Prologue
It’s beautiful. Much more beautiful than I imagined—or dared let myself imagine.
“Mr. Webb,” says the lawyer in his strong Italian accent, “I present youil Castello Montemagno!”
Signor Mancini gestures to a ruined castle perched on top of a little hill, a vineyard snaking along its slopes. At the bottom stands the sole remaining wall of a stone chapel, which is painted with a flaking mural of a man he tells us is San Bartolomeo—which I can only assume translates as Saint Bartholomew. We’ve already driven through an olive grove containing nearly fifty trees and Signor Mancini leads us around the side of a terracotta-tiled garage to reveal a handsome three-story stone farmhouse, with a smaller cottage built onto the side. Both are framed by the magnificent, velvety green Apuan Alps, while in front of the property stands a paved patio covered by a pergola entwined with gnarly—and what look like very old—vines. We cross it and step onto a small lawn, which runs up to the ridge of a hill, along which have been planted bushes, shrubs and trees. From there, Signor Mancini shows us a spectacular view over the Freddana Valley, the Ligurian Sea in the distance. I let out a breath.
“All of this now belongs to you!” Signor Mancini announces, waving his arm with an extravagant flourish.
Theo gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Adam, I can’t believe it.”
Neither can I.
“But you must believe it!” protests Signor Mancini, a dark-haired, wiry man wearing a fitted navy suit and square spectacles in silver frames. “Thecastellowas the property of your great-uncle Wilfred Treadwell, and he named you his heir.”
“But that’s just it,” I say, “I never even met my uncle. I only vaguely knew he existed. Why did he leave it to me?”
The lawyer shrugs. “He did not have a wife or children so I do not think it is unusual.”
“But why not leave it to friends?” I lay my hand on the trunk of the vine. “I didn’t think he even knew about me.”
“He was not in contact with your family?” asks Signor Mancini.
“No, there was some kind of disagreement.” I tug at the collar of my polo shirt. “Well, it was more a rift, I suppose. But that was way before I was born. By the time I came along nobody even talked about him. I didn’t know he lived in Italy till I got your email.”
I think back to the day that email arrived, just over a week ago. I’d been in the office, trying to feign interest in yet another meeting—one of the least enjoyable elements of my job as Head of Human Resources in a big insurance company. As the Chief Operating Officer ran through the latest list of employees who’d applied for voluntary redundancy, I spotted an email pop into my inbox from an Italian address. I couldn’t resist lowering my phone under the table and opening it. On reading the first line, I gave a gasp, which I quickly disguised as a coughing fit, excusing myself and ducking outside for some water. Within an hour, I’d called Signor Mancini—who confirmed I was the sole beneficiary of a house, eleventh-century castle and nearly fifty hectares of land just outside the village of Montemagno in the remote hills of Tuscany. I immediately followed this up with a call to my boyfriend, who was even more surprised than I was as he’d never heard me mention a great uncle. As Theo’s a headmaster and had just broken up for the Easter holidays, he suggested we fly out to Italy as soon as possible.
We landed in Pisa yesterday, picked up a car rental from the airport and drove to Lucca, which is where Signor Mancini had suggested we stay. It’s the provincial capital, fourteen kilometers from Montemagno, and the location of his office. By the time we’d checked into our hotel it was early evening, but we still made time for a quick stroll around what we discovered to be a charming medieval city, before stumbling on the adorable Piazza dell’Anfiteatro. As it was warm, we sat at a table outside and shared one dish of pasta with wild boar and another of risotto with porcini mushrooms, accompanied by a bottle of local wine. We held hands as the sun went down and the lights in the square flickered into life. I told myself how lucky I was to have such a gorgeous man—a man who’s over six foot tall, with fair hair, dazzling blue eyes and a physique that can still be described as athletic. It was such a magical evening, I convinced myself it had to be the start of something special—a special adventure for the two of us, together.
This morning we reported to Signor Mancini’s office, handed over my identification documents, and listened to him read out a translation of the will. Then we followed his car up here—to the house where Wilfred Treadwell lived for over sixty years. Sixty years during which the rest of his family was in Manchester. But what did they fall out about in the first place? And how did he end up here?
“I am sorry,” Signor Mancini says, his forehead creasing. “It is always sad when families do not speak.”
“Yeah, it is,” I answer. I remember how long it’s been since I spoke to my dad. “Can we go inside?”
Signor Mancini takes out a set of keys and inserts a long iron one into a pair of wooden doors that have been painted turquoise. He slowly pushes them open and we step into a stone-floored, wood-beamed kitchen with larder—both of which are probably best described as “basic.” The patterned brown ceramic wall tiles look like they date back to the 1960s, the wooden units are rickety—with one of the cupboard doors missing and another hanging off—and what’s being used as a sink is just a slab of stone with its middle scooped out. Along the far wall is an open fireplace, theback of which has been stained black and over which hangs a brass cauldron that looks like it belongs to a witch. As a keen cook, I’m more struck by how little counter space there is. I also notice that there’s only a small, freestanding oven. Even so, I picture myself zipping around, preparing a risotto or a pasta sauce, the room filling with enticing aromas.
We climb up a stone staircase to the first floor, where we find not one but two lounges, the first of which is snug and cozy, the second double-ceilinged and more like a hall. Both of them are filled with battered old couches and dark wooden furniture, much of it tatty or dilapidated. The floors are paved with terracotta-colored bricks and the walls of irregular-shaped stones have been left exposed, some of them stained with patches of damp. Although Wilfred only died a few months ago, the surfaces are already covered in dust and there are cobwebs trailing from light fittings. Between the lounges there’s a study stuffed with old books—their spines faded and their pages yellowed—and a bathroom fitted with a suite that must once have been white but is now streaked with an orange almost as bright as the Aperol Spritz I drank last night. Not just that, but the sink’s cracked, the toilet’s so old the chain has rusted, and the inside of the bath is spattered with animal droppings. It’s a grim sight. But despite this, there’s something romantic about the place, something I find enchanting.
But how does Theo feel about it? I turn to see him rushing around, flinging open doors and poking his head in and out of rooms.
“Bloody hell,” he booms. “This place is amazing!”
Relief sloshes through me.
We follow Signor Mancini through a connecting door into the little two-story cottage, which has its own—even more run-down and less user-friendly—bathroom and kitchenette. He directs us back into the main house and up another flight of stone stairs to the third floor, which has yet another big lounge, another grimy bathroom, and a couple more rooms that have been left completely empty.
“It’s so weird that there are all these rooms but hardly any beds,” I comment.
“I’m sure we could get hold of some beds quite cheaply,” offers Theo. “The kids could have a bedroom each.”
My stomach dips. I was only making an observation: the last thing I wanted was to suggest bringing Theo’s children here. It’s six months since he introduced me to them but only the youngest has shown me anything other than hostility—a hostility I’m desperate for Theo not to witness. I don’t want him to think that in the long term we’re only going to be incompatible.
Signor Mancini cocks his head. “I did not know you had children.”
“Yeah, three,” says Theo, breaking into a grin. “They’re fifteen, thirteen and eight.”
“In Italy it is very unusual for a gay couple to have children,” the lawyer observes.
