Last of the Summer Vines Read online

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

  Copyright © Romy Sommer 2018

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

  Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

  Romy Sommer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008301149

  Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008301132

  Version: 2018-06-06

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Keep Reading …

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  This book is dedicated to my mother, who contributed hugely to this novel by keeping the household fed and clean, and who helped me research by sharing with me many bottles (and boxes) of wine.

  Also to my daughters, for giving me time and space to write, and for understanding when I am grumpy from lack of sleep – and for telling me that I should ‘volow my hart’.

  Finally, I dedicate this book to all those people who devote their lives to making wine: you often make life worth living.

  What is the fatal charm of Italy? What do we find there that can be found nowhere else? I believe it’s a certain permission to be human, which other places, other countries, lost long ago.

  – Erica Jong

  Chapter 1

  Chi lascia la via vecchia per la nuova sa quel che lascia ma non sa quel che trova

  (Those who leave the old ways behind know what they’re leaving, but not what they’ll find)

  I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. Heavy, warm air filled my lungs, tasting of full-blown summer though back in England spring had barely sprung. After the crisp chill of London, the rich scents carried on the breeze were strangely soporific.

  ‘You don’t want air con?’ the taxi driver asked, his deeply offended tone suggesting he’d prefer air con to fresh farm air.

  Reluctantly, I opened my eyes again. But I didn’t close the car window. Since I was paying premium price for this trip halfway across Tuscany, I’d darn well keep the window open if I wanted. I breathed in deeply again, this time not to smell the figurative roses but to calm myself. Breathe in. Count to three. Relax.

  It was unbelievable that I was only now learning to recognise the signs of stress in my body and how to deal with it. Too many years driving myself to achieve. Too many years of not taking the time to listen to my own body. All those years focused on a single target, and where did it get me? Exile.

  If only I’d gone a little easier on myself. If only I’d taken a holiday once a year like everyone else, instead of clapping myself on the back for my dedication. If only I’d made a priority of a few more hours’ sleep each night, maybe now I wouldn’t be forced to cool my heels here in the middle of nowhere.

  Already bored of ‘if onlys’, I slid my mobile out my handbag and glanced at the screen. No missed calls. Not even a text message. Surely someone at the office would have tried to reach me by now. They’d had the big meeting with the CFO of the Delta Corporation this morning. Wouldn’t Cleo at least have let me know how it went?

  Breathe in. Count to three. Relax.

  On the plus side, I was really lucky I hadn’t been fired. I’d made such a stupid mistake. A stupid, expensive mistake, the kind that required a great deal of grovelling to fix. I’d done all the grovelling I could, but the rest of my team were still having to pick up the slack.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. I was lucky to still have a job, a house, a life waiting back in England for me, but enforced ‘holiday leave’ didn’t feel lucky. It felt like a punishment.

  Once the legalities of John’s estate were wrapped up, and I’d put his property on the market, what was I supposed to do with myself for another four whole months?

  ‘It’s not a punishment,’ Kevin had said. ‘It’s every bit of holiday leave you’ve never taken.’

  And then he’d given me that look, the one that said, ‘and maybe if you’d taken some of that leave earlier, we’d still be together.’ As if I might actually miss him and want him back. Huh!

  I only realised I’d snorted out loud when I spotted the taxi driver’s raised eyebrows in the rear-view mirror.

  I turned to look out the car window. We were circling Montalcino now. The medieval hilltop town caught the afternoon sun like a golden jewel, then the wide, provincial road wound away south, carrying us away from the town between undulating hills covered in the verdant green of early summer.

  The Delta meeting had to be over by now. No longer able to control my fingers, I dialled Cleo’s number.

  ‘Did Delta’s CFO yank their business, or has he agreed to let you re-structure the loan?’ I asked, the moment my BFF answered.

  Cleo sighed. ‘You’re on leave, Sarah. You’re not supposed to be thinking about work. Doctor’s orders, remember?’

  I huffed out an exasperated breath. ‘An actuarial doctorate does not give Kevin the right to tell me what to do.’

  ‘No. But his being your boss gives him the right.’ Cleo’s voice softened. ‘He cares about you, Sar. We all do. You’ve been working yourself into an early grave. You really need to rest.’

  ‘I am resting. But do I really need to rest for the entire summer? One week is enough. Two tops.’

  Cleo sighed. ‘You’re burned out. You may not appreciate how dangerous that is, but those of us who love you do. You need to find yourself a healthy work-life balance, and you’re not going to rediscover that in a week. Go read a book, or be a
tourist, or get a hobby. Better yet, get back on the dating horse.’ She barked a laugh. ‘Not that you ever were on that horse! The only reason you dated Kevin was because you didn’t have to leave work to meet him.’

  ‘I don’t need a man to have a healthy work-life balance. I’ll sign up for yoga classes. Hell, I’ll even take up meditation if it means I can come back to work sooner.’

  Cleo laughed again. She had a fun laugh, easy and bubbly. I wondered what my own laugh sounded like. It’d been so long since I’d laughed at anything.

  ‘You know what works quicker than meditation? Getting laid! Find yourself a sexy Italian stud and have your way with him. You’ll feel so much better!’

  Not. Going. To. Happen.

  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.’