Jo drove her silver BMW along the twisting Tuscan roadway, the scenery below ever–changing. Here a flash of Florence, almost always covered by a mist of exhaust fumes, and there brief glimpses into vine-clad entrances to large villas, clinging to the Tuscan hills like pink stone limpets. The air rushed fragrantly into the open window as she sped up the winding road; drawing in the scents of thyme, lavender, rosemary and cypress released by warm caressing winds.
Her journey was the antithesis of the one she’d made a few weeks ago, to attend the funeral of Tomaso Rossini, a respected and much loved older friend and colleague. Jo had owned and operated her own tourist booking agency out of a neat little office near the Ponte Vecchio for some years, and Tomaso Tours had been her major corporate contact. Jo had been both surprised and flattered when Tomaso’s son Rudi invited her to dinner at Villa Fiesole. Although Tomaso had often mentioned him, Jo and Rudi had not met before the funeral. She recalled this very handsome man, face marked by grief, as he stood politely thanking those who had come to mourn in the ancient stone church of Santa Maria in the village of Fiesole. The impression he had made however was of a warm, caring person, bearing the traits of his father’s spontaneous personality. His image had haunted her on countless occasions since their only meeting at the funeral; the tall, dark- haired man with a tanned complexion and sad eyes, who had flown home to bury his beloved Papa.
Jo’s car made a steep descent down the cypress-lined private road, and pulled sharply into the stone-paved courtyard underneath the wall of a beautiful double-storey villa. She flushed with pleasure at seeing him again as he opened the car door, took her hand and gently kissed the knuckles in a courtly fashion, his brown eyes twinkling as they met hers.
In terracotta glory Florence stretched as far as the eye could see, church towers and domes dominating the skyline. The city was bejewelled by the silver thread of the Arno weaving itself through the landscape, and glinting golden in late afternoon light. She would never cease to be amazed at the ever-changing beauty of this city. A sudden intake of breath betrayed her feelings and reflected her heightened emotions.
“Come,” he said, “there are chairs on the terrace. We can enjoy some wine and watch the sunset, before I prepare dinner.”
Purple wisteria covered the pergola giving protection to those beneath it. An ancient Genoa fig tree, twisted and gnarled by time bent over its ancient stones, whilst candles in sconces flickered on the villa walls.
Standing silently beside her, Rudi observed the expression of wonder on her face, heard her intake of breath, and sensed he knew why his father had admired this lovely young woman. Turning her gaze from the city she realised that he had been watching her. Her heart gave a leap at this knowledge, and she smiled, returning the warmth she saw in his brown eyes with a question of her own.
“Thank you for inviting me to dinner,” Jo said, “Tomaso was a wonderful man, a kind friend, and so very good to me. I am very grateful for the support that he provided when I first opened my booking agency.”
“Papa thought very highly of you, Jo. He often wrote about you in his letters.” Rudi replied.
“You’ve come home then?” Jo asked, and then hastily added, “Forgive me; I’ve no right to quiz you about your plans.”
“You don’t need to apologise,” he said, “Papa always intended that I should take over from him when he retired, but neither of us expected it to happen this way. We had planned for me to return to Italy in a year or so, when he would take things a little easier. Our timing was just a little bit off,” he said sadly.
“Please, won’t you sit here,” he said, offering a chair and then pouring a tall glass of chilled Castello.
Citrus and honey washed over her palate in luscious abandon as she tasted the fruity wine. “Delicious,” she said, smiling at him and he lifted his glass in salute. With the drinking of the wine, equilibrium returned, and the tension which had occurred at the mention of his father’s death had been dispelled.
A colourful plate and a large linen serviette were placed before her and then he offered a platter of antipasto; a sharp tasty semi-blue cheese, some chicken liver pate, crisp-bread with olives and proscuitto from which Jo made a selection. Together they sat in relaxed silence, sipping their wine, enjoying the food, and delighting in the late afternoon light as it faded from gold to deep pink on the buildings of the city below. Gradually, lights came on in strips and singles, winking at them from the darkening landscape. “My housekeeper has prepared dinner,” Rudi said, smiling. “I only need to combine the food and serve it. Would you like to come and help?”
“Of course,” Jo replied, following him down the ancient flag-stoned passage to the large farm-house kitchen at the rear of the villa. An old range took up almost all of one wall, and a very large scrubbed pine table sat sturdily down the centre of the room on gleaming terracotta tiles. Large wrought-iron candelabra from which very large cream candles flickered stood at either end of the kitchen, covering the white stone ceiling with a creamy glow. As a concession to modernization a shiny gas oven and cook-top had been added, as well as a large stainless steel refrigerator from which Rudi took three bowls and a large covered dish of salad. Switching on the gas, he poured a creamy bacon sauce into a shallow copper pan that he had selected from the hooks above the range. When it was simmering he handed Jo a wooden spoon so that she could fold in fettuccine. She stirred it gently and lowered the heat as he tossed in the rosy pink cooked prawns from their bowl. These tumbled through the al dente strips of fettuccine and in a few minutes the meal was complete. Meanwhile Rudi laid the salad, plates and cutlery onto a large tray which he prepared to carry to the terrace.
The pasta was perfectly cooked; the sauce rich and soft on the tongue. The prawns still held the taste of the sea as their teeth crunched into them, and they washed down their food with a crisp white wine. “This is delicious,” Jo said taking a forkful of glorious food.
“Ah! But I am the fortunate one tonight, having such charming company to enjoy it with,” Rudi said, smiling deeply into her eyes, and serving out more salad. I am so glad that Papa told me that I must meet you; I feel that we are old friends because he shared so much about you.”
“I hadn’t realised,” Jo replied, feeling at once humbled and just a little flattered. “Your father and I often lunched or dined together. Neither of us had close family here in Florence, and he was a good friend to me. I shall miss him.”
“Thank you for just being here,” Rudi said, “it has been a lonely time for me.”
Jo was touched. It had been a long time since any man had told her that he valued her company. Living in this city with just a few close friends and no immediate family, she had devoted most of her time to advancing her career. There was however something in this man that gave her a deeper sense of well-being than anyone she had met in a long time.
“Help me with the next course,” he said, as she picked up the empty bowls and followed him to the kitchen once again. From the refrigerator he took a bowl of split black Genoa figs, picked that day from the tree on the terrace, a dish of honey and a bowl of creamy mascarpone. Jo lifted down plates from the huge pine dresser, spoons from the drawer and watched as Rudi placed the figs on the grill plate. He then generously poured on wild mountain honey to bring out the succulent juices. When he was satisfied that they were ready he served them, dolloped out the rich mascarpone and handed one serve to Jo. Their hands met around the dish.
Jo’s heart beat erratically as they took their dessert out to the terrace. With trembling fingers she lifted a spoonful of fig and cream dripping with honey, to her lips. A little of the honey trickled over fingers as she did so and seeing her dilemma, he quickly removed her plate, and lifted her fingers towards his tongue. He looked at her enquiringly for just a second, and then leaned forward to cover her mouth with his own, sending a flood of never before experienced emotion through her body. Smiling to himself, he knew that he had correctly interpreted her need. He lightly kissed her again on the cheek this time, inhaling the delicious aroma of her skin and handed back the plate of food.
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