From Florence With Love: Valtieri's Bride / Lorenzo's Reward / The Secret That Changed Everything

‘Yes—and an evening meal for everyone. It’s too much for her, but she won’t let anyone else take over, she insists on being in charge and she’s so fussy about who she’ll allow in her kitchen it’s not easy to get help that she’ll accept.’

She nodded. She could understand that. She’d learned the art of delegation, but you still had to have a handle on everything that was happening in the kitchen and that took energy and physical resources that Carlotta probably didn’t have any more.

‘How old is she?’

Massimo laughed. ‘It’s a state secret and more than my life’s worth to reveal it. Roberto’s eighty-two. She tells me it’s none of my business, which makes it difficult as she’s on the payroll, so I had to prise it out of Roberto. Let’s just say there’s not much between them.’

That made her chuckle, but it also made her think. Carlotta hadn’t minded her helping out in the kitchen this morning, or the other night—in fact, she’d almost seemed grateful. Maybe she’d see if she could help that afternoon. ‘I think I’ll head back with them,’ she told him. ‘It’s a bit hot out here for me now anyway, and I could do with putting my foot up for a while.’

It wasn’t a lie, none of it, but she had no intention of putting her foot up if Carlotta would let her help. And it would be a way to repay them for all the trouble she’d caused.

It was an amazing amount of work.

It would have been a lot for a team. For Carlotta, whose age was unknown but somewhere in the ballpark of eighty-plus, it was ridiculous. She had just the one helper, Maria, who sighed with relief when Lydia offered her assistance.

So did Carlotta.

Oh, she made a fuss, protested a little, but more on the lines of ‘Oh, you don’t really want to,’ rather than, ‘No, thank you, I don’t need your help.’

So she rolled up her sleeves and pitched in, peeling and chopping a huge pile of vegetables. Carlotta was in charge of browning the diced chicken, seasoning the tomato-based sauce, tasting.

That was fine. This was her show. Lydia was just going along for the ride, and making up for the disaster of her first evening here, but by the time they were finished and ready to serve it on trestle tables under the cherry trees, her ankle was paying for it.

She stood on one leg like a stork, her sore foot hooked round her other calf, wishing she could sit down and yet knowing she was needed as they dished up to the hungry hordes.

They still looked happy, she thought. Happy and dirty and smelly and as if they’d had a good day, and there was a good deal of teasing and flirting going on, some of it in her direction.

She smiled back, dished up and wondered where Massimo was. She found herself scanning the crowd for him, and told herself not to be silly. He’d be with the children, not here, not eating with the workers.

She was wrong. A few minutes later, when the queue was thinning out and she was at the end of her tether, she felt a light touch on her waist.

‘You should be resting. I’ll take over.’

And his firm hands eased her aside, took the ladle from her hand and carried on.

‘You don’t need to do that. You’ve been working all day.’

‘So have you, I gather, and you’re hurt. Have you eaten?’

‘No. I was waiting till we’d finished.’

He ladled sauce onto the last plate and turned to her. ‘We’re finished. Grab two plates, we’ll go and eat. And you can put your foot up. You told me you were going to do that and I hear you’ve been standing all day.’

They sat at the end of a trestle, so she was squashed between a young girl from one of the villages and her host, and the air was heady with the scent of sweat and grape juice and the rich tomato and basil sauce.

He shaved cheese over her pasta, his arm brushing hers as he held it over her plate, and the soft chafe of hair against her skin made her nerve-endings dance.

‘So, is it a good harvest?’ she asked, and he grinned.

‘Very good. Maybe the best I can remember. It’ll be a vintage year for our Brunello.’

‘Brunello? I thought that was only from Montalcino?’

‘It is. Part of the estate is in the Montalcino territory. It’s very strictly regulated, but it’s a very important part of our revenue.’

‘I’m sure.’ She was. During the course of her training and apprenticeships she’d learned a lot about wines, and she knew that Brunellos were always expensive, some of them extremely so. Expensive, and exclusive. Definitely niche market.

Her father would be interested. He’d like Massimo, she realised. They had a lot in common, in so many ways, for all the gulf between them.

Deep in thought, she ate the hearty meal, swiped the last off the sauce from her plate with a chunk of bread and licked her lips, glancing up to see him watching her with a smile on his face.

‘What?’

‘You. You really appreciate food.’

‘I do. Carlotta’s a good cook. That was delicious.’

‘Are you making notes?’

She laughed. ‘Only mental ones.’

He glanced over her head, and a smile touched his face. ‘My parents are back. They’re looking forward to meeting you.’

Really? Like this, covered in tomato sauce and reeking of chopped onions? She probably had an orange tide-line round her mouth, and her hair was dragged back into an elastic band, and—

‘Mamma, Pàpa, this is Lydia.’

She scrambled to her feet, wincing as her sore ankle took her weight, and looked up into the eyes of an elegant, beautiful, immaculately groomed woman with clear, searching eyes.

‘Lydia. How nice to meet you. Welcome to our home. I’m Elisa Valtieri, and this is my husband, Vittorio.’

‘Hello. It’s lovely to meet you, too.’ Even if she did look a fright.

She shook their hands, Elisa’s warm and gentle, Vittorio’s rougher, his fingers strong and hard, a hand that wasn’t afraid of work. He was an older version of his son, and his eyes were kind. He reminded her of her father.

‘My son tells me you’ve had an accident?’ Elisa said, her eyes concerned.

‘Yes, I was really stupid, and he’s been unbelievably kind.’

‘And so, I think, have you. Carlotta is singing your praises.’

‘Oh.’ She felt herself colour, and laughed a little awkwardly. ‘I didn’t have anything else to do.’

‘Except rest,’ Massimo said drily, but his smile was gentle and warmed her right down to her toes.

And then she glanced back and found his mother looking at her, curiosity and interest in those lively brown eyes, and she excused herself, mumbling some comment about them having a lot to catch up on, and hobbled quickly back to Carlotta to see if there was anything she could do to help.

Anything, other than stand there while his mother eyed her speculatively, her eyes asking questions Lydia had no intention of answering.