I’ll look there. I’m sure it will turn up. I’m thinking of having it restored, so I was going to empty it out, although I am curious as to what she kept in it.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. I will see you later.’ Gabriella gave a little wave and scuttled away.
‘Yes and thank you.’
Catching sight of herself in the mirror as she walked back into the hall, Olivia let out a yawn. Should she shower first or tuck into the beckoning croissants?
‘Oh, definitely croissants first. I need energy,’ she told herself knowing it wasn’t just the physical cleaning that had expended her energy.
Signor Ricci, the estate agent, arrived at her door before Olivia got back to the kitchen to sweep the crumbs away.
‘I’ve had a walk around the grounds and the accommodation, so now the villa,’ he told her as he clambered in through the door with a large digital camera fixed with flash in one hand and a briefcase in the other. ‘The sun won’t last today, so I’ve taken some outside shots first and hope it stays bright enough for the internal. The pictures will look better with the natural light in the rooms.’
‘Yes, please, feel free to have a wander,’ she said, grateful she had managed to shower.
He put down his case on the hall tiles and wriggled out of a rain jacket one-handed. ‘Signor St. James is running a little bit late. He got held up at the market, he says.’
‘No problem. I’ll put some coffee on.’ Olivia hung his jacket on a hook in the hall, and glanced at a large belly protruding from his beige suit. He swept a hand over a stripy-grey head, wiping beads of sweat.
‘Thank you,’ he said as he lifted his camera and pointed to Nonna’s sitting room. ‘I’ll start in here.’
She nodded and returned to the kitchen, leaving the flustered man to it. She added fresh water to the coffee percolator, arranging three cups and saucers on a tray. Pausing, she grabbed another, in the likely event Signor St. James was viewing with someone else. Signor Ricci hadn’t mentioned a wife or partner, but it was better to be prepared – at least in some way, because she didn’t feel it where the house was concerned.
She only hoped Signor St. James didn’t have too many questions, as she didn’t feel equipped to answer them. If only she had thought to make a list of some obvious ones and had asked Gabriella – or she could have tried to contact her mother. If only she had taken more interest over the years. Having only yesterday discovered files with Nonna’s bills and papers relating to the house, she hadn’t had a chance to even glance at them, let alone read them.
She was just sweeping off the croissant crumbs lurking on the worktop when, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of something running past the window outside. Hurling herself in front of it, she peered out and saw a large golden retriever sniffing in the lawn area.
‘Hmm strange,’ she uttered, craning her neck to the side of the drive. It was unusual not to hear a car’s tyres approaching on the shingle. However, at the top by the entrance was a large black 4x4 vehicle with its rear door open and a British number plate. Unable to see any owner of either the car or dog, she ran across the hall to the study.
From the window, she could see the driver door open too, and the car – a right-hand drive, informing her that whoever it was, was sure to be British. Of course, the name St. James was a clue, but never a certainty. She calmed herself thinking the potential purchaser must have taken himself for a look around the grounds.
She headed back to the kitchen but the thought of a dog potentially living in the house moved her. It would make it much homelier. Not that she would be there but it made her think of Charlie, the little Westie her gran Nora and grandad Ronnie had bought her for her eighth birthday.
She’d loved the way he rushed to the front door and jumped up to lick her when she came home from school every day, his tail thrusting around in excitement as she knelt down to his level. It was such a warm, if somewhat wet, welcoming. He was the only one to ever make her feel loved unconditionally, and not like she was living in limbo, and she’d loved him so much. He was her family.
Gran had insisted she was to be responsible for him, however. Not totally, of course, but she made her save her pocket money for his grooming every six weeks and for any treats. Feeling choked, she swallowed a tear. She’d practically lived in that pet shop at times, taking with her a small list each week of his favourite chews and doggie sweets.
He was such a character and always getting himself covered in mud in the local park or in Gran’s garden. He continually had to be bathed. She missed him still, but when he died at seventeen years of age, she vowed she would never replace him. It was impossible. He was irreplaceable and locked in her heart for ever.
The aroma of coffee evoked her senses. It was drifting through the air as far as the study. After vaulting back through the hall to the kitchen, she was just about to pour herself a cup when the doorbell sounded. Assuming it to be Signor St. James, she headed back to the hall. Signor Ricci was still upstairs, so checking herself in the mirror, she scooped back some stray long hairs, twisted her hair together, and tied it up before pulling back the door.
Eyes as blue as the sky, framed by dark lashes and brows, took her breath away.
‘Ah, Signorina Montague?’ The man spoke in posh tones but was casually dressed.
Staring with her mouth open, Olivia rocked on her heels, and attempted to speak after clearing her throat. ‘Y … yes.’
From his old green Barbour sleeve appeared a hand. ‘Hugh St. James.’
Feeling the strong grip of his hand, her eyes remained fixed on his. Like buses, she told herself. Her insides babbled before what she imagined was a thick steel coil suddenly unleashing inside her, sending blood pulsing to every nerve. She stood rooted to the spot barely able to believe she could be struck in the heart twice in as many days. A loud bark close by stole her attention, bringing her out of the trance.
Peering at the car momentarily before blinking back at him, she said, ‘Dog,’ under her breath.
‘Yes, that is a dog,’ his voice mocked.
‘Bring the dog in.’ Her voice monotone, still under his spell. ‘You can’t leave him in the car.’ She watched as he pulled his head back as if surprised by the command, and a dimple appeared on one of his cheeks as his eyes widened.
‘He’s fine. The car is ventilated; the window’s open – or he could lie out here in the shade.’
‘No, really, he’s very welcome, Mr James, sorry, St. James.’
‘Hugh. Please, call me Hugh.’
Blinking hard again to gather her senses, she urged him, ‘Hugh, bring him in.’
As he scrunched across the gravel, Hugh removed his coat before tossing it in through the rear door of the 4x4.
‘Come, Boris.’ The sprightly bundle leaped out, but then braked at his master’s soft command. Tongue out and tail wagging, he strode elegantly at his master’s knee, his mane moving swiftly in rhythm, reminding Olivia of an Arab thoroughbred.
‘Oh,
