As you can imagine, I spent the day stabbing at my laptop by the edge of the pool, trawling for more info on the Cascianis as the kids wrapped up in terry towels to dry off. I’d made sandwiches for dinner and declared an early night for them so I could concentrate completely on this. As if they sensed something was wrong, they kept quiet and didn’t put up a fight when I sent them to bed, poor darlings.
I’d barely spoken to them all day. What kind of a mother had I morphed into? But I couldn’t bear to tell them what was happening, not now. How could I ever explain to them that Mommy was flailing?
‘The kids are settled,’ Julian whispered, kissing the side of my face, but I barely noticed, pounding away on my keyboard and looking for anything, anywhere, that would clear things up.
‘I’ve called Laura and explained the situation to her,’ Julian continued.
I looked up. ‘Who?’
‘Marco’s cousin, the lawyer? She’ll be back first thing tomorrow afternoon,’ he explained as he put a mug of chamomile tea on the table. ‘Drink. It’ll steady your nerves.’
‘My nerves are steady,’ I said and sipped gratefully. How well he knew me. This was the time to calm down and meditate on my next move. Although murder was what I really had in mind.
How dare these people attack us! Was there no one in this godforsaken country monitoring such unethical behavior? Were small family businesses simply left to their own devices? What if we couldn’t have afforded a lawyer? How would anyone else with lesser means have coped? This was bullying – mobbing – and completely unacceptable.
And then I had a terrible thought. What was going to happen to us if Laura couldn’t help? What if they weren’t technically breaking any laws? There was no law against being obnoxious. It looked like my plan wasn’t going to work. Learning as much as possible about them to counteract whatever they planned against us simply wasn’t enough.
And then a sudden urgency filled my heart. I wanted to enjoy as much of Tuscany as we could before disaster struck and we’d have to leave. Just like when on your last day of a fab vacation you realize it’s over and you start scurrying around for last-minute souvenirs as proof and reminders you actually had a great time, which was now rapidly – inexorably – coming to an end. We might as well get as much as we can out of this short, short stay in our land of dreams. Maybe visit every place we haven’t seen yet. We’d see, eat and drink the whole region out before we had to go.
Huh. I hadn’t thought of that. Go where, exactly? Back to Boston, where smug, smug Marcy would be ready to pounce on me and say I should have listened to her and never left in the first place? Or back to The Farthington, even though I knew there would always be a job for me? The feeling of failure would permeate my very soul for the rest of my days.
And imagine my kids going back to Clifton Street School… They’d be at the mercy of everyone, especially the moms who would gladly have murdered me when rumors about Julian and me had started.
I didn’t care about myself, but Maddy and Warren would become the target of everyone’s scorn. I could already hear the vicious digs: Have you heard? Principal Foxham and that quirky woman who dragged him off to Europe? They’re back! Only there’s no way he’s ever getting his old job back, what with sleeping with a school mom. Shameful! (Never mind that they’d been practically lining up at his office door with lame excuses on a daily basis just to gawp at him.)
No. Never. No way was I going back to Boston to live. Or to die. After a lifetime of dreaming about a new life in Tuscany, I couldn’t just give up and leave. Like Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind, I’d defend my Tara plantation tooth and nail. I’d eat dirt and roots, too, if I had to, but I wasn’t budging from here.
‘You OK, love?’ Julian said.
‘I can’t believe this is happening to us,’ I huffed, rubbing my hands over my eyes.
Julian lowered himself onto the seat next to me and in one glance, we surveyed what we owned and were about to lose – the rolling hills, now purple in the falling darkness, the vineyards, the fields, the swimming pool – everything we’d always wanted. He took my hand.
‘I promise you it’ll be OK. By this time tomorrow, things will be clearer and at least we’ll know what’s what. Just be patient and optimistic, honey.’
I snorted. ‘Patient and optimistic – have we met? But I will get to the bottom of this, Julian. You mark my words.’
He chuckled. ‘That’s my girl – stay angry, Erica – it’s our only weapon tonight.’
‘Angry? I’m terrified, Julian.’
‘Don’t be. All will be well.’
‘You keep saying that, but you’re not reassuring me in the least.’
He flung his hands in the air, now frustrated. ‘What do you want me to say? I just know that people don’t get scammed out of a license without any proof. It legally just can’t happen. You have to have official surveys and reports.’
I thought about it. Maybe that was so in England or the USA, but in Italy? I had my doubts. And something else was bothering me.
‘You put a lot of your own money in this, Julian…’
He rubbed my bunched shoulders, pulling me back against him. ‘Don’t think about it. Just relax. Come here…’
I shook my head and buried it in my hands. ‘I’m sorry – I’m too upset. I can’t think of anything else.’
‘Don’t be, it’ll all be fine, you’ll see. Now stop worrying…’
I wished he understood. Julian had a habit of trying to cheer me up. Which was a great quality. But sometimes I just wanted to be listened to without him swooping in with his cape and saving the day. Because when I opened my heart to him, it was to make him understand how I was feeling. Not necessarily for him to solve my problems. Some men just don’t get it.
He sighed, pulling me up. ‘Come on – let’s get you to sleep. Remember, you have a big morning tomorrow.’
Damn – Paul and I were going to check out my wedding gown. I’d completely forgotten. What a bride-to-be I was.
‘I can’t go to sleep. I have to shoot another blanket email.’
‘I thought you’d done that.’
‘I did, but only to my test-group.’
‘Why not to all of them at the same time?’
‘Because I was waiting for feedback from my test group. In case I’d forgotten something or presented it in a way that lacked something, they would have mentioned it and I could fine-tune it to my next batch.’
He looked at me with a strange light in his eyes. Was he beginning to recognize the old Erica? I sure was!
‘We’ll do that tomorrow. I’ll help you.’
‘You will? Don’t you have to write?’
‘I do,’ he conceded. ‘But this is important. Plus, you need your sleep before tomorrow.’
‘Oh, crap, tomorrow! I can’t go wedding dress hunting— we’ve got Laura coming.’
‘Sweets, let go. I’ll deal with it. Just go and get yourself a wedding dress, OK?’
I huffed. Let go, he says. As if it were that easy. The minute I let go, things always fell apart.
Julian, on the other hand, was as calm as pea soup. If any foreigner could live in Italy without killing anyone, it was him. It was as if nothing could touch him. I’d never ever seen him sad or worried about anything. He loved the kids and me and had done everything in his power to keep us safe, and I knew he’d continue to do so. So I followed him to bed, cuddled up to him and tried to think happy thoughts.
‘OK?’ he soothed, and I nodded, grateful to have him by my side, on my side.
‘Better,’ I conceded. For now.
‘Oh, by the way, I’ve called my parents to tell them the wedding’s postponed for now. Have you told yours yet?’ he asked.
‘I hope they weren’t too disappointed?’ I loved Maggie and Tom. They never interfered, never made suggestions unless I specifically asked them. The exact opposite of Marcy, they knew their place. I just hoped they wouldn’t have to witness our downfall.
‘… family?’ I heard Julian say, and a twinge of panic pinched me.
‘Er, what?’ I said.
‘You have told your family, right?’
Oops. ‘Of course I will.’
He sighed. ‘Your family is coming on August 15th and you haven’t even told them our wedding is postponed?’
‘I will.’
‘When? After they get here?’
‘ASAP. Promise.’
‘Why not now?’ he insisted. ‘It’s only 6 p.m. in Boston.’
Boy, could he be a pain sometimes. ‘Because… because… I hadn’t exactly told them about the wedding yet…’
‘What?’ he groaned. ‘Erica, do you mean to tell me that you’ve said absolutely nothing to your parents about our wedding plans?’
‘But it turned out to be a good thing, see? Now I don’t have to answer any of Marcy’s questions…’
‘That’s not fair. They need to know we’re getting married, sooner or later. You need to give them a heads up.’
‘Why don’t we just elope?’
Julian stared at me for a moment, and then threw back his head and laughed. ‘When I wanted to do it spur of the moment, you insisted you wanted the whole family here, and now…? What’s changed?’
‘Nothing. Let’s do it. Let’s just disappear, get hitched and come back as Mr. and Mrs.’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you were right. We’re not two teenagers. Because Maddy and Warren need stability. They need to see us getting hitched and doing it the proper way, like two respectable adults. What if Maddy pulls something similar on us when she’s older?’
‘She wouldn’t. I raised her, not Marcy.’
‘Honey…’
‘I know Marcy. If I tell her we’re getting married in the new year, she’ll insist on helping Paul with the wedding planning and I don’t want her here longer than necessary, Julian. First, she’ll try to brainwash you out of marrying me…’
He grinned. ‘Impossible.’
‘… and then she’ll try to get me back on the operating table and show everyone pictures of me when I was…’ I bit my lip.
When I was enormous. And when all she did was humiliate me. I should call her and make sure she postponed her flight to only maybe a couple of days before the wedding. If I only knew the date. And then I could handle her a couple of days before. One single day more than necessary? Not happening.
He took my hand. ‘No one’s ever going to make me change my mind about making an honest woman out of you.’
I turned to look at him. ‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘OK. In that case, I’ll call tomorrow. But I’m warning you, it’ll get pretty ugly.’
He slapped my thigh. ‘It’ll be fine. Now get some sleep, love, and dream of how awesome things will be when I can call you wife.’
I caressed his head and shoulders, enjoying the feel of his rock-solid body. ‘Aww, I’m touched, Julian.’
‘Go to sleep now. I’m exhausted.’
I fell back into my own space. Huh. And we weren’t even married yet. We really were an unorthodox couple.
*
The next day, as I was debating whether or not to pick up the phone and inform the dysfunctional Cantellis about my equally dysfunctional wedding plans, a dark blue official-looking car with the letters NAS pulled up in our drive and I almost fainted on the spot – the Health and Safety Department! These were the real deal this time, not a prank.
‘Erica Cantelli?’ the bigger uniform (and paunch) asked.
‘Yes?’ I answered, swallowing.
‘We received a phone call from Laura Magri’s office? About a rat?’
‘Oh, that.’ I giggled nervously. ‘No worries – someone was trying to play a joke on us.’
‘That may well be, signora, but as it’s been flagged up, we have the duty to carry out an inspection.’
‘But it was just a joke, I tell you. Someone wants to shut us down. Why don’t you investigate that instead?’
Mr. Big Uniform shrugged. ‘That’s a separate department. We’re NAS. You want to sue someone for slander, you call a lawyer first.’
‘But I already did…’ I faltered, thinking that Laura had caused us more damage than the Cascianis. At least they hadn’t made any official calls. But Laura? She’d brought the bloody NAS down on us.
‘You’re welcome to inspect us now,’ I offered. ‘Be my guests.’
Albeit my only ones. The place was always spotless. Let them inspect the hell out of us. Let them do it now and get it over with.
‘No, we’ve just come to warn you, seeing as you’re friends of Laura’s. We’ll come back in the future.’ The threat in his voice was tangible.
‘But I’m ready now! Go ahead,’ I insisted.
But The Paunch lifted his hand in sign of ‘we’re out of here’. And in a flash, they were. Now was that not enough to send you over the edge?
*
‘Hello!’ came Marcy’s voice over the phone the next day as Renata, Paul, Julian and I were having coffee on the terrace. A loudspeaker squawked in the background as if she were at a soccer game. Crap – I’d totally forgotten to call her after all.
‘Marcy? I can barely hear you. Where are you?’
‘In Milan. I’m landing in Pisa at two thirty. Surprise!’
Surprise? Surprise was the least of it. Horror was more like it. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not for another two months. Not until I’d armored up first! If she found out about the wedding she’d never leave now!
But I was quick to recover. ‘Oh, wow!’ I managed, rolling my eyes and giving my gang the slice-my-throat gesture. Which would have been a great idea, come to think of it now. ‘Great. So I can give you the good news in person.’
‘What?’ she called. ‘I can’t hear you. Did you say good news? Are you moving back to the States?’
‘No, Marcy, we’re not. I’ll tell you when I see you this afternoon.’
I put the phone down and stared at the three stunned faces around me.
‘Marcy?’ Renata whispered.
‘Here?’ Paul groaned.
‘Mamma mia,’ Julian choked. ‘I’d told you to call her…’
‘I’m sorry, I forgot.’
‘Absolutely brilliant,’ Julian groaned. ‘How long is she staying?’
I shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string?’
Marcy’s plane was two hours late and despite the air con in Arrivals, I was self-combusting on panic fumes, sweaty and exhausted from waiting on the hard wooden chairs and the drive all the way to Pisa, which was on the other side of Tuscany. I’d told her that the closest airport was Sant’Egidio in Umbria, but did she listen? No. Hence the sweaty butt stuck to my car seat and the foul mood. And when she saw me, she’d certainly have a dig about my weight, my hair and the childish color of the nail varnish on my toes.
But when she appeared, one of her Chanel silk scarves wrapped around her head like a Fifties Hollywood star, shades as big as bug eyes and some poor airport guy lugging her cases, she looked fresh and radiant. How the heck did she do it every single time? Trust Marcy to piss me off before she even opened her mouth.
‘Darling!’ she called – a term I’d become familiar with when people were watching.
I pasted a smile on my face and opened my arms… only to see her head for Julian. Puzzled, he hugged her back, slanting me a questioning but resigned look.
Marcy was like that, staging these little scenarios in public. Today, she was Beautiful Businesswoman (notice the Blackberry and briefcase, probably full of Vogues) reuniting with her younger lover. Hopefully, she’d be too full of herself to concentrate on me.
‘Julian, you look amazing. As fit as the day we met!’
‘And you, dear Marcy, look like a schoolgirl. How do you do it?’
‘Oh stop,’ she said, hugging him to her again, and he sent me a wry, resigned grin over her shoulder.
And then it was my turn.
‘Erica?’ she gasped. ‘Oh my God, what’s happened to you? And why on earth aren’t you wearing a bra?’
I folded my arms over my breasts as she briefly hugged me. ‘I am,’ I shot back.
‘Well, then, we need to get you some new ones. They aren’t working anymore. Come on –we don’t want to be standing around here all day,’ she said as she passed her wheelie suitcase to Julian and linked her arm through his.
Julian’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline as he looked back at me. I rolled my eyes and shooed them ahead. Two minutes in and she’d already shown her true colors.
*
‘Paul, you look grand!’ Marcy exclaimed when we were back at the house, giving him an even warmer welcome than Julian’s.
‘So do you, girl!’ he chimed, and I groaned inwardly.
But I had to admit, it was true. Marcy looked ten years younger. And faker. Me, all I wanted was to be ten years happier.
‘Botox?’ I asked, and she darted a glance at Paul before shooting me a chastising glare. How was I supposed to know I’d guessed right?
‘It worked better for you than me,’ Paul informed her. ‘I couldn’t open my mouth for a week.’
Now that was an uplifting thought. Imagine, Marcy unable to utter one single word the whole time she was here…
She turned her adoring eyes back to him, visibly more relaxed now that the cat was out of the bag.
‘Really? That’s a shame. I’ll give you my doctor’s name back in Boston.’
Yeah, next year, I thought. When she goes home.
‘So, what’s your good news?’ she finally asked as we all sat round the dinner table, having made a theatrical fuss of Maddy and Warren, in one giant cliché.
She never really gave a crap about anyone but herself. I was surprised she’d even remembered their names.
Julian shot me a smile and took my hand. ‘Well, Marcy, Erica and I are getting married.’
Her head snapped up and she almost dropped her fork. ‘Married… well. Have you thought it out carefully, both of you? Marriage is a big step. Though once you’re in, it’s not so painless to get out. Although Erica’s already done it once before.’
Julian eyed me and cleared his throat. ‘Oh, we’re both in all the way and we don’t want to get out, Marcy. I’ve already adopted the kids and they now carry my surname.’
At that, I cringed inwardly and even Paul lowered his head into his hands. Anyone who hadn’t known The Complete Cantelli Family History had no idea what Julian had just stirred.
Marcy sat up. ‘You mean to tell me they’re no longer Lowensteins?’ she squeaked.
This time, I put my own fork down, eyeing Maddy, who was staring at her grandmother, wide-eyed, while Warren continued to eat, but I could see his cheeks growing crimson. He remembered all too well what Ira had done to him and Maddy.
I patted his knee under the table and pulled Maddy closer to me. I could stop a bullet like this, but not Marcy’s words.
‘Marcy, they’ve never really been Lowensteins. And Julian loves them like his own. You know that.’
But Marcy was shaking her head.
‘I don’t see why you have to get married, though. That’s exactly when the fun ends and the trouble starts.’
‘Oh, come on…’ I said.
‘Marcy, please don’t ruin a perfectly good evening,’ Julian pleaded.
‘I mean it,’ Marcy insisted. ‘What happens if and when, with all due respect to you, Julian, the two of you split up? Do the kids go back to being Lowensteins again?’
Julian wiped his mouth and put his fork down, too. ‘Marcy, we’re not going to split up. Erica and I are solid.’
Marcy snorted. ‘So were Erica and Ira.’
‘That’s not true!’ I turned to Julian and whispered, ‘I mean… I did my best to-to…’ I bit my lip for the kids’ sake. How to downplay what was the worst time of my life? ‘We loved each other in the beginning, but it just didn’t work out. It was no one’s fault…’
Well, the truth was that Ira had discovered he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. So he’d left me. Well, sort of. He’d been playing with two decks of cards, as Italians say. You know, the usual cliché – the young, sexy secretary. Which was, in the end, lucky for me, because, as unhappy as I was, I would never have cheated on him or left him because of the kids. Killed him, maybe, but left him? No.
I don’t believe in half-baked situations. It was either black or white for me. In or out. And Ira hadn’t left me any choice – nor much money. Only a head full of dreams for a better life in Tuscany. Still, I couldn’t do it on just my budget.
That’s when Julian had appeared in my life, decided he was in love with me, swooped in and saved the day. After less than a year together, we’d moved lock, stock and barrel to Tuscany. Where he’d proved himself to be the best man a gal could fall in love with. But still today, whenever Ira was mentioned – and it was always Marcy who brought him up – my blood boiled.
‘So where is our invitation?’ she asked.
‘Erm, I haven’t sent them out yet…’
‘And when are you getting married?’
‘Some time in the new year…’
‘That’s pretty vague, don’t you think?’
‘Uhm, well, yes, but—’
‘No matter,’ she sighed. ‘It’s only June. We can still swing it if I pitch in. Honestly, Erica, why do you put yourself in these situations?’
At that, my heart began to kick at my ribs. ‘Pitch in? Thanks, Marcy, but Paul is organizing it. He’s just starting his new business.’
‘Well, then you’ll need all the help you can get,’ she said, turning to him. ‘It’s a good thing I came here when I did. Imagine, planning a wedding in less than six months!’
Paul’s face went white, but he composed himself, reached behind Julian for the dessert trolley and grabbed two slices of tiramisu.
‘Come on you guys,’ he chimed to Maddy and Warren. ‘Whoever gets to the pool first gets the biggest slice! I’ll talk with your mommy later!’
One quick look in our direction and when Julian and I nodded, they jumped out of their seats and chased Paul – plus desserts – out and down the staircase to the ground floor, happy to get away from The Cantelli inquisition. Or should I say slaughter?
‘Come on, Marcy, be happy for us,’ Julian chimed. ‘Your blessing is important.’
Man, could my guy act.
Marcy looked up at him without resentment. With affection, even, but her nostrils were pinched. And then, without another word, she shook her head and went back to picking at her food. And that was the end of that.
The next day, as I got up to pour Maddy a glass of juice, my back twinged dangerously. I moaned involuntarily, clutching at the table to steady myself.
‘You OK, honey?’ Julian said.
‘Yeah, it’s just…’
‘It’s because you weigh too much,’ Marcy admonished me with her lacquered finger, and my skin suddenly went clammy. ‘I knew you’d piled all the weight back on. You should have listened to me and had that damn stomach bypass when I told you to.’
I did listen to you, I wanted to retort at the mere thought of how she’d badgered me into the op alongside Ira. And that’s exactly when I found out Ira was having sex with Maxine Moore – stilettos and no panties – if you remember…
But having matured (somewhat) over the years, I refrained from wringing her neck. No more arguing with her like I used to. No more getting lost in yet another kerfuffle with her simply because she pissed me off. No. I’d be cool, calm and collected from now on. I grinned my new I-can-do-this grin as I felt a major migraine coming on. Marcy was here for who knew how long. She had an open ticket, which to me was worse than having open-heart surgery. How the hell was I going to survive her until our wedding? And then my sudden brainstorm. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner?
I picked up the phone, groaned at the sound of his voicemail and left a message. ‘Hi, Dad, it’s me. Marcy’s driving me nuts. Plus, I miss you. Call me.’ Preferably with your flight schedule if you ever want to see her—or me— alive again.
That afternoon Renata, who had become my number-one supporter in my anti-Casciani campaign, came by with a copy of La Nazione newspaper, the Siena edition, under her arm.
‘You’re not going to like this,’ she warned as she put the paper on the table and turned on the kettle.
I eyed her and unfurled the harbinger of bad news:
Tasting Tuscany (not to be confused with A Taste of Tuscany, a second-rate B & B in the same area that’s recently closed for health and safety issues) is a new hotel in the Siena province that’s ousting all others that dare to compete.
‘What?’ I boomed.
Renata shook her head in disgust. ‘Read on.’
I read on:
The inauguration alone boasted a presence of 500 participants on the first day. The consensus is that Tasting Tuscany is undoubtedly the leader in the hotel business and is here to stay.
‘What nonsense. Who do they think they are? How dare they cite us, after copying our presentation, our photos and our website.’
‘There’s more,’ Renata said, pulling out a couple of mugs from the cupboard. I looked down to finish the article:
Tasting Tuscany has purchased a coach to take its guests – free of charge – on day trips to both the most famous sites and the hidden gems of our beautiful Tuscany, including San Gimignano for its majestic cluster of medieval towers, Montepulciano for its heavenly wine and Arezzo for its wonderful goldsmith shops and bottegas.
‘Unbelievable,’ I managed.
‘There’s still more,’ Renata said in disgust as the water boiled and the kettle clicked off.
Note: day trip, tour guide in several foreign languages and seven-course meal at a luxury restaurant all included in the booking price. We’ll keep you posted on Tasting Tuscany’s next promos.
I rubbed my forehead. At this rate, they’d soon be burying us into oblivion. Every business had a right to exist and compete, of course, but these people were completely dishonest and morally unacceptable.
Renata poured hot water into the mugs and reached for the sugar.
‘What other miracles are they going to perform?’ I snapped as I slammed the paper shut.
Renata shook her head, presenting me with a steaming chamomile. ‘Drink this. You need it.’
Need it I did. These people were on a mission, kicking us when we were already down. But we weren’t all the way down. Not by a long shot. Because I had reached the point of no return.
‘Mom!’ called Warren from the front door the next day. ‘There’s a busload of guys outside – they’re singing in English!’
Julian had returned earlier that morning and was in the fields as I lounged alone by the pool, fully dressed and feet dangling in the water.
‘What are they singing, Warren?’ Maddy asked as I pushed my feet into my flip-flops.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Warren said.
Singing English men? Unless they were from the choir of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, it usually meant trouble. In a town like Castellino, where the cops amounted to one, his deputy, the dog and its fleas, you couldn’t count much on their intervention. There was no crime or violence, thus no means of preventing it. This was definitely going to be a problem I’d have to solve. And it was a problem. I could smell it from miles away.
I shooed the kids back inside. ‘Warren, go inside and lock the front door.’
Unfortunately, he’d heard those words from me before and memories of his psycho father must have flashed before him, because he swallowed and asked, ‘Are they trouble, Mom?’
‘Of course not. Now go. Don’t forget to bolt the door.’
He nodded and went, and in the corner of my eye, I saw him look back at me over his shoulder as he did so.
Straightening my back, I strode over to meet the posse, who were waving their arms out the windows of the bus, looking like beef spilling out of a meat grinder. The driver of the bus was Italian and shaking his head.
‘Mi scusi,’ he apologized. ‘Non so dove vogliono andare.’ I don’t know where they want to go.
One look told me it was an English stag party. There were about a dozen of them, mostly blond, long dirty hair, all dressed in variations of English soccer gear. And the stink of beer was unbelievable.
‘’Allo, love!’ one said, jumping out the bus to the spot right in front of me.
I resisted the urge to step back. I was familiar with this kind of animal. Better show no fear.
‘Hello, may I help you?’
‘Yeah! We was overbooked at the Senese Hotel, yeah? No place to go now. Got rooms?’
I had loads of rooms, in fact. But that was none of his business.
‘I’m so sorry, we’re fully booked.’
‘Aww, c’mon, love – just a few rooms. You won’t even know we’re here,’ he coaxed as one of his buddies leaned out the window and threw up on the cobblestones.
And that was when bad-ass Erica of yesteryear was instantly back with another brainstorm idea. Ignoring the wino, I feigned real concern for their predicament.
‘Gosh, I’m so sorry, some big rich guy just booked the whole place for a business conference.’ Then I leaned in and whispered, ‘But I do have a solution if you don’t mind me suggesting one?’
‘Hell no,’ he said, and I grinned, turning him round to point north.
‘I’ll give your driver the directions, but right down in the valley there’s an amazing place – very similar to this – with lots of rooms. It’s called Tasting Tuscany. I think they’re actually hosting a beauty contest for the local TV or something,’ I added for good measure.
‘Cor, super,’ the Brit cheered, followed by the other hoodlums hanging out the windows.
I grinned amiably and pulled out my cell. I knew the bloody number by heart. ‘Let me book for you.’
‘Yeah, super.’
‘Tasting Tuscany, buongiorno?’ came Marzia Casciani’s familiar crow voice.
‘Yes, good afternoon. This is Erica Cantelli from A Taste of Tuscany.’
A long silence. ‘Ah. What do you want?’
To wipe you off the map, of course. ‘Ah, I’m standing here next to a group – the South London Male Voice Choir. Classical music…’
The yobbo next to me sniggered and I raised my hand to shush him.
‘We have an overflow and simply don’t have the room. Can we send them to you?’
I wasn’t about to admit to her what she already knew – that she’d managed to put our business on hold for the time being. Better to seem pathetic for now if I wanted to reel her in.
Another suspicious pause and I found I was holding my breath.
Then, finally, ‘Oh, yes, absolutely,’ came the snidey voice. ‘And thank you.’
Don’t thank me yet, I thought, glee pumping through my veins. ‘They’re on their way,’ I said and hung up.
The yobbo was already getting back onto the bus.
‘Cheers, love!’ he shouted, raising his thumb at me, and the herd inside roared in chorus, chanting all sorts of things that made me hope my children were out of earshot.
‘Just ask for the old Bettarini farm,’ I said to the poor bus driver. ‘The place is called Tasting Tuscany.’
The driver looked at our own sign reading A Taste of Tuscany and then looked back at me, confused.
I sighed amiably. ‘Long story. Here – for your trouble,’ I said, opening the larder door on the ground floor behind me and pulling out an entire cured prosciutto. ‘Take this for your family.’
The man’s eyes popped open. ‘Grazie, signora.’
‘Oh, you’ll be earning it, don’t you worry.’
He grinned. ‘Sì, signora.’
I smiled at him, stepped back and waved at the rowdy bunch. ‘Right, boys, off you go! Have fun. Happy holidays!’
South London Male Voice Choir, my foot. These boys were Neanderthal soccer hooligans and going straight to the Cascianis. I sagged in relief as they hit the horizon, a trail of dust in their wake, and I could only imagine the havoc they’d wreak once they were on our rival’s property. Did I feel guilty about it in the least, you may ask? Absolutely not. That’s what they got for trying to ruin our livelihood. Karma’s doing – not mine in the least.
A few moments later, Julian drove up in his tractor, all sweaty and shirtless, his body glistening in the golden light, his face a mask of danger. He jumped off the tractor, looking for all the world like a fuming cowboy, a rifle over his shoulder, taking long strides toward me, his eyes scanning his surroundings.
‘Where are they?’ he demanded.
‘Who?’ I asked innocently.
‘The thugs.’
‘Thugs?’ I laughed.
Warren must have called him, bless his little soul, just as he’d done the last time I was in danger, under the threat of Ira’s baseball bat, and Julian had come running, breaking my front door open like a real hero.
‘Oh, they were just looking for a place to stay. The South London Male Choir Voice, I think they said. I sent them to our rivals, of course.’
Julian grinned and wrapped his arm around me. ‘You little schemer.’
If only he knew. Better let sleeping dogs lie.
‘Where did you get that rifle?’ I asked just as Marco and Giacomo brought up the rear, sporting a rifle each, their eyes glittering. Men and their tribal instinct. ‘Never mind,’ I said, exhaling.
Back at The Farthington, if there had been a problem, all I’d had to do was call security. Here, my security was Julian and our friends. Julian scooped me up in his sweaty arms, his T-shirt hanging from his back pocket, his jeans having seen better days. He kissed me thoroughly, like he always did when we were apart.