‘Absolutely not.’ She too turned to face him, resting on her elbow. ‘What makes you ask?’
‘Just checking.’ His gaze fixed on her cinnamon brown eyes, and he couldn’t help but mirror her smile. ‘I just want you to feel at home here. With me.’
‘I feel all that and more.’ She tenderly caressed his shoulder through his white linen shirt. ‘Thanks for taking care of me.’
‘And thanks for taking care ofme.’
‘So, tonight’s our final night. Just us. Tomorrow will be a completely different story.’
He inhaled deeply. ‘I’m sure it will all go fine. But I’d be lying if I said I can’t wait for day one to be over. Just done. Off. Like a bandaid.’
‘It will be great. Let’s just enjoy it. Whatever happens, happens.’
Thankful for herche sarà, saràattitude and unceasing confidence in him, he inched his way closer to her. ‘You really are amazing.’
The increasingly familiar yearning that her presence stirred had resurfaced and Matthew’s expression softened behind the realisation. Buried somewhere deep in his core, the vice that had held him fixed began to relinquish some of its control. Caught between his growing desire for her and the tether of reason, his breath hitched.
Sensing a change in him, she asked, ‘Are you ok?’
The intensity of his gaze convinced her there was more behind it, but all Matthew allowed himself was the faintest whisper, ‘I could get very used tothis.’
They weren’t expecting the first group of guests until eleven o’clock. So, naturally, when they arrived at eight, Matthew and Sarah were thrown. And, of course, of all the guests arriving that Monday morning, the first to arrive was the largest group: sixteen lovely American women on an All-You-Can-See Italian adventure, and all in their ‘fifties’. The sea of purple-rinsed hair suggested otherwise. Matthew was relieved that they were so chatty and friendly. It was a jovial and relaxed way to ease into being host and hostess.
La Viola was ready for guests in every way possible, except for the fact that they hadn’t counted on needing to serve breakfast to a gaggle of jet-lagged women that morning.
Checking his watch, Matthew said, ‘The food order’s late.’
Sarah’s heart dropped. ‘I’ve been so distracted, I hadn’t noticed.’ From the hallway, she darted around the perimeter of the building to check if it had been left somewhere other than the kitchen door. There was no sign of it.
Returning to Matthew, she said, ‘Keep them occupied. Take them for a tour of the grounds. I’ll call around and see what’s happened.’
‘Done!’ he said, then turned to the women. ‘Ladies, allow me to take you on a private tour of the residence. The view across the valley is truly something to behold this time of the morning. If you’ll follow me . . .’
One presumptuous woman took him by the arm and they sauntered off. The others laughed, some took photos. Matthew looked the part in his simple marle grey tee and navy chinos, and certainly played off the attention they gave him.
Their first guests were already under La Viola’s spell.
From the kitchen, Sarah called her contact. The first attempt simply rang out. The second attempt resulted in a voicemail greeting. Just as she was about to give up, he called her back.
Sarah explained the situation and the late order, but he simply grunted, ‘It was delivered this morning at five-fifty. Early, and signed for.’
Ending the call, Sarah thought on her feet. If she were at work, what would she do? She texted Matthew:Give me at least 20 mins! I’m covering for the mess!
The first thing she did was put the largest moka pot on the stove – a twenty-cup.
Ok, Sarah. Think Italian . . . Think breakfast. Think . . . banquet. A breakfast banquet.
Her next move was deciding on platters and cheeseboards. She opted for some that Giuliano, one of Petunia’s men, had made for her from planks of wood from a walnut tree that had split at the bottom of the orchard.
She laid a runner of crisp white linen down the middle of the long dining table. At each end, she lit pillar candles and grouped glasses, side plates and mismatched vintage vases she had bought from Riccardo, filled with cutlery.
The food. Collecting the four sourdough loaves she had only just put out on display in theDispensa, she rushed to slice them and arranged them all in small raffia baskets, each lined with red and white checked linen napkins. Out came butter, jams and bottled berries, decanted into mismatched glass ramekins and dotted across the table.
In the centre, Sarah arranged a bowl of fresh fruit that the women could help themselves to, as well as a pot of boiling water for tea.
Heart rattling in her chest, she stood back to assess her handiwork. It looked beautiful and rustic. It was just missing . . .
Greenery.She bolted into the rear courtyard with her kitchen shears and snipped away at the rosemary and pulled at a pocket of violets. Returning to the table with the now screaming hot moka, she worked at tucking away the verdant lengths so that they accented the dishes she had laid out. Now it was perfect.
