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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
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
