manqué mean?”
“Unsuccessful and unfulfilled.”
“Sounds like the story of my life.” I took another sip of my wine. I was beginning to enjoy myself. I might even like him, just a little bit.
“So,” he said, his arm brushing mine as we leaned over that balustrade again, looking out over that perfect green valley, “you love the villa?”
“Yup, I admit it. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way, but I know it’s love all right.”
He smiled. “I know what you mean. Feel free to come visit any time you like.”
“Thank you, I may take you up on that. We’ll need to do a proper inspection, get a valuation before we put it on the market.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I mean, what good is it owning a crumbling villa in Tuscany when you have no money to keep it up? And besides, my life, our lives are in New York.”
He frowned. “But I’m not planning on selling the villa, to your mother or anyone else.”
“What do you mean—you’re not planning on selling it? The villa belongs to my mother. The count of Piacere left it to her in his will.”
“We need to talk,” he said, and took my arm and led me into the gran salone with the apple-green Lucca-silk walls and the cushions placed over the worn spots on the sofas.
I frowned, not understanding. “There’s really not much to talk about. My mother was informed by Don Vincenzo that she inherited the villa in the count’s will. It took several years to trace her, but that doesn’t mean the villa was up for grabs. Signore Donati has made a mistake.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to get angry, but the mistake is on your mother’s part. She’s obviously been misinformed.”
I thought of Nonna now, of her excitement and her determination to come here, and how thrilled she was to be an heiress; how it had changed her appearance, and how…how gosh-darn happy she was just to be here. This was her village, her family friends, her inheritance, damn it.
“Look.” Ben was serious now, deadly serious. “ I own this place. I bought it last year from the count’s estate, signed, sealed, delivered, and paid for via the attorney, signor Donati. I’ve applied for planning permission, and I’m turning it into a hotel. In fact, work is ready to start.”
I remembered the heavy equipment in the stable yard. So that was what it was for. My nostrils flared like a horse’s at the gate. “I’ll fight you on this,” I said. “You can’t take my mother’s villa away.”
He shook his head. “Go ahead, but you won’t win.”
“You’ll see. I’ll get this villa back!”
He lifted a warning finger, pointed it at me. “Over my dead body.”
I glared back, lifted my own finger, pointed it at him. “Maybe,” I said. And then, not knowing what to do next, I spun on my heel and stalked regally away.
Pity I tripped over the rug; it kind of spoiled the effect. I heard him laughing as I ran fuming and blushing out into the gardens, in search of…of what?
Chapter Twenty-two
Nonna
Nonna was sitting at one of the long wooden trestle tables covered with red, white, and blue paper cloths, in the shade of a massive old chestnut tree whose branches spread almost to the ground. Buntings fluttered in the breeze along with the festive little flags; the familiar aroma of burgers blended with the sugary scent of young red wine being poured straight from the wooden cask, and with the hot sweet aroma of fresh-picked tomatoes tossed with olive oil and basil, slathered on slabs of hard crusty bread. Birds twittered hopefully in the trees, surveying for crumbs, and somebody was playing old tunes on an accordion, while those with sufficient wine in them sang along.
It was, thought Nonna, a perfect mixture of the familiar from home—meaning America—and the familiar from her old home—meaning here in Italy. At least she thought that was what she meant, but maybe the wine had gone to her head just a little.
She stared around the table
“Unsuccessful and unfulfilled.”
“Sounds like the story of my life.” I took another sip of my wine. I was beginning to enjoy myself. I might even like him, just a little bit.
“So,” he said, his arm brushing mine as we leaned over that balustrade again, looking out over that perfect green valley, “you love the villa?”
“Yup, I admit it. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way, but I know it’s love all right.”
He smiled. “I know what you mean. Feel free to come visit any time you like.”
“Thank you, I may take you up on that. We’ll need to do a proper inspection, get a valuation before we put it on the market.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I mean, what good is it owning a crumbling villa in Tuscany when you have no money to keep it up? And besides, my life, our lives are in New York.”
He frowned. “But I’m not planning on selling the villa, to your mother or anyone else.”
“What do you mean—you’re not planning on selling it? The villa belongs to my mother. The count of Piacere left it to her in his will.”
“We need to talk,” he said, and took my arm and led me into the gran salone with the apple-green Lucca-silk walls and the cushions placed over the worn spots on the sofas.
I frowned, not understanding. “There’s really not much to talk about. My mother was informed by Don Vincenzo that she inherited the villa in the count’s will. It took several years to trace her, but that doesn’t mean the villa was up for grabs. Signore Donati has made a mistake.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to get angry, but the mistake is on your mother’s part. She’s obviously been misinformed.”
I thought of Nonna now, of her excitement and her determination to come here, and how thrilled she was to be an heiress; how it had changed her appearance, and how…how gosh-darn happy she was just to be here. This was her village, her family friends, her inheritance, damn it.
“Look.” Ben was serious now, deadly serious. “ I own this place. I bought it last year from the count’s estate, signed, sealed, delivered, and paid for via the attorney, signor Donati. I’ve applied for planning permission, and I’m turning it into a hotel. In fact, work is ready to start.”
I remembered the heavy equipment in the stable yard. So that was what it was for. My nostrils flared like a horse’s at the gate. “I’ll fight you on this,” I said. “You can’t take my mother’s villa away.”
He shook his head. “Go ahead, but you won’t win.”
“You’ll see. I’ll get this villa back!”
He lifted a warning finger, pointed it at me. “Over my dead body.”
I glared back, lifted my own finger, pointed it at him. “Maybe,” I said. And then, not knowing what to do next, I spun on my heel and stalked regally away.
Pity I tripped over the rug; it kind of spoiled the effect. I heard him laughing as I ran fuming and blushing out into the gardens, in search of…of what?
Chapter Twenty-two
Nonna
Nonna was sitting at one of the long wooden trestle tables covered with red, white, and blue paper cloths, in the shade of a massive old chestnut tree whose branches spread almost to the ground. Buntings fluttered in the breeze along with the festive little flags; the familiar aroma of burgers blended with the sugary scent of young red wine being poured straight from the wooden cask, and with the hot sweet aroma of fresh-picked tomatoes tossed with olive oil and basil, slathered on slabs of hard crusty bread. Birds twittered hopefully in the trees, surveying for crumbs, and somebody was playing old tunes on an accordion, while those with sufficient wine in them sang along.
It was, thought Nonna, a perfect mixture of the familiar from home—meaning America—and the familiar from her old home—meaning here in Italy. At least she thought that was what she meant, but maybe the wine had gone to her head just a little.
She stared around the table
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