Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!. Romy Sommer
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СКАЧАТЬ ‘This is so good! How did you get the texture so light and moist at the same time? I tried making this cake once, and it didn’t rise. It was solid as cement.’

      I smiled. ‘After the meal you’ve just served, that’s the highest compliment I could receive.’

      ‘Food yes, pastries no.’ Beatrice shrugged. ‘Other than bread, baking isn’t a big thing in Tuscany. Here, cheese and fruit are all we need for dessert, but the tourists, they want more. We have reviews on TripAdvisor complaining about our lack of desserts.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘But my cousin Matteo is the cook, and he’s so good at everything else I could never replace him – even for a cook who can make pastries.’

      ‘You could hire a pastry chef.’

      ‘That would mean a full-time salary I can’t afford.’

      ‘And there isn’t someone in the neighbourhood who bakes that you could buy from? Surely that would still count as being locally sourced?’

      Beatrice’s eyes glittered. ‘There is now! Would you consider it?’

      ‘Me?’ Though my first impulse was to say no, I paused. There’d been a time when baking had been a joy, almost a therapy, but it would be a challenge. I hadn’t really baked in so long. My mouth kicked up at the corners. I did love a challenge.

      ‘Please?’ Beatrice begged, her eyes big and round and pleading. ‘Everyone I know who can bake even halfway decently already has their own commitments. I would really appreciate it!’

      My heart picked up its pace, not in that anxious way that had grown so familiar I hardly noticed it anymore, but with a thrill of excitement. The thrill I used to feel when I delivered on a really big deal at work. ‘What sort of quantities would you need, and what type of desserts?’

      Beatrice shrugged. ‘Whatever you want, and however much you can provide. For us, anything will be better than nothing, and our menu changes every day, depending on what is in season, so you can make whatever you like.’

      I really shouldn’t say yes. I was supposed to be resting, and Cleo would have a fit if she found out I’d taken a job, even a job baking. But what Cleo didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt her… ‘Okay, but on three conditions.’

      Beatrice waited for me to continue, her dark eyes alight.

      ‘First, I want to use my own kitchen.’ That way I could still oversee house renovations and keep up a semblance of being on holiday.

      Beatrice nodded.

      ‘Second, I don’t have a car, so you’ll need to send someone to collect from me each day.’

      She nodded again.

      ‘And third, it’ll only be for the summer. I have a job in London I must get back to at the end of September.’

      ‘You have a deal!’

      We shook hands on it, and I laughed, Beatrice’s delight infusing me with sudden warmth. As we lingered over the cheese board and frothy cups of cappuccino, we chatted about breads and cakes and quantities, and I’d never been happier – and it wasn’t entirely the effect of the mellowing wine.

      This enforced holiday no longer seemed as bleak and terrifying as it had a couple of days ago. Now I wouldn’t have to sit idly and count down the days of my exile. All I needed was a stove that didn’t have it in for me.

       Chapter 7

       L’uomo giusto arriva al momento giusto

       (The right man comes at the right time)

      The next morning I was in the pantry, purging the shelves of expired tinned foods, spider webs and grime, when I heard the familiar throaty roar of Tommaso’s vintage car pull up in the yard behind the house, then a few minutes later a quick knock at the open back door.

      ‘You can come in,’ I called. ‘I’m in the pantry, but I’m unarmed.’

      He was dressed for work, in jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, with heavy work boots on his feet. He loomed so large in the low entryway that he blocked out most of the light. ‘If you’re going to be baking for the trattoria, we should get that chimney cleaned.’

      ‘I was kind of hoping I could carry on using your oven.’

      His mouth ticked up at the corner. ‘Coward! You used to be more kickass than that. But seriously, bread baked in a wood oven tastes better than that baked in an electric one.’

      He was right, much as it galled me to admit it. I followed him back into the kitchen and eyed the old stove with trepidation. My initial wariness of it had morphed into full-on distrust since what I referred to as The Smoke Incident. ‘What do you suggest I do?’

      ‘I don’t suggest you do anything. I suggest we check the chimney first.’

      How chivalrous that he was offering to help, but it still didn’t answer my question.

      Tommaso held out his mobile phone. ‘Old-fashioned trick passed down through the generations.’ He unhooked a wooden pizza paddle from the wall beside the stove and laid his mobile face-up on it. Then he slid open the hatch in the side of the stove. I bent forward, curious, as he switched on the phone’s camera, set it on video mode, and slid the board into the hatch. When he slid the phone back out, I leaned even closer, my head almost touching his, to watch in fascination as he replayed the shaky video. On the screen, a full moon shaped ball of light was visible at the end of the flue.

      ‘No nests or any other obstructions blocking the flue, so it’s probably just old residue lining the chimney walls that needs to be cleaned out.’ He shut the hatch, then looked up, and my breath stuck in my throat. Our eyes were nearly level, our faces so close that if either one of us moved an inch, our mouths would meet … I jumped back.

      ‘Old family trick, huh? Where did you really learn to do that?’

      ‘From television.’

      When my eyebrows arched in incredulity, he laughed. ‘Yes, I still have a dark side.’

      I clearly watched the wrong kinds of TV shows. The Great British Bake-off hadn’t taught me how to light a fire or check a chimney for obstructions.

      ‘I suppose that means I’ll need to get a chimney sweep in.’ Was there even such a thing these days? Probably just an expensive contractor who’d charge me the equivalent of a limb for ten minutes’ work.

      ‘Or we can do it ourselves,’ Tommaso offered. ‘If you don’t mind getting a little dirty?’

      He’d already seen me in my pyjamas, choking on smoke. How much worse could a bit of dirt be? ‘I don’t mind.’

      ‘Lay a few dust cloths around the stove. I’m going up on the roof.’

      Dust cloths were the one thing there was no shortage of in the house, with the exception of spider webs, so СКАЧАТЬ