Sign of the Times (3 page)

Chapter Three

“
Benvenuta
,” greeted the owner of the three star family run Hotel di Piazza S Paolo.
 
Sig.a Tagliaferri had spoken several times with Holly on the phone and enthusiastically welcomed the Scottish girl, as if she were her long lost daughter.
 
With true Tuscan hospitality, she bent down and picked up two of Holly’s bags, which Holly had dumped next to the terracotta urns at the entrance, when Sig.a Tagliaferri had enveloped her in her embrace.

The signora ushered Holly through to the unfussy breakfast room and offered her an espresso.
 
Typical of the Italian culture. They ply you with coffee before even showing you to your room.
  
Sig.a Tagliaferri chatted to Holly as if they were old friends.

Two gorgeous men appeared.
 
Almost identical, with black hair, dark eyes and deep tans, Holly assumed they were brothers.
 
Her guess proved correct when Sig.a Tagliaferri launched into a fast-paced exchange with them.

“Hollee,” she enunciated, “these are my sons, Emilio and Guido.
 
Aren’t they handsome?” she asked brimming with pride.

Embarrassed Holly quickly answered, “
Si
.”
 
They were attractive looking men, but they didn’t do it for her.
  
Not now, not after having met Dario. The two ‘boys’ sat at the table, as their mother fixed them espressos.
  
Guido complimented Holly on her Italian, Emilio practised his English with her, which Holly usually found so sexy. Italian men seemed to elongate the words.
 
This time, although she had to admit it still sounded sexy, it didn’t melt her insides.

After promising to let them show her around, Holly excused herself.
 
With Guido and Emilio fighting over who was going to carry her bags to her room, she headed off to take a shower.
 
Her room was surprisingly large, with two shuttered windows.
 
Although it was only May, it was stifling. There was no air-conditioning that she could see.
 
Anxious to catch a glimpse of the view her bedroom offered, she risked opening the shutters and immediately a whoosh of heat struck her.
 
Peering out, she gazed upon the valley below.
 
There were two villas nearby; one villa almost conjoined to theirs and one about a mile away.
 
The one next to her exhibited large wrought iron gates and she could just see into their garden, which encompassed perfectly tended lawns, with a large fountain in the midst of some strategically placed shrubs.
 
Tearing her glance away, she looked at the house on the hill.
 
It seemed a far grander establishment.
 
Some rich tourist had probably bought it and didn’t even appreciate it, she thought cynically.
 
It looked to have a vineyard to the right of it. She could explore later.
 
Gulping in some unwanted, fetid air, Holly closed the shutters and started unpacking.

*

Steaming jets of water poured over Holly’s tired body. What a bonus to have a power shower in such traditional premises.
 
Pouring a generous dollop of shower gel onto her bath mitt, she vigorously rubbed her aching limbs.
 
She decided she could do with a little snooze after her shower.
 
Surely she must be entitled to a siesta in this heat?

Holly woke with a start.
 
She could hear a phut, phut, phut noise.
 
Sleepily, she opened the shutters and beheld a tractor.
 
The land to the left of the villa must be farmland.
 
Then she noticed Guido astride the tractor, waving.
 
Grinning, she waved back.
 
Revived, Holly arched her body and shook herself out.
 
She felt miles better.
  
Turning on the cold tap, she splashed water on her face and re-applied her moisturiser.
 
Her skin became so dry, with the heat here.
 
It must be around thirty two degrees
and
it’s only May, thought Holly.
 
Pulling a fresh t-shirt over her head, she regarded herself critically in the mirror.
 
She still looked a bit tired and her hair resembled a bird’s nest, from having fallen asleep on it, whilst it was still wet.
 
Picking up her satchel and her notebook, she headed downstairs.

“I’m going to explore,” Holly told Sig.a Tagliaferri.
 
Her hostess smiled and asked if she would like to join them for dinner.
 
Holly readily agreed and thanked her for the invitation.

She passed through the automatic gates and sauntered down the dirt track, her flip flops soon filled with tiny pebbles.
 
Cursing, she switched swiftly to the grass.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
 
Holly found her thoughts returning to Dario as she padded down the windy road and up the hill to the centre of Bibbiena.
 
It was a little as she had expected.
 
There were bumblebee striped canopies and green chairs stacked on top of tables, at what she could only assume was one of the restaurants on closing day. A group of teenagers stood around chatting and flirting.
 
Holly strolled past them and spied ahead of her twenty or thirty stalls with canvas awnings. So, there
is
a market, thought Holly.
 
Continuing, she noticed a bar on the opposite side of the road, where four octogenarians played chess.
 
Holly watched them for a few minutes and then, conscious they had stopped chattering and were looking in her direction, briskly moved on.

She crossed the road a little further up and turned up into the village centre, where she saw a sign for the church.
 
The buildings were of roughly hewn stone and reddish brown in colour.
 
Eighteenth century was Holly’s guess.
 
Today she wanted to absorb the atmosphere, without having to remember she had to write about it.
 
She passed a
tabac
, a lawyer’s office, an accountant’s, until finally she came across a
bottega
.
 
As she peered through the glass in the door, the owner sprang to open it, so that she fell forward into the shop, almost colliding with him.

“
Scusi, signorina
,” the owner apologised.

She picked up jars and bottles, looking at the contents and ingredients.
  
There were no prices marked.
 
The bottega was filled with mouth-watering goodies; pickled vegetables, zucchini, red peppers and cherry tomatoes filled with anchovies.
  
The upper part of one wall consisted only of wine and the lower half entirely of olive oil.
 
Holly had never seen so many different kinds of olive oil.
 
Next to the
cassa
and the beaming shopowner lay a wide assortment of cold meats and cheeses.
 
Holly wanted to buy up the whole shop.
 
Then she clapped eyes on the counter of fresh pasta…mmm.
 
Ricotta filled ravioli, pumpkin stracci….
 
Little wonder some women deemed food better than sex, although Holly thought they simply hadn’t met the right guy.
 
Had she?
 
Or, had she met not one, but two?
 
That was unfair.
 
She couldn’t possibly equate the four year relationship she had with Tom, with the feelings of lust she had felt for Dario.
 
She genuinely liked Dario.
 
She wasn’t sure how to deal with it, but then again, was she ever going to have to?
 
She wasn’t ever going to see him again.
 
That made her feel worse.
 
Things are better this way, she tried to convince herself.

“
Le piace qualcosa, signorina? Quell’olio d’oliva ha vinto il premio del quartiere quest’anno.
 
Guardi.
 
Porta il sigillio
.”
 
Holly was brought out of her Dario reverie by the shopkeeper.

“
Scusi?
” He asked her again if there was anything she liked and said the olive oil she had been looking at, had won the prize for their district.
 
Holly studied it.
 
It was very expensive.
 
After hearing a history of virtually every bottle of olive oil in the shop, Holly gave in and bought that year’s prize winning oil.
 
She seriously hoped it had earned its prize, as it had cost her a small fortune.

As she approached the wine racks to choose something suitable for dinner, the shopkeeper, whom by this point had introduced himself as Giampiero, asked if the wine was for a special occasion.
  
Holly told him of her dinner invitation.
  
When Giampiero heard this, his next question was did she know what Sig.a Tagliaferri was cooking.
 
Holly replied that unfortunately she didn’t.
  
Giampiero reassured her.
 
“We will find out” and he picked up the telephone.
 
Holly looked on bemused.
 
Surely he wasn’t calling Sig.a Tagliaferri? That doubt was assuaged a few seconds later when she heard Giampiero say,

“
Giuseppe. Ciao!
Was Viviana in this morning?
 
Yes? What did she order?
 
Bistecca?
 
Grazie, a dopo
,” and replacing the receiver he turned and gave Holly a knowing smile.

“I hope you are not vegetarian.
 
You’re having
bistecca alla fiorentina
, so I would suggest a strong, fruity, oaky, red wine, a Montalcino perhaps?”

Holly was impressed by the accuracy of their grapevine.
 
She bought two bottles and Giampiero bustled around wrapping them for her.
 
Holly knew she would come back here, if not simply to use Giampiero as a case study.
 
Goods safely in a bag, Holly set off to explore the rest of the village.

*

Walking downhill from the village to the little stream which denoted the start of the climb up out of the valley and the steep ascent to the villa, Holly heard a car behind her.
 
“
Ciao.
”
 
Turning she saw Emilio, coursing towards her in a beaten up Fiat Punto.
 
Beckoning her over, he grinned.
 
“Would you like a lift?
  
If you want to walk, I’ll just take the bags.”

Holly, sweating and red in the face looked at him warningly and assured him, “No, I’ll just hop in too.”
 
Dumping her bags on the back seat, she then eased herself into the passenger seat.
 
Emilio clumsily shoved the car into first and it groaned and spluttered over the bumpy, unforgiving road for the rest of the journey.

“Thanks,” said Holly, when Emilio drew up outside the villa.
 
He lifted her bags out of the car and handed them to her. She was no sooner over the threshold, when Sig.a Tagliaferri appeared.

“
Tutto bene, cara?
”
 
Holly replied that all was indeed well.
 
Juggling her bags, she made her way upstairs.
 
As she was turning the key in the lock, her mobile rang.
 

Damn, why do these things always go off at the most inopportune moments
, she wondered.
 
Dropping her things on the floor, she unearthed her mobile.
 
Her face lit up immediately.

“Tom! How are you?”

“Just thought I’d see how your trip’s going.”

“Fine.
 
I had a bit of a hairy start with the car breaking down, but things are great now.” Holly neglected to mention the part Dario had played in her maiden in distress situation, as she regaled Tom with her tale of woe.

“So, what are you up to?” he asked.

“I’m having dinner with the landlady and her sons.
 
What about you?”

“I might get to grips with that mountain of paperwork on the dining room table. Have you written anything yet?” Tom asked.

“Not yet.
 
I was just gleaning my first impressions today.”

“I’m sure it’ll be another bestseller.” Tom assured her.

“You’re biased,” Holly laughed.

A shrill ring pierced her laughter.
 
“Is that your mobile?” she asked.

“Afraid so. I’d better get that.
 
Love you.”

“Love you too,” said Holly.

Chapter Four

“These are for you,” said Holly, handing over the bottles of Montalcino.

“
Ma che cosa fai? Che ragazza!”

The signora scolded Holly for bringing wine and told her in future she should just bring herself.
 
A cream lace tablecloth with tiny hearts cut into it, adorned the oak table, where Guido and Emilio already sat, hungry looks on their faces.
 
Holly hoped they were simply in need of sustenance
and that steak would put them to rights.
 
She didn’t think she could cope with any romantic overtures.
 
It was bad enough explaining she had a fiancé, never mind the added complication of Dario appearing in her head.
 
Sliding into the seat adjacent to the signora’s empty one, she pretended not to see Emilio’s offended look.
 
The table was laden with simple, terracotta earthenware and silver cutlery which Holly felt certain Sig.a Tagliaferri only brought out on special occasions.

Sig.a Tagliaferri placed the wine Holly had brought on the table. A large salad bowl and servers soon followed.
 
Olive oil and balsamic vinegar were already pride of place.
 
Emilio and Guido wolfed the salad down like there was no tomorrow.
 
She could never get Tom to eat salad like that.
 
It was as if it weren’t macho enough. Even though there had been a food revolution in Britain in the last decade, Holly felt most men still abhorred the very idea of eating salad, unless it accompanied a Big Mac and even then they probably threw most of it away.
 
Finishing hers, she glanced at Guido who was mopping up the leftover juice with some crusty bread.
 
They had spoken little during the introductory course.

The two boys cleared away and Sig.a Tagliaferri struck up conversation with Holly, whilst she served the
primo
, ravioli di zucca, in a creamy pumpkin sauce.

Holly explained the reason for her stay.
 
The signora was impressed and asked Holly if she had written any other books.
  
Holly relayed to her some of the anecdotes in her first book,
Secrets of the Neapolitan Riviera
. She told her how happy it had made her writing about a subject so close to her heart and about a people she held in the highest regard and how much fun she had had in the process.

She recounted the wine tastings, sipping home-made grappa and limoncello for the first time, savouring
bistecca alla fiorentina
for the first time.
 
At this Sig.a Tagliaferri wailed that that was what they were having for their
secondo
and went on to enumerate the qualities of the high Florentine cut.
 
Fortunately, Holly liked her steak medium, so she was looking forward to it, if she didn’t completely fill up with this amazing ravioli.
 
She adored pumpkin.
 
She smiled as she remembered Tom attempting to make pumpkin pie.
 
Not known for his culinary skills, he was determined to make the perfect pie for Holly, since she was always cooking for him.
 
Holly had entered the kitchen and seen her fiancé surrounded by an assortment of pots, pans and plates, looking harassed.

‘I’ve made an absolute mess of this.
 
Do you want to get a Chinese?’ he had asked.

Holly had managed to salvage the ingredients and handed Tom the pumpkin and a knife and asked him to carve her a Halloween lantern, in exchange for dinner.
 
The pie had turned out to be mouth-watering and she had frozen the leftovers, so Tom would have something to live on during the week.
 
He was hopeless and would live on takeaway if he could
.
 
Likewise, the lantern had turned out to be an artistic masterpiece. They both had their strong points, Holly reflected.
 
Snapping back to reality she realised that Guido and Emilio were telling their mother about the four old men she had spotted playing chess.
 
She was thankful that her temporary lapse in concentration had gone unnoticed.

Emilio asked Holly of her plans for the coming days.

“I thought I’d go to Poppi castle and possibly La Verna to see the monastery.
 
There are a lot of connections to Cardinal Dovizi around here. I’d like to include that in my book.”

“So, do you write stories about your travels or do you write travel guides, places to see, to stay, that sort of thing?” Guido asked.

“No. I write stories about my experiences and about the culture of each place, traditions, history and how understanding it all has impacted me,” Holly explained.
 

“So, will we be in your book?” Emilio asked eagerly.

“Possibly.”

“Oh please,” he begged.

“I haven’t even started my research yet,” Holly laughed.

“We’ll help, won’t we,
Mamma
? Guido?”

“
Certo
,” came the reply.

Holly assured them they would be mentioned in her book, although not necessarily by name.

“If I need help, I know where to come.”

The
bistecca fiorentina
was heavenly. Holly licked her lips, as the signora carved a piece for her.
 
It didn’t ooze blood, but it was pink.
 
It was so succulent and melted on the tongue.
 
This is why she ought to live in Italy, thought Holly, for the food alone!
 
Dario came unbidden into her thoughts, but she immediately banished him.
 
Sig.a Tagliaferri asked Holly if she liked the
fichi d’India
. They were certainly very unusual, Holly thought, like fried courgettes and she had really enjoyed the first one, but two was enough.
 
They were a bit bland.
 
The grilled vegetables; sun blushed tomatoes, red onions and baby mushrooms were perfectly cooked.
 
Holly never could understand how she, a good cook, could never get her Mediterranean veg to taste quite like those she ate in Italy. She used olive oil, the same spices and preparation methods, yet some vital ingredient, seemed to be missing.
 
She vowed to ask the signora’s advice.

The
pièce de resistance
was the
tiramisu
.
 
Sig.a Tagliaferri revealed it had taken only five minutes to make.
 
It was like heaven to Holly’s taste buds.
 
They rounded off the meal with a selection of cheeses.
 
Holly was replete.
 
The wine which Giampiero had recommended had gone down a treat.
 
The evening continued until they were all sated and slightly sozzled.
 
Holly was glowing, partly from the red wine, but mainly because she really enjoyed being in Italy and in the company of Italians.
 
Swaying slightly, she bid them goodnight.
 
Today she had felt like one of the family, exchanging escapades and imparting tales. She flopped onto her bed and was asleep in seconds.

Her dreams were confused.
 
One moment Tom was there, her knight in shining armour, the next Dario was alongside Tom, replacing him in his vintage sports car.
 
Holly wasn’t sure if Dario
had
a sports car, vintage or otherwise.
 
For all she knew he drove a Fiat 126.
 
No, he wouldn’t drive that kind of car, not with such a house.
 
Maybe he was a Ferrari man.
 
Holly awoke feeling more heady than when she’d gone to bed and she was pretty sure that it wasn’t all down to alcohol.

As she had slept late, Holly passed on breakfast, hungry to go out and get some ammunition for her novel.
 
She spent the next few days visiting Sistina, Stia and Chiusi la Verna.
The audio tour of Poppi castle impressed her.
 
She also purchased some of the
Lamponi la Verna
, a raspberry alcoholic drink distilled by the monks at the monastery at La Verna.

Guido and Emilio showed her the surrounding area.
 
They introduced her to Zita who ran the salumeria, where the Tagliaferris bought their cold meats.
 
Zita was ninety.
  
It was customary to spend thirty minutes in Zita’s when you had only gone in for a hundred grams of prosciutto.
 
Like the chess players and Giampiero, she knew everything about everyone.
 
Whether it was how Carlo’s goat was coming along, or that Natalia had been spotted in Arezzo with Sig.a Lazzerini’s husband having lunch, or that Alfonso’s nephew had graduated from an English university, they kept the gossip moving.
 
Emilio even let Holly ride the tractor, so she could experience life in the fields first hand.
 
Her hand flew over the paper as she took page after page of notes.
 
Guido and Emilio seemed to have resigned themselves to not being Holly’s type and had become good friends.

Today Holly had decided she would go to the market, to see what fare they sold.
 
The signora told her to try the home-made pastries stall which Pina ran.
 
Holly was eager to set off as she didn’t want to miss out by arriving late.

The market was already thronged with people, some milling around chatting, others perusing the wares on the various stalls.
 
Holly passed the butcher’s stall, where fresh duck and chicken vied for pride of place among the venison and veal.
 
Moving on, she came to one of several fruit and veg stalls, where she spotted the fichi d’india she’d tasted for the first time a few days ago.
 
They looked rather different in their raw state.
 
Everything looked larger, juicier, more misshapen – no European directives had affected these, she thought.
 
As she turned away from the stall, a shadow flitted past.
 
She stood stock still and stared.
  
She could’ve sworn that was Dario.
 
Was she going mad?
 
Had she been thinking of him so much, she’d even managed to conjure him up.
 
Giving herself a shake, she moved on to the next stall.

Holly pottered through the remainder of the market.
 
The sun beat down mercilessly from its pole position.
 
She came across a stall which sold fans and although she didn’t quite fit the pre-requisite ninety years of age, she bought herself one anyway. As she rested against the edge of a stall, fanning herself with her new purchase, she saw the man again.
 
Practically launching herself from her resting place and quickening her pace, egged on by curiosity, she followed him.
 
She rounded the corner, just in time to see him disappearing into a silver, Alfa Romeo.
 
Her pulse racing, Holly asked herself if she was going loopy.
 
Was it him?
 
Tortured by uncertainty, she thought about little else as she trudged back up the hill towards the villa.