Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!

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 from place to place? Somehow, I didn’t think that would go down well in the present company.

Thank heavens Beatrice was called back to the kitchen, saving me from answering. Instead, a cousin slid into her place. But my relief was short-lived. The cousin subjected me to another round of grilling about my mother, my job, my life in London – and my single status.

The antipasti was followed by a hearty bean and vegetable soup, the ribollita, and then a dish of pappardelle pasta, a broad, flat pasta, in a simple but flavourful sauce of tomato and garlic. With each course, and in the long spaces between, the seating arrangements shifted with the fluidity of flowing water. Only I kept my place through this game of musical chairs, as a succession of cousins and aunts and uncles moved to sit beside me and engage me in conversation, in their careful, heavily-accented English.

Eventually, my initial discomfort at the repeated questions faded as I realised there was no judgement in the questions, simply an interest in getting to know me, and my mother, who they all seemed to regard as John’s estranged wife, rather than the young tourist he knocked up. Had John been the one to spread that illusion, or was it just an assumption by a family that couldn’t conceive of anything else?

The only person who didn’t try to talk to me was Tommaso. He as good as ignored me as he moved about the table, chatting to different members of the family in voluble Italian. He seemed very much at home with the family, more ‘Italian’ than I ever remembered him being, though of course he’d spoken the language fluently as a child. He seemed lighter and more relaxed too. Maybe it was just me who brought out the worst in him?

There was more wine with each course. ‘I don’t suppose there’s ever an Italian meal without wine?’ I joked with Daniele, as he moved to top up my glass once more.

He placed a friendly hand on my shoulder as he leaned over to reach my glass. ‘Of course not! We have a saying here: una cena senza vino è come un giorno senza sole. A meal without wine is like a day without sunshine. And we don’t get too many days without sunshine.’

As abstemious as I tried to be, sipping carefully, the wine had its effect. A relaxed laziness flowed through my veins, dulling the edges of my awkwardness. The family might be loud and intimidating, but they were also friendly and welcoming. There’d been a time long ago I’d dreamed of being part of a big family like this, of having brothers and sisters, and parents close by who would get ‘all up in my business’. But that was a long time ago, and I’d outgrown it.

We lingered over each course, an unhurried meal accompanied by a steady flow of wine and lively banter, taking time to savour the food. In the periphery, I was aware of other diners coming and going on the terrace, and the wait staff moving to attend to them. Mostly tourists travelling from vineyard to vineyard, I guessed, but also a few locals who stopped by to greet Alberto or stay for a glass of wine before moving on.

The pièce-de-résistance of the meal was cutlets of fried wild hare, seasoned with fennel.

‘I can’t possibly eat any more!’ I protested, as Alberto’s wife Franca ladled yet more food onto my plate, but Franca only shook her head and tutted. ‘If you don’t eat enough, we are very poor hosts.’

By the time the meal was done, Tommaso had made his way back to the seat beside me, though he immediately – and rudely – launched into a conversation in Italian with Alberto who sat on his other side.

With the meal served, Beatrice also returned, sliding into the empty space to my left, forcing me to edge up against Tommaso on my right. Our thighs pressed against each other, but he seemed not to notice, and I didn’t want to call attention to my discomfort by moving away. So instead I had to contend with a very unexpected and searing awareness shooting through me. It’s just the summer heat, and the unaccustomed crowd. Nothing more.

‘That was a wonderful meal,’ I thanked Beatrice. ‘I’ve never tasted such amazing flavours. I’d love to know your secret.’

‘The trick is to use only fresh, local ingredients. I never shop at the supermarket, and we don’t use processed foods. If I can’t get it fresh from our own farm, or from the local markets, then I don’t cook with it.’

‘I remember a market Nonna used to take us to…’

‘That would be the market in Montalcino. Market day is Friday, so you just missed it, but there’s also a market in Torrenieri on Tuesdays.’ Beatrice waved her arm, proudly taking in the land stretched around them. ‘Here, we make our own olive oil, my mother makes all the preserves, and we make cheeses with milk from our own goats and cows. We even make our own honey. If you ever need milk or butter or cream or eggs, you come to us, okay?’

‘Thank you. It would be wonderful to bake with farm-fresh ingredients.’

‘Of course, I remember now – your father told us you were a baker.’

Odd that he’d remembered that. I shook my head. ‘Not really. I baked for fun, but that was ages ago.’ When last had I done anything for fun? But work was fun, right? ‘There’s something so satisfying about making desserts and pastries, the joy they bring to people. It’s like Christmas every day.’

Beatrice laughed. ‘While I have grown up on a wheat farm, and this ciabatta is the only kind of bread I can make. And I know it’s not even that good.’

‘As long as you serve food like this, you hardly need anything else.’

When Beatrice turned to answer a comment from her grandfather, who sat on her other side, I looked down the long table, at the smiles, the laughter, the easy comfort the family shared with one another. The feeling it gave me, all warm and fuzzy, was an alien sensation. I’d never experienced anything like it before, even visiting Cleo’s family. It was rather nice.

Behind me, Tommaso and Alberto were engrossed in an increasingly heated discussion. I was about to give up even trying to understand the conversation, when my attention was snagged by the name Fioravanti.

My nice warm bubble burst. Could Tommaso have the audacity to sit right beside me and discuss our legal issues with someone else, in a language I was so rusty in that I couldn’t follow?

‘Are you talking about Luca?’ I asked, leaning forward to butt into their conversation.

Tommaso scowled at the intrusion, but Alberto shook his head. ‘His father. His is the farm next to yours. He has released a new blend.’

All this heated conversation was about a wine? I turned away, but the warm-and-fuzzies had been replaced by a niggling feeling. Luca hadn’t mentioned we were neighbours. I frowned. Perhaps it wasn’t important to him.

The sun began to dip across the western hills when wooden boards of cheeses and more of the plain, store-bought sliced bread were carried out, and Franca brought out my orange-flavoured schiacciata cake. I’d decorated the cake with a thin spread of lemon curd and a dusting of icing sugar, and it glistened temptingly. Slices were handed around on plain white plates, with generous dollops of fresh farm cream. There was only just enough for everyone to have a small piece, and for a moment the noise levels around the table dipped as they all tucked in. Just like I’d told Beatrice: it was that Christmas feeling.

‘Aah,’ Alberto sighed, his voice a satisfied rumble. He turned to Tommaso. ‘This is just like the cake your Nonna used to bake.’

‘She’s the one who taught me to make it,’ I said.

Tommaso shifted to look at me, as if he’d forgotten I was there, and the pressure of his leg suddenly disappeared. Not that the absence of his touch brought any relief, because now I found myself pinned by his grey, inscrutable gaze. Feeling oddly flustered, I was grateful when Beatrice pushed her empty plate aside and touched my arm to catch my attention. ‘This is so good! How did you get the texture so light and moist at the same time? I tried making this cake once, and it didn’t rise. It was solid as cement.’

I smiled. ‘After the meal you’ve just served, that’s the highest compliment I could receive.’

‘Food yes, pastries no.’ Beatrice shrugged. ‘Other than bread, baking isn’t a big thing in Tuscany. Here, cheese and fruit are all we need for dessert, but the tourists, they want more. We have reviews on TripAdvisor complaining about our lack of desserts.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘But my cousin Matteo is the cook, and he’s so good at everything else I could never replace him – even for a cook who can make pastries.’

‘You could hire a pastry chef.’