the terrace, sheep grazed, their soft bleating drifting up on the breeze and mingling with the sounds of human voices closer by.
From here, the river cut a silver swathe across the valley, marking the border between the fields of tawny wheat dotted with red poppies, and the wilder meadows beyond. Across the valley, nestled in a fold of hill, I could see the earthen sand-coloured walls of an abbey, its bell tower standing proud over the low-sloping russet roofs.
A tall, round man with dark hair greying at his temples hurried to greet us, a welcoming smile on his weather-beaten face. ‘John’s daughter!’ he exclaimed, wrapping me in an embrace. ‘It is such a pleasure to meet you. I have heard so much of you!’
Unused to being hugged by complete strangers, I had to force myself to relax and not flinch away.
‘Sarah, this is Alberto Rossi.’ Tommaso made the introductions, his habitually grim expression warming as he clapped Alberto on the back.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too.’ My voice sounded as formal as if I were meeting a new client, but I couldn’t help myself. Where I came from, this kind of exuberance was reserved for people who’d known each other for years.
Awkwardly, I handed Alberto the plastic cake container. ‘I brought dessert.’
He passed it to someone else, who passed it to someone else, so he could take both my hands in his large, rough ones. ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’
I heard that over and over again as I was introduced to Alberto’s wife, his parents, his sons, his daughter Beatrice, and then an extended family of brothers and sisters and cousins. I tried to look like a grief-stricken daughter should, but I wasn’t really sure what that felt like.
‘Is this a party?’ I whispered to Tommaso, as we squeezed in on one of the long benches lining the main table. The schiacciata I’d made was large, but hardly enough to feed this crowd.
Tommaso’s chuckle was low and almost inaudible. ‘No, just a regular Rossi Sunday family lunch.’
Beatrice set out platters of antipasti and thick slices of bread – mass-produced and store-bought bread, I suspected – and one of Alberto’s sons poured the wine, a Brunello from one of the neighbouring vineyards.
The chatter and noise around the big table was overwhelming, and the Italian so quick I had no hope of keeping up. But in true Italian style, they all spoke with their bodies, keeping me hugely entertained trying to discern the topics of conversation from the body language.
I also didn’t need to understand the words to see that this was a warm and affectionate family, despite the teasing between the cousins. They were a good-looking family too. Perhaps it was in the genes. Or the local water. I should bottle some and take it home with me in case I ever did decide to start dating again.
Tommaso moved away to sit beside Daniele, Alberto’s younger son. From the gestures that accompanied the animated conversation, I decided they were discussing wine.
I wasn’t alone for long. Beatrice slipped onto the bench beside me. She was a pretty woman, perhaps only just thirty, with warm, smiling eyes and thick, dark hair that she wore tied back in a long and intricate braid. Though she’d just stepped from the kitchen, she looked fresh as a daisy, and effortlessly classy in her simple but stylish linen dress.
My insecurities had faded along with my twenties, but beside Beatrice’s bold colouring and curves, I couldn’t help but feel plain. My pale skin, with its tendency to freckle, and fine, straight hair, weren’t exactly head-turners. The one thing I had going for me was the colour of my hair, a rich chestnut that was still completely natural.
Beatrice dipped a wedge of the bread into a bowl of herb-scented olive oil. ‘Are the men still talking wine? Daniele wants so badly for us to plant grapes so he can make his own.’
‘Why doesn’t he?’ I dipped a slice of the bread too, though with less enthusiasm. The ciabatta’s crust was too thin, and the ratio of air holes to bread not on the favourable side. I’d been looking forward to eating the real deal here in Tuscany, but honestly I’d baked better ciabatta bread. Once upon a time, at least two promotions back, baking had been my Sunday morning ritual. Other people slept in, or went to church, or played golf. I baked.
‘Like most farms in Tuscany, this is a family farm,’ Beatrice explained. ‘The traditions are passed down from generation to generation, and our family have always farmed wheat and dairy. Not as glamorous as wine, sadly.’
‘Not as glamorous, but definitely more essential.’
Beatrice giggled. ‘Sh! Don’t let Tommaso hear you say that!’ A shout of laughter rang out from the far end of the table. At my unintentional flinch, Beatrice pulled a wry face. ‘We’re a noisy lot, but you get used to it after a while.’
‘I live in London. I’m used to crowds.’ Or I should be. But I didn’t like crowds. It was why I loved Wanstead so much, with its quiet, village-y feel. And it was part of the reason I worked such long hours. I caught the tube to work before the morning rush hour and left the office long after the evening rush hour.
‘You have a big family?’ Beatrice asked.
‘No. It was always just me and my mother.’ Belatedly, I realised I’d had a father too, but Beatrice didn’t appear to notice my blunder.
She shook her head as she looked down the long table crowded with people. ‘I envy you. Here, there is always someone around, always someone getting up in your business.’ She frowned. ‘I think that is the right way to say it?’
I laughed. ‘Yes, that’s the right way to say it. But it must be wonderful to have so many people care about you.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you had two brothers.’ She threw her hands up in the air. ‘Italian brothers! Even if they are younger than me, they treat me like a child.’ Beatrice cast a dark glance at Daniele then leaned closer, dropping her voice. ‘They think if a woman isn’t married and doesn’t yet have children of her own, they can tell her what to do. But if I try to find myself a man, they think no one is good enough. It drives me pazzo! You have it easier, I think?’
I cast a glance across the table towards Tommaso. At the ripe old age of thirty-five I was only just discovering what it was like to have a big brother hovering protectively. Beatrice had all my sympathy. I leaned closer too. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret: it’s even more difficult to find a man in London, because there aren’t any decent, single, straight men left. I’ve seen more attractive men in the two days I’ve been here than in the entire last year in London.’
My thoughts flashed to Luca, and heat spread through me. Fortunately, Beatrice didn’t seem to find it odd that I had a sudden need to fan myself.
‘I spent a few years in London when I was in my early twenties.’ Beatrice looked down at the bread she was picking apart with her fingers. ‘I remember some very attractive men.’ Her blush was unmistakable. Interesting. But before I could probe, she asked, ‘your mother – she never re-married?’
I filled my mouth with the pimento-stuffed olives from the bowl between us, so I wouldn’t have to answer. Didn’t they know that Geraldine and John had never married? How did I explain to someone so clearly rooted in her big, solid family and traditional heritage, that I was born out of wedlock? Or that my mother had spent her entire adult life flitting from man to man almost as frequently as she’d flitted
