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

‘That would mean a full-time salary I can’t afford.’

‘And there isn’t someone in the neighbourhood who bakes that you could buy from? Surely that would still count as being locally sourced?’

Beatrice’s eyes glittered. ‘There is now! Would you consider it?’

‘Me?’ Though my first impulse was to say no, I paused. There’d been a time when baking had been a joy, almost a therapy, but it would be a challenge. I hadn’t really baked in so long. My mouth kicked up at the corners. I did love a challenge.

‘Please?’ Beatrice begged, her eyes big and round and pleading. ‘Everyone I know who can bake even halfway decently already has their own commitments. I would really appreciate it!’

My heart picked up its pace, not in that anxious way that had grown so familiar I hardly noticed it anymore, but with a thrill of excitement. The thrill I used to feel when I delivered on a really big deal at work. ‘What sort of quantities would you need, and what type of desserts?’

Beatrice shrugged. ‘Whatever you want, and however much you can provide. For us, anything will be better than nothing, and our menu changes every day, depending on what is in season, so you can make whatever you like.’

I really shouldn’t say yes. I was supposed to be resting, and Cleo would have a fit if she found out I’d taken a job, even a job baking. But what Cleo didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt her… ‘Okay, but on three conditions.’

Beatrice waited for me to continue, her dark eyes alight.

‘First, I want to use my own kitchen.’ That way I could still oversee house renovations and keep up a semblance of being on holiday.

Beatrice nodded.

‘Second, I don’t have a car, so you’ll need to send someone to collect from me each day.’

She nodded again.

‘And third, it’ll only be for the summer. I have a job in London I must get back to at the end of September.’

‘You have a deal!’

We shook hands on it, and I laughed, Beatrice’s delight infusing me with sudden warmth. As we lingered over the cheese board and frothy cups of cappuccino, we chatted about breads and cakes and quantities, and I’d never been happier – and it wasn’t entirely the effect of the mellowing wine.

This enforced holiday no longer seemed as bleak and terrifying as it had a couple of days ago. Now I wouldn’t have to sit idly and count down the days of my exile. All I needed was a stove that didn’t have it in for me.

Chapter 7 (#ulink_7e09612b-1bdb-59ad-a417-1630fca1d328)

L’uomo giusto arriva al momento giusto

(The right man comes at the right time)

The next morning I was in the pantry, purging the shelves of expired tinned foods, spider webs and grime, when I heard the familiar throaty roar of Tommaso’s vintage car pull up in the yard behind the house, then a few minutes later a quick knock at the open back door.

‘You can come in,’ I called. ‘I’m in the pantry, but I’m unarmed.’

He was dressed for work, in jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, with heavy work boots on his feet. He loomed so large in the low entryway that he blocked out most of the light. ‘If you’re going to be baking for the trattoria, we should get that chimney cleaned.’

‘I was kind of hoping I could carry on using your oven.’

His mouth ticked up at the corner. ‘Coward! You used to be more kickass than that. But seriously, bread baked in a wood oven tastes better than that baked in an electric one.’

He was right, much as it galled me to admit it. I followed him back into the kitchen and eyed the old stove with trepidation. My initial wariness of it had morphed into full-on distrust since what I referred to as The Smoke Incident. ‘What do you suggest I do?’

‘I don’t suggest you do anything. I suggest we check the chimney first.’

How chivalrous that he was offering to help, but it still didn’t answer my question.

Tommaso held out his mobile phone. ‘Old-fashioned trick passed down through the generations.’ He unhooked a wooden pizza paddle from the wall beside the stove and laid his mobile face-up on it. Then he slid open the hatch in the side of the stove. I bent forward, curious, as he switched on the phone’s camera, set it on video mode, and slid the board into the hatch. When he slid the phone back out, I leaned even closer, my head almost touching his, to watch in fascination as he replayed the shaky video. On the screen, a full moon shaped ball of light was visible at the end of the flue.

‘No nests or any other obstructions blocking the flue, so it’s probably just old residue lining the chimney walls that needs to be cleaned out.’ He shut the hatch, then looked up, and my breath stuck in my throat. Our eyes were nearly level, our faces so close that if either one of us moved an inch, our mouths would meet … I jumped back.

‘Old family trick, huh? Where did you really learn to do that?’

‘From television.’

When my eyebrows arched in incredulity, he laughed. ‘Yes, I still have a dark side.’

I clearly watched the wrong kinds of TV shows. The Great British Bake-off hadn’t taught me how to light a fire or check a chimney for obstructions.

‘I suppose that means I’ll need to get a chimney sweep in.’ Was there even such a thing these days? Probably just an expensive contractor who’d charge me the equivalent of a limb for ten minutes’ work.

‘Or we can do it ourselves,’ Tommaso offered. ‘If you don’t mind getting a little dirty?’

He’d already seen me in my pyjamas, choking on smoke. How much worse could a bit of dirt be? ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Lay a few dust cloths around the stove. I’m going up on the roof.’

Dust cloths were the one thing there was no shortage of in the house, with the exception of spider webs, so I hurried off to collect an armful. When I returned to the kitchen, the reverberation of Tommaso’s footsteps sounded extra-loud on the tiled roof above. I laid the cloths over the floor, table and counters, then hurried outside, anxious to check on his safety. Standing far back in the yard so I could see up on the roof, I shielded my eyes against the morning light to watch as Tommaso bent over the square, redbrick chimney. He had already removed the chimney cap and was now screwing a square-shaped chimney brush onto the end of what looked like a very long, stiff hose. Had he learned to clean chimneys from television too?

He twisted the brush down the chimney, pumping hard to extend the brush all the way down the chimney. As he brought the brush back up, he coughed on the cloud of sooty black dust that billowed up.

Just as well it was him up on that roof and not me. I’d already swallowed enough smoke and ash for one week.

Partially silhouetted against the rising sun, his body was clearly outlined. Tommaso might be built bigger than Luca, but there was no spare fat on him. He was all lean muscle and sinewy strength. As he worked the long brush up and down the chimney, his arm muscles bulged beneath the taut fabric of his shirt. I’d always liked a man with strong arms. I swallowed a very inappropriate sigh and looked away.

When he’d removed the brush and its hose attachments, and replaced the chimney cap, I moved to the base of the ladder leaning up against the wall to hold it steady. Tommaso came down the ladder rung by rung, his boots coming first into my line of view, then his denim-clad calves and thighs. The soft denim was worn into the shape of his body, hugging the lean thighs and firm backside that drew level with my gaze.

I coughed and averted my gaze. This was Tommy, the boy I’d played with as a kid. I didn’t want to think of him in any other way. Especially in any way that would make me go weak-kneed or lose my head.

Until the castello sold, or he bought me out, we were rivals for this property. Luca’s contract might call us partners, but we still had to negotiate the terms for divvying up my father’s inheritance between us. I couldn’t afford to forget that or go soft on him – which was most likely the only reason he was being so helpful, anyway. Either that or to make sure I wasn’t in his space any more than necessary. I wasn’t sure which of those reasons was most offensive.

‘Thank you,’ I said gruffly when he’d jumped from the bottom rung to stand back on solid ground.

‘Shall we get a fire going, and see if it’s working now? I brought some well-seasoned wood.’

As much as I wanted to say ‘thanks, I can take it from here’, and as much as I didn’t want to owe him any more than I already did, I couldn’t refuse the offer. Reluctantly, I led him back into the kitchen.

The dust cloths had done their job, though there wasn’t as much soot in the kitchen as I’d expected. The oven was thankfully well-insulated and would need little more than a wipe down, but the firebox inside needed a good brush out. I used the brushes from the big copper pot beside the oven to clean out the soot, while Tommaso carried in armfuls of piney-smelling wood from his car.

He showed me how to build and start the fire, using kindling and air for an effective blaze, rather than simply piling in the wood. Then, once he was satisfied, he stood back, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. ‘No smoke! That should sort you out now.’