost seemed grateful. Maybe she’d see if she could help that afternoon. ‘I think I’ll head back with them,’ she told him. ‘It’s a bit hot out here for me now anyway, and I could do with putting my foot up for a while.’

It wasn’t a lie, none of it, but she had no intention of putting her foot up if Carlotta would let her help. And it would be a way to repay them for all the trouble she’d caused.

It was an amazing amount of work.

It would have been a lot for a team. For Carlotta, whose age was unknown but somewhere in the ballpark of eighty-plus, it was ridiculous. She had just the one helper, Maria, who sighed with relief when Lydia offered her assistance.

So did Carlotta.

Oh, she made a fuss, protested a little, but more on the lines of ‘Oh, you don’t really want to,’ rather than, ‘No, thank you, I don’t need your help.’

So she rolled up her sleeves and pitched in, peeling and chopping a huge pile of vegetables. Carlotta was in charge of browning the diced chicken, seasoning the tomato-based sauce, tasting.

That was fine. This was her show. Lydia was just going along for the ride, and making up for the disaster of her first evening here, but by the time they were finished and ready to serve it on trestle tables under the cherry trees, her ankle was paying for it.

She stood on one leg like a stork, her sore foot hooked round her other calf, wishing she could sit down and yet knowing she was needed as they dished up to the hungry hordes.

They still looked happy, she thought. Happy and dirty and smelly and as if they’d had a good day, and there was a good deal of teasing and flirting going on, some of it in her direction.

She smiled back, dished up and wondered where Massimo was. She found herself scanning the crowd for him, and told herself not to be silly. He’d be with the children, not here, not eating with the workers.

She was wrong. A few minutes later, when the queue was thinning out and she was at the end of her tether, she felt a light touch on her waist.

‘You should be resting. I’ll take over.’

And his firm hands eased her aside, took the ladle from her hand and carried on.

‘You don’t need to do that. You’ve been working all day.’

‘So have you, I gather, and you’re hurt. Have you eaten?’

‘No. I was waiting till we’d finished.’

He ladled sauce onto the last plate and turned to her. ‘We’re finished. Grab two plates, we’ll go and eat. And you can put your foot up. You told me you were going to do that and I hear you’ve been standing all day.’

They sat at the end of a trestle, so she was squashed between a young girl from one of the villages and her host, and the air was heady with the scent of sweat and grape juice and the rich tomato and basil sauce.

He shaved cheese over her pasta, his arm brushing hers as he held it over her plate, and the soft chafe of hair against her skin made her nerve-endings dance.

‘So, is it a good harvest?’ she asked, and he grinned.

‘Very good. Maybe the best I can remember. It’ll be a vintage year for our Brunello.’

‘Brunello? I thought that was only from Montalcino?’

‘It is. Part of the estate is in the Montalcino territory. It’s very strictly regulated, but it’s a very important part of our revenue.’

‘I’m sure.’ She was. During the course of her training and apprenticeships she’d learned a lot about wines, and she knew that Brunellos were always expensive, some of them extremely so. Expensive, and exclusive. Definitely niche market.

Her father would be interested. He’d like Massimo, she realised. They had a lot in common, in so many ways, for all the gulf between them.

Deep in thought, she ate the hearty meal, swiped the last off the sauce from her plate with a chunk of bread and licked her lips, glancing up to see him watching her with a smile on his face.

‘What?’

‘You. You really appreciate food.’

‘I do. Carlotta’s a good cook. That was delicious.’

‘Are you making notes?’

She laughed. ‘Only mental ones.’

He glanced over her head, and a smile touched his face. ‘My parents are back. They’re looking forward to meeting you.’

Really? Like this, covered in tomato sauce and reeking of chopped onions? She probably had an orange tide-line round her mouth, and her hair was dragged back into an elastic band, and—

‘Mamma, Pàpa, this is Lydia.’

She scrambled to her feet, wincing as her sore ankle took her weight, and looked up into the eyes of an elegant, beautiful, immaculately groomed woman with clear, searching eyes.

‘Lydia. How nice to meet you. Welcome to our home. I’m Elisa Valtieri, and this is my husband, Vittorio.’

‘Hello. It’s lovely to meet you, too.’ Even if she did look a fright.

She shook their hands, Elisa’s warm and gentle, Vittorio’s rougher, his fingers strong and hard, a hand that wasn’t afraid of work. He was an older version of his son, and his eyes were kind. He reminded her of her father.

‘My son tells me you’ve had an accident?’ Elisa said, her eyes concerned.

‘Yes, I was really stupid, and he’s been unbelievably kind.’

‘And so, I think, have you. Carlotta is singing your praises.’

‘Oh.’ She felt herself colour, and laughed a little awkwardly. ‘I didn’t have anything else to do.’

‘Except rest,’ Massimo said drily, but his smile was gentle and warmed her right down to her toes.

And then she glanced back and found his mother looking at her, curiosity and interest in those lively brown eyes, and she excused herself, mumbling some comment about them having a lot to catch up on, and hobbled quickly back to Carlotta to see if there was anything she could do to help.

Anything, other than stand there while his mother eyed her speculatively, her eyes asking questions Lydia had no intention of answering.

If she even knew the answers …

CHAPTER FIVE

‘YOU ran away.’

She was sitting outside her room on a bench with her foot up, flicking through a magazine she’d found, and she looked up guiltily into his thoughtful eyes.

‘I had to help Carlotta.’

‘And it was easier than dealing with my mother,’ he said softly, a fleeting smile in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, she can be a little …’

‘A little …?’

He grinned slightly crookedly. ‘She doesn’t like me being on my own. Every time I speak to a woman under fifty, her radar picks it up. She’s been interrogating me for the last three hours.’

Lydia laughed, and she put the magazine down, swung her foot to the ground and patted the bench. ‘Want to hide here for a while?’

His mouth twitched. ‘How did you guess? Give me a moment.’

He vanished, then reappeared with a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Prosecco?’

‘Lovely. Thanks.’ She took a glass from him, sniffing the bubbles and wrinkling her nose as she sipped. ‘Mmm, that’s really nice. So, how was the baby?’

‘Beautiful, perfect, amazing, the best baby in the world—

oh, apart from all their other grandchildren. This is the sixth, and Luca and Isabelle are about to make it seven. Their second is due any time now.’

‘Wow. Lots of babies.’

‘Yes, and she loves it. Nothing makes her happier. Luca and Isabelle and my brother Gio are coming over tomorrow for dinner with some neighbours, by the way. I’d like you to join us, if you can tolerate it.’

She stared at him. ‘Really? I’m only here by default, and I feel such a fraud. I really ought to go home.’

‘How’s your head now?’

She pulled a face. ‘Better. I’m still getting the odd headache, but nothing to worry about. It’s my ankle and the other bruises and scrapes that are sorest. I think I hit every step.’

He frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t really think about the things I can’t see.’

Well, that was a lie. He thought about them all the time, but there was no way he was confessing that to Lydia. ‘So—will you join us?’

She bit her lip, worrying it for a moment with her teeth, which made him want to kiss her just to stop her hurting that soft, full mouth that had been taunting him for days. Dio, the whole damn woman had been taunting him for days—

‘Can I think about it?’

A kiss? No. No! Not a kiss!

‘Of course,’ he said, finally managing to unravel his tongue long enough to speak. ‘Of course you may. It won’t be anything impressive, Carlotta’s got enough to do as it is, but my mother wanted to see Isabelle and Luca before the baby comes, and Gio’s coming, and so my mother’s invited Anita and her parents, and so it gets bigger—you know how it is.’

She laughed softly. ‘I can imagine. Who’s Anita?’

‘The daughter of our neighbours. She and Gio had a thing a while back, and my mother keeps trying to get them together again. Can’t see it working, really, but she likes to try.’

‘And how do they feel?’

He laughed abruptly. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask Gio. He has a fairly bitter and twisted attitude to love. Comes from being a lawyer, I suppose. His first line of defence is always a prenuptial agreement.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Trust issues, then. I can understand that. I have a few of my own after Russell.’

‘I’m sure. People like that can take away something precious, a sort of innocence, a naivety, and once it’s gone you can never get it back. Although I have no idea what happened to Gio. He won’t talk about it.’

‘What about Anita? What’s she like?’

His low chuckle made her smile. ‘Anita’s a wedding planner. What do you think?’

‘I think she might like to plan her own?’

‘Indeed. But Gio can’t see what’s under his nose, even if Mamma keeps putting her there.’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘It could be an interesting evening. And if you’re there, it might take the heat off Gio, so he’ll probably be so busy being grateful he’ll forget to quiz me about you, so it could be better all round!’

She started to laugh at that, and he joined in with another chuckle and topped up her glass.

‘Here’s to families and their politics and complications,’ he said drily, and touched his glass to hers.

‘Amen to that,’ she said, remembering guiltily that she’d meant to phone Jen again. ‘I heard from Claire, by the way—she’s back home safely, and she said Jo’s ecstatic about winning.’

‘How’s your sister about it?’

She pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure. She was putting on a brave face, but I think she’s gutted. I know none of us expected me to win but, you know, it would have been so nice.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. You’ve done more than enough.’ She drained her glass and handed it to him. ‘I’m going to turn in. I need to rest my leg properly, and tomorrow I need to think about arranging a flight back home.’

‘For tomorrow?’ He sounded startled, and she shook her head.

‘No. I thought maybe the next day? I probably ought to phone the hospital and get the go-ahead to fly.’

‘I can take you there if you want a check-up.’

‘You’ve got so much to do.’

‘Nothing that’s more important,’ he said, and although it wasn’t true, she knew that for him there was nothing more important than making sure there wasn’t another Angelina.

‘I’ll see what they say,’ she compromised. There was always the bus, surely? She’d ask Carlotta in the morning.

She got to her feet, and he stood up and took her hand, tucking it in the crook of his arm and helping her to the French doors. Quite unnecessarily, since she’d been hobbling around without help since the second day, really, but it was still nice to feel the strength of his arm beneath her hand, the muscles warm and hard beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.

Silk and linen, she thought, sampling the texture with her fingertips, savouring it.

He hesitated at the door, and then just when she thought he was going to walk away, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, sending rivers of ice and fire dancing over her skin.

It was a slow kiss, lingering, thoughtful, their mouths the only point of contact, but then the velvet stroke of his tongue against her lips made her gasp softly and part them for him, and everything changed.

He gave a muffled groan and deepened the kiss, searching the secret recesses of her mouth, his tongue finding hers and dancing with it, retreating, tangling, coaxing until she thought her legs would collapse.

Then he eased away, breaking the contact so slowly so that for a tiny second their lips still clung.

‘Buonanotte, Lydia,’ he murmured unevenly, his breath warm against her mouth, and then straightening slowly, he took a step back and turned briskly away, gathering up the glasses and the bottle as he went without a backwards glance.

She watched him go, then closed the curtains and undressed, leaving the doors open. The night was warm still, the light breeze welcome, and she lay there in the darkness, her fingertips tracing her lips, and thought about his kiss …

He must have been mad to kiss her!

Crazy. Insane. If he hadn’t walked away, he would have taken her right there, standing on the terrace in full view of anyone who walked past.

He headed for the stairs, but then hesitated. He wouldn’t sleep—but what else could he do? His office was next to her room, and he didn’t trust himself that close to her. The pool, his first choice of distraction for the sheer physical exertion it offered, was too close to her room, and she slept with her doors open. She’d hear him, come and investigate, and …

So not the pool, then.

Letting out a long, weary sigh, he headed slowly up the stairs to his room, and sat on the bed, staring at the photograph of Angelina on his bedside table.

He’d loved her—really, deeply and enduringly loved her. But she was gone, and now, as he looked at her face, another face seemed superimposed on it, a face with laughing eyes and a soft, full bottom lip that he could still taste.

He groaned and fell back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. The day after tomorrow, she’d be gone, he told himself, and then had to deal with the strange and unsettling sense of loss he felt at the thought that he was about to lose her.

She didn’t sleep well.

Her dreams had been vivid and unsettling, and as soon as she heard signs of life, she got up, showered and put on her rinsed-out underwear, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed thoughtfully as she studied her clothes.

She couldn’t join them for dinner—not if their neighbours were coming. She’d seen Elisa, seen the expensive and elegant clothes she’d worn for travelling back home from her daughter’s house, and the only things she had with her were the jeans and top she’d been wearing now for two days, including all the cooking she’d done yesterday.

No way could she wear them to dinner, even if she’d earn Gio’s undying gratitude and give Elisa something else to think about! She put the clothes on, simply because she had absolutely no choice apart from the wedding dress Carlotta had stuffed in a bag for her and which she yet had to burn, and went outside and round the corner to the kitchen.

Carlotta was there, already making headway on the lunch preparations, and the children were sitting at the table eating breakfast. For a slightly crazy moment, she wondered if they could tell what she’d been dreaming about, if the fact that she’d kissed their father was written all over her face.

She said good morning to them, in her best Italian learned yesterday from Francesca, asked them how they were and then went over to Carlotta. ‘Buongiorno, Carlotta,’ she said softly, and Carlotta blushed and smiled at her and patted her cheek.

‘Buongiorno, signorina,’ she said. ‘Did you have good sleep?’

‘Very good,’ she said, trying not to think of the dreams and blushing slightly anyway. ‘What can I do to help you?’

‘No, no, you sit. I can do it.’

‘You know I can’t do that,’ she chided softly. She stuck a mug under the coffee machine, pressed the button and waited, then added milk and went back to Carlotta, sipping the hot, fragrant brew gratefully. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. Right. What shall I do first?’

Carlotta gave in. ‘We need to cut the meat, and the bread, and—’

‘Just like yesterday?’

‘Si.’

‘So I’ll do that, and you can make preparations for tonight. I know you have dinner to cook for the family as well as for the workers.’

Her brow creased, looking troubled, and Lydia could tell she was worried. Exhausted, more like. ‘Look, let me do this, and maybe I can give you a hand with that, too?’ she offered, but that was a step too far. Carlotta straightened her gnarled old spine and plodded to the fridge.

‘I do it,’ she said firmly, and so Lydia gave in and concentrated on preparing lunch for sixty people in the shortest possible time, so she could move on to cooking the pasta sauce for the evening shift with Maria. At least that way Carlotta would be free to concentrate on dinner.

Massimo found her in the kitchen at six, in the throes of draining gnocci for the workers, and she nearly dropped the pan. Crazy. Ridiculous, but the sight of him made her heart pound and she felt like a gangly teenager, awkward and confused because of the kiss.

‘Are you in here again?’ he asked, taking the other side of the huge pan and helping her tip it into the enormous strainer.

‘Looks like me,’ she said with a forced grin, but he just frowned and avoided her eyes, as if he, too, was feeling awkward and uncomfortable about the kiss.

‘Did you speak to the hospital?’ he asked, and she realised he would be glad to get rid of her. She’d been nothing but trouble for him, and she was unsettling the carefully constructed and safe status quo he’d created around them all.

‘Yes. I’m fine to travel,’ she said, although it wasn’t quite true. They’d said they needed to examine her, and when she’d said she was too busy, they’d fussed a bit but what could they do? So she’d booked a flight. ‘I’ve got a seat on a plane at three tomorrow afternoon from Pisa,’ she told him, and he frowned again.

‘Really? You didn’t have to go so soon,’ he said, confusing her even more.

‘It’s not soon. It’ll be five days—that’s what they said, and I’ve been under your feet long enough.’

And any longer, she realised, and things were going to happen between them. There was such a pull every time she was with him, and that kiss last night—

She thrust the big pot at him. ‘Here, carry the gnocci outside for me. I’ll bring the sauce.’

He followed her, set the food down for the workers and stood at her side, dishing up.

‘So can I persuade you to join us for dinner?’ he asked, but she shook her head.

‘I’ve got nothing to wear,’ she said, feeling safe because he couldn’t argue with that, but she was wrong.

‘You’re about the same size as Serena. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you borrowed something from her wardrobe. She always leaves something here. Carlotta will show you.’

‘Carlotta’s trying to prepare a meal for ten people this evening, Massimo. She doesn’t have time to worry about clothes for me.’

‘Then I’ll take you,’ he said, and the moment the serving was finishing, he hustled her back into the house before she could argue.

He was right. She and Serena were about the same size, something she already knew because she’d borrowed her costume to swim in, and she found a pair of black trousers that were the right length with her flat black pumps, and a pretty top that wasn’t in the first flush of youth but was nice enough.

She didn’t want to take anything too special, but she didn’t think Serena would mind if she borrowed that one, and it was good enough, surely, for an interloper?

She went back to the kitchen, still in her jeans and T-shirt, and found Carlotta sitting at the table with her head on her arms, and Roberto beside her wringing his hands.

‘Carlotta?’

‘She is tired, signorina,’ he explained worriedly. ‘Signora Valtieri has many people for dinner, and my Carlotta …’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said quickly, sitting down and taking Carlotta’s hands in hers. ‘Carlotta, tell me what you were going to cook them, and I’ll do it.’

‘But Massimo said …’

‘Never mind what he said. I can cook and be there at the same time. Don’t worry about me. We can make it easy. Just tell me what you’re cooking, and Roberto can help me find things. We’ll manage, and nobody need ever know.’

Her eyes filled with tears, and Lydia pulled a tissue out of a box and shoved it in her hand. ‘Come on, stop that, it’s all right. We’ve got cooking to do.’

Well, it wasn’t her greatest meal ever, she thought as she sat with the others and Roberto waited on them, but it certainly didn’t let Carlotta down, and from the compliments going back to the kitchen via Roberto, she knew Carlotta would be feeling much less worried.

As for her, in her borrowed top and trousers, she felt underdressed and overawed—not so much by the company as by the amazing dining room itself. Like her room and the kitchen, it opened to the terrace, but in the centre, with two pairs of double doors flung wide so they could hear the tweeting and twittering of the swallows swooping past the windows.

But it was the walls which stunned her. Murals again, like the ones in the cloistered walkway around the courtyard, but this time all over the ornate vaulted ceiling as well.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Gio said quietly. ‘I never get tired of looking at this ceiling. And it’s a good way to avoid my mother’s attention.’

She nearly laughed at that. He was funny—very funny, very quick, very witty, very dry. A typical lawyer, she thought, used to brandishing his tongue in court like a rapier, slashing through the opposition. He would be formidable, she realised, and she didn’t envy the woman who was so clearly still in love with him.