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

‘He left it to Tommaso.’

That name again.

At my blank expression, Luca added: ‘John’s business partner.’

I didn’t even know my father had a business partner. The last time we’d spoken, at Christmas on one of our semi-annual phone calls, we hadn’t talked about anything consequential. I’d asked after the vineyard, and John told me one of his wines had won some award. He’d asked about my work, and I told him everything was fine, as I always did.

I cleared my throat. ‘So what are my chances of inheriting anything?’

‘The chances are good that you will receive at least half the value of the property. The courts are very fair that way, but Italian court cases can drag on for years, so we should try to settle. Tommaso is a reasonable man and we will talk to him. If we can persuade him to buy you out of your share straight away, then everything can be resolved amicably. Alternatively, the property could be sold, and you and Tommaso can split the profits equally between you once the debts are paid.’

Of course there were debts. There always were. And no one knew better than I how to finance them, re-structure them, and turn them to good use. ‘How much debt?’

‘Several loans, and your father re-mortgaged a few years ago to finance new equipment for the farm. The balance still owing stands at nearly three million euros.’

My breath whistled out. According to my research, properties this size sold for anywhere between three and five million. But they had fully renovated villas. So not only would I have to share the proceeds of John’s estate, I’d be lucky if there were any proceeds.

I sipped my tea. It tasted bitter. Or maybe that was just the bad taste in my mouth. For so many years I’d resented this land because it was the only thing John ever loved. That it had so little value only made it worse. I’d been worth less to him than a crumbling building with grand pretensions and a heavily mortgaged farm.

‘I guess I need to call the taxi back then. If this property doesn’t belong to me, I can hardly stay here.’

‘Tommaso is happy for you to treat the castello as your own until this is settled.’

How magnanimous. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘You sound like your father. Always so practical.’

What else could I be under the circumstances but practical?

Luca pushed away his cup of only partially-drunk tea. ‘We will need to complete the paperwork to prove who you are, and to confirm that you will contest the will. But since it is now nearly five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, there is not much more we can do today. Tomorrow morning at ten, you and Tommaso will meet at my office, and we will discuss how to proceed.’

I walked Luca to the front door, where he handed me the massive set of keys. I took them, feeling like a fraud. This wasn’t my house. My father had chosen to leave everything to someone else, someone he valued more highly than his own daughter.

Luca had to help shut the front door, him pulling and me pushing. It was not the most dignified of farewells, and with the door shut between us I couldn’t even say a proper goodbye. Instead, as his little sports car revved to life and roared off down the drive, I sank back against the big warped wooden door, energy spent.

Perhaps I was more tired than I realised. I was glad I’d only have to face my father’s mysterious business partner tomorrow, because right now all I wanted was to curl up in a ball, with a duvet pulled over my head, and hide from the world.

Chapter 2 (#ub473b70d-7760-58f7-a67a-a852e57f29ea)

Chi cerca, trova, e talor quel che non vorrebbe

(He who seeks, finds, and sometimes finds what he would rather not)

I wrestled my cases upstairs. The stairs, made of stone, seemed solid enough, but the wrought iron hand railing wobbled at my touch. The house needed a lot of work. Maybe this Tommaso guy would be just as happy as I to be shot of the place?

I couldn’t remember how many bedrooms the house had. Lots, it had seemed to my kid self. But considering how impressed I’d been by a few decorative crenellations, maybe not as many as I’d thought. I started with my father’s room, peeking inside, then shutting the door quickly. I wasn’t yet ready to face the tumbled emotions evoked by his personal space.

Instead, I chose the guest room at the opposite end of the long corridor, the same one I’d used as a child. Both the shutters and the curtains were closed. I set my smallest bag down on the bench at the foot of the wooden four-poster bed, dropped the big wheelie bag in the middle of the floor, and hurried to open the windows. Dust motes danced in the light when I gingerly opened the drapes, but the room appeared reasonably clean, and the bed was freshly made, with new bedding; grey and masculine-looking pillows and duvet.

Kicking off my shoes, I climbed under the duvet, pulled it up over my head, and let sleep take me away – away from the strangeness of Italy, this silent house and its memories, back to the only place I’d ever felt truly at home: that sixth floor corner office in Cheapside from which I’d been banned for four interminable months.

When I woke, disoriented, and with my empty stomach complaining, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything since the quickie pain au chocolat and coffee in the airport that morning, the room was in pitch darkness. Silence reverberated in my ears. No distant hum of traffic, no muted sounds of the neighbours’ telly, none of the small, comforting sounds of my housemates moving in the house. I couldn’t remember when last I’d felt so utterly alone. Probably not since the last time I was in this house.

Somewhere in the house something creaked, and I shot up off the bed.

The castello felt very big and very empty. How far away were the nearest neighbours? Was there anyone else on the property at night, any workers, or a night watchman? Would anyone hear if I screamed for help? I hadn’t thought to ask Luca.

Barefoot, I tiptoed to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it, but there were no other sounds. The door squeaked as I opened it, making me jump.

This is stupid. You’re a grown woman. You’re a competent, successful, twenty-first-century woman who can take care of herself. And I was hungry.

The kitchen hadn’t seemed so far away when I was a kid. I made my way down through the darkened house, not switching on any lights. Even if I could remember where the switches were, I didn’t want to turn myself into a target on the off-chance there was an intruder.

The vast kitchen with its high-beamed ceiling was eerily full of looming shadows, and the yellow lamplight spilling from the single overhead lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom. I filled the electric kettle, then rinsed out the teapot to brew a fresh pot. But tea wasn’t going to be enough to silence my grumbling stomach. Had the considerate person who’d left milk and made up my bed also left food?

There was nothing in the kitchen itself, but John always loved biscuits with his tea. That would be better than nothing. So I headed into the pantry, and was still groping for the light switch when I heard a sound that turned my veins to ice. I froze. The outer kitchen door creaked open.

The wind blowing open an unlatched door? Ghosts?

But it was worse than ghosts. The high-pitched creak turned into an ominously final bang as the door shut again, and then there were heavy, booted footsteps across the kitchen floor.

My heart leapt into my throat. It was beating so hard, I was sure I was at serious risk of a coronary. Forget the stress of a corporate job. This was a million times worse.

With my heart thudding loudly enough against my ribs that the intruder could probably hear it on the other side of the pantry door, I clung to the door handle, steadying myself, relieved to be hidden here in the pitch dark. With my free hand, I groped behind me, and my fingers hit cold iron, rounding on a solid, heavy handle.

The door handle twisted unexpectedly beneath my fingers and I squealed, louder even than the handle had, giving myself away.

The pantry door swung open, and all my blood drained to my toes.

‘Sarah?’ He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a bouncer.

He reached past me, and I flinched back, swinging with all my might just as the tiny pantry flooded with cold white light.

In the moment before my weapon connected with solid flesh, I glimpsed the intruder. He was dark-haired, bearded, and terrifying. He grunted and staggered back, clutching his head.

‘What the hell?!’ His accent was thick, not immediately traceable, but he spoke in English without even thinking, I noted, as I gripped the heavy metal object close to my chest.

And he knew my name. Oh heavens.

Probably not a burglar after all.

The man glowered at me, still holding his head. ‘Why are you hiding in here?’

‘I wasn’t hiding. I was looking for biscuits.’

‘In the dark?’ He removed his hand from his forehead and there was a streak of blood on his fingers, and even more on his brow where a long gash oozed.

‘You’re bleeding!’