Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!. Romy Sommer

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      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.’

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