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The taxi driver’s gaze met mine in the rear-view mirror, his one heavy brow rising in a lewd grin. Oh God, he hadn’t heard that, had he?
Not in your dreams, dude. I frowned fiercely at the mirror, and he looked quickly away.
‘I’m burned out, not braindead.’ I dropped my voice so the driver couldn’t eavesdrop. ‘Holiday romances are more trouble than they’re worth.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. That guy I hooked up with in Spain was definitely worth it.’ Cleo’s voice turned heavy with suggestion.
‘Yeah, so worth it you can’t even remember his name!’
She giggled. ‘It wasn’t his name that made the impression.’
I shook my head, though I knew she couldn’t see. No one knew better than I where wild and thoughtless holiday romances could lead – to relationships that didn’t last, to unexpected and unwanted pregnancies, to a mother who flitted around the world trying to recapture her lost youth, and a father I’d barely known. Nope. Growing up the product of a holiday fling, no way would I ever be stupid enough to indulge in one.
One-night stands, brief flings, passionate affairs … they just weren’t my thing.
But the sudden and unwanted memory of serious grey eyes made my stomach contract in a way I’d almost forgotten. I pushed the memory aside. ‘Not. Going. To. Happen.’
‘I know how you feel about holiday romances, but you’re not some impetuous teenager,’ Cleo continued. ‘You’re a sensible woman, and you know all about birth control. You can’t keep letting what your mother did—’
‘Geraldine,’ I corrected automatically. My ‘mother’ didn’t deserve that title.
Cleo sighed. ‘Okay, so no holiday romance, then. But when you get back you could—’
‘If you suggest online dating again, I will have to kill you. Those three days I spent on that app were just too depressing.’
‘We could try speed dating?’ Cleo asked hopefully. She really was a sucker for punishment.
‘Absolutely not! Dating of any kind when you’re over 35 is the most demoralising experience any woman can have. All the decent single guys our age are either taken or gay. No thanks! If I can’t meet someone organically, I’d rather be alone.’
Cleo sighed. ‘You are not over 35. You are 35. And that is far too young to give up on sex.’
I glanced at the taxi driver, but this time his eyes stayed on the road. ‘So did Delta’s CFO agree to the compromise deal?’
‘He did. He’s allocating one of his most senior finance people to work with us to re-analyse their financials and re-structure the loan. Kevin’s put me on it. Everything will be fine.’
I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding. ‘I can’t thank you enough. I know my mistake has put everyone else under terrible pressure.’ Guilt burned a bitter taste in my mouth. How could I not have factored in something as obvious as the client’s cash flow situation? My incorrect calculations had put one of our most valued clients at risk of bankruptcy. If one of my own underlings had made a mistake like that, I’d have fired them on the spot, none of this ‘shame, you’ve been working too hard’ molly-coddling everyone was doing with me. I really was luckier than I deserved to be.
Cleo’s voice softened. ‘We don’t mind. We care about you, and we understand that mistakes happen, especially when someone’s as sleep deprived as you’ve been. Just promise me you’ll catch up on some sleep while you’re there. Enjoy the sun and breathe a little. Work will still be here when you get back.’
I sighed. ‘Okay, I promise.’
‘So have you met your father’s lawyer yet? What’s the castle like?’
I glanced out the window again. After an hour of the same view, of vineyards giving way to patches of dark forest, and then yet more vineyards, the beauty had started to pall. But now the taxi swung off the main provincial road, onto a bumpy, dusty farm road that had once been tarred. It was so rutted the sedan had to slow to navigate the bumps. ‘Not yet, but we’re nearly there.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t be there with you. You sure you’re going to be okay sorting through your father’s things on your own?’
‘Of course I’ll be fine.’ It would be hypocritical to get choked up over someone I hadn’t seen in years, someone I hardly spoke to. After all, it wasn’t as if I’d lost a father. Aside from a handful of summers in my childhood, I’d never really had a father. He hadn’t been involved in my life in any meaningful way; he hadn’t attended any of my school concerts, or netball games, or even my graduation. All his love had been reserved for his vines, with nothing left to spare for people.
Yet when I thought of him, I could still smell red wine, lemons and sunshine. He’d taught me how to drink wine – though he’d hardly approve of the way Cleo and I sloshed down the cheap stuff.
I said goodbye to Cleo and hung up, stuck my mobile back into my bag, and turned to the view again.
The road climbed now between the rolling hills, and I recognised the landmarks – a tiny stone chapel in the fold of a valley to the left, the long low wall of a neighbour’s property, then the shrine at the crossroads with its faded painting of an angel. Just around that next bend, the castello’s gates would appear. I leaned forward excitedly in my seat.
There had been a time, another lifetime ago, when I’d loved this place. Back in those innocent days when the vineyard hadn’t seemed like a rival, but an adventure. And now I was the proud owner of sixty hectares of Tuscan vineyard, and my very own castle – the only thing John had ever given me, aside from unwittingly donating the sperm that gave me life.
My memories of this place had faded with the years, but I remembered the castello as a magical building, complete with turrets and frescoes, and rooms filled with treasure. It was always cool, even on the hottest summer’s day, and the gardens were a paradise too, with banks of lavender and sweet roses surrounded by neatly trimmed boxwood hedges.
The driver turned the car between a pair of high, ornate iron gates, overhung by a sign that read Castel Sant’Angelo. Castle of the Holy Angel. The gates looked rusted, and the sign creaked ominously, but the grand entrance remained just as impressive as the first time my mother had driven me through these gates when I was five.
The long drive was even bumpier and more rutted than the farm road, and the car sent up a billowing cloud of white dust behind us. Tall cypresses lined the road, casting long, dark blue stripes across our path and blocking the view of the house.
Then at last, the trees fell away to reveal the front approach to the castello, and the building rose up before us, its familiar façade warm in the slanting afternoon light. The umbrella pines that dotted the slope above the castello had been kept at bay from the front of the house, allowing the building to bask in sunshine. For a moment, the building seemed bright with colour: from the red-tiled roof, to the mellow apricot-coloured walls, to the powder-blue shutters.
At the end of the drive the road split, the left fork circling behind the house to the back yard then continuing on to the winery, and the right forming a square forecourt in front of the house’s main entrance. A fancy, low-slung silver sports car stood in the forecourt. John’s lawyer was already here.
This side of the house faced west towards Montalcino, and the late afternoon sun washed the walls in golden light. But when the taxi pulled up in front of the entrance and I opened the car door, I realised the sunlight was deceptive. The house looked faded and tired.
Nothing a coat of paint can’t fix.
A man waited on the front steps of the house, beneath the porticoed entrance. He stepped forward into the light, and my heart caught suddenly in my throat. Not in that panic attack way I’d started to feel lately, but in a good way.
He was the kind of man who gave Italian men their reputation for studliness. Not any older than mid-thirties, with a face that was all golden planes and sharp angles. He wore a casual polo shirt and jeans, which fit his lean figure well enough that I could appreciate the toned muscle beneath the fabric.
Oh my word. This was my father’s lawyer?
He descended the low flight of stairs, approaching with a welcoming smile, and my heart picked up its pace in a silly pitter-patter I hadn’t felt in years. Kevin certainly never made my heart go pitter-patter like that.
The lawyer’s eyes were dark and smiling, the colour of chocolate, warm and rich, and just as tempting. I couldn’t help myself. I sighed.
‘Signor Fioravanti?’ My voice sounded breathless. Oh please. Get a hold of yourself, Sarah.
‘Benvenuta in Toscana, signora Wells. Please, call me Luca.’ His voice matched the face, deep, golden, and deliciously accented. Then he smiled, and dimples appeared in his cheeks. Dimples! As far back as I could remember, I’d never experienced actual weak knees over a man. Until now. Maybe Kevin and Cleo were right: I must be seriously burned out.
I reached out a tentative hand, and Luca wrapped both his around it. ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for arranging the cremation and everything.’
‘Of course. John Langdon was well respected here in our little community. He was a good man.’
I blinked away an unexpected blur in my eyes and focused on the man still holding my hand. A man this hot had to be married. I sneaked a look at his left hand. No wedding ring. Okay, so probably gay then.
I retrieved my hand and turned away to pay the driver, then while Luca carried my cases from the car, I wandered around the corner of the building to look at the long front side of the house that faced south over the valley.
It was more than just peeling paint that made the house seem tired. The stucco plaster was coming loose in great chunks, revealing streaky grey travertine blocks beneath. Some of the shutters hung skew on their rusty hinges.
Rapidly, I revised my hopeful estimate of the asking price down by half a million euros. The buyer would need to do a great deal of cosmetic work.
The house also seemed smaller and less impressive than I remembered. There were still towers on either side, topped with the crenelated turrets of my childhood memory, but now I could see they were mere decorations, pretentious additions to make an ordinary villa look more like a castle.
With a sigh, I turned away. The taxi was already halfway down the drive, taking all my childhood illusions away with it, and leaving me stranded in cold, hard reality. At least I had the really hot lawyer to soothe the transition.
I rejoined Luca on the front steps. He held a large ring of ancient-looking keys, and with a flourish, he slid the largest key into the lock, turned it, and gave the big brass handle a twist. The door stuck. I had to lean on it beside him to get it to finally open, and when it swung suddenly open, squealing on its old hinges, we both fell inside.
Oh, great. Trust me to be clumsy and ungraceful in front of the most gorgeous man I’d ever stood within breathing distance of.
‘The wood has swollen a little,’ Luca observed, sounding inordinately cheerful considering the grim welcome.
The hall inside was dark and gloomy, the effect no doubt of all the house’s shutters being closed. Luca set down my cases on the bottommost step of the stone staircase, then followed as I wandered through the downstairs rooms.
Dust sheets covered the furniture, which loomed up out of the shadows, filling almost all the floor space. As a child, I used to play hide and seek in these rooms, and searched for treasure, but viewed though adult eyes it was simply cluttered, as if several hundred years’ worth of inhabitants had collected furniture as a hobby – and never threw out a single item.
‘The house is about a thousand square metres in size,’ Luca said as he trailed me through the rooms. When I turned a bewildered expression on him, he laughed. ‘That’s over ten thousand English square feet.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Feet! Not a very attractive language, your English. But the real jewel, of course, is the land. More than two thirds of the property is arable. There’s a fruit orchard, olive trees, and at least half the land is covered in vines. Mostly Sangiovese, but some Malvasia and Vernaccia grapes too.’
‘Do you know a lot about wine?’
‘Everyone in this region knows at least a little about wine.’ He smiled, and his dark eyes lit up. ‘And you?’
‘I know absolutely nothing about wine – except how to drink it.’
‘That is a good place to start.’
I didn’t plan to get started. I had zero interest in learning anything about wine farming, and was just as happy drinking wine out of a box as out of a bottle with a real cork. I suspected if I admitted that out loud here in Tuscany, I might be deported immediately, inheritance or not.
In the drawing room, the long room which faced down over the valley, I threw open the windows and shutters. The afternoon light streaming in did nothing to dispel the gloom, because now I could see the layer of dust and grime on everything, the threadbare carpet, the peeling burgundy wallpaper, and the dust motes stirred up and set dancing by the inflow of fresh, warm air.
‘How long ago did my father die?’
‘A little over two weeks ago.’
This kind of neglect had taken a great deal longer than two weeks to accumulate.
‘Was he sick for a long time?’ I didn’t really want to know the answer. I felt guilty enough already. I should have known. I should have called. I should have made more of an effort to keep in touch with my own father, even though he made very little attempt to keep in touch with me.
‘No, he died very suddenly. He was in the winery when he had the heart attack. Tommaso found him there.’
He spoke the name as if it should mean something to me, but I only shrugged and turned away. I hadn’t been here in nearly two decades – I could hardly be expected to remember the names and faces of my father’s employees.
The only person I remembered was Elisa, John’s housekeeper. Nonna, I used to call her. Grandmother, though she was no blood relation. But Elisa died a few years ago. That much my father had told me in one of our rare phone calls.
‘He didn’t have any help in the house?’ I asked.
Luca shrugged. ‘After Elisa died, your father never replaced her. He was an old man who didn’t like too much change, and he didn’t like strangers. He only lived in a handful of rooms these last few years.’
That would explain the dirt and general shabbiness. Thank heavens the property still had all those acres of vines to attract potential buyers, or I’d be screwed.
‘I’d like to put this place on the market as soon as possible. Can you handle that for me?’
‘Si.’ He drew the word out, as if doubtful.
‘What price do you think I can get?’
He studied the bubbling wallpaper as if fascinated. Now, I most certainly was not imagining his hesitance. ‘It is a little complicated,’ he said. ‘Your father having been a resident here for so long, naturally he chose to have his will drawn up under Italian law, so the rule of legittima applies. It will take some time to resolve.’
What needed to be resolved? I was John’s only living relative. ‘How long?’
‘That will depend on the circumstances of the successione necessaria, the statutory shares.’
I’d had enough experience with corporate speak to recognise when someone was deliberately hedging.
‘I need a cup of tea.’ I turned away from the scene of neglect and headed down the terracotta-tiled passage to the kitchen.
Luca’s soft chuckle followed me. ‘So like your father. The one part of his English heritage he clung to was his tea.’
The high-vaulted kitchen was at the back of the house, opening onto the back yard which almost seemed cut out of the hillside. The kitchen featured the same terracotta floor tiles as the rest of the ground floor rooms, and the same deep windows. Dusty Delft plates decorated one wall. At least this room looked cleaner and more lived in than the other rooms, though it still felt more like a museum than a home. In the two decades since I’d last been here, the only new appliance to find its way into this kitchen was an electric kettle. And thank God for that.
Dismayed, I eyed the antique wood stove, with its blackened top and grimy porcelain façade. It had been my lifelong dream to own a home with a great big old-fashioned Aga. This vintage stove was nothing like that Aga of my dreams. Surely this couldn’t be the same stove Nonna taught me to bake in?
Beside the kettle, I found a tin of loose leaf tea that still smelled fresh, and a china teapot decorated with delicate pink roses. Setting the kettle to boil, I rinsed out the teapot at the enormous sink, noting the deep crack in the side of the marble, then brewed a strong pot of tea. The comforting, familiar smell in this alien place calmed me. Though I’d been fully prepared to drink the tea black, I discovered fresh milk in the fridge. Someone had anticipated my arrival. Luca?
I poured out two steaming cups, then sat across from Luca at the big wooden kitchen table. ‘Okay. I’m ready to hear it. What haven’t you told me?’
He looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Under English law anyone making a will has the “testamentary freedom” to choose whoever they would like to inherit their estate.’
I nodded. That was easy enough to follow.
‘However, here in Italy we have the rule of legittima, of forced heirship. This means that in Italy, the person making the will cannot freely determine who gets what. Italian law is set up to protect the inheritance of family members who might have been … overlooked.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Here in Italy we cannot threaten to disinherit a family member who has displeased us, since everyone knows the law will decide who inherits and who will not, to ensure that all heirs receive a fair share.’
I sipped my tea. Could he just get to the point, already? I didn’t see how any of this was relevant, since I was John’s only child.
Luca’s expression turned serious. ‘You see, under Italian law it is obligatory for certain immediate family members to inherit a proportion of the estate, regardless of what it says in the will.’
It finally occurred to me where this conversation was headed. ‘You’re saying there’s another heir? Someone else with a claim who might want to contest the will?’
He nodded, relieved I’d got there ahead of him. ‘You are that someone.’
It took a moment for his words to sink in. And an even longer moment for me to shut my mouth again.
Slowly, I drained the last of the tea from my cup and poured another, careful to keep my hand from shaking. Only when I’d added milk and stirred, did I risk looking back at Luca, my emotions once again under firm control.
‘You are telling me that my father did not leave me any part of his estate. He left it to someone else. And it is only because of this law of legittima that I have any claim at all?’
‘Si.’
‘Who did he leave it to?’ My voice sounded astonishingly steady, considering my entire world had suddenly shifted beneath my feet.
Sure, we were never close, but whose fault was it that my father and I were as good as strangers? I was the only child he’d ever had, and this was how little he’d cared for me?
