Guests? Maybe she meant her and Hana, but RJ’s heart gave a thump.

Hana had found another kitten and taken off after it. RJ ran after her, down along the cobblestone pool area, the water so impossibly blue she nearly kept running right off the edge.

But Hana ran past the pool area, descending stone steps, then followed a narrow gravel path past the protective cypress trees.

She vanished past the trees.

“Hana!”

RJ took off after her, found herself in another garden, this one lush with bushes of hydrangeas, more climbing roses, and a pond in the center, with a small fountain in the middle and a string hammock between two trees that listed in the slight breeze. Beyond that, a grove of olive trees shivered in the wind, protecting the garden.

Hana had kept running, down the path that led to the vineyards.

Miles and miles of trellised vines, with tiny green grapes, some with streaks of purple trailed down the hillside as far as she could see. Wide paths ran between different sections, with shelters built into the hillside, maybe to house tools. The sky arched overhead, white cirrus fat and plumpy over the far away hillscape.

And to her left, just down the hill, sat the open entrance to the grotto.

Her feet led her there even as she spotted Hana with the kitty, trying to capture it around a row of vines.

She laughed, and RJ turned to the open grotto.

Wine casks lay on their sides, floor to ceiling, along one side of the arched grotto, the ground smooth and packed. A cool breath stole past her even as she stepped into the shadows, the daylight unable to press in too far. She spotted a cable running along the top of the cave, the electrical line, probably.

Indeed, lights hung along the top, fastened with a long pole.

She started back, wrapped her arms around herself and imagined a pallet on the floor, a young girl carrying polenta.

A voice outside—male—made her turn and she walked out, worried for Hana.

An elderly man sat on a wide pushcart, the kitty in his lap, gnarled hands caressing its ears. She could practically hear the kitty purring. He was speaking to Hana in Italian.

She’d put him in his early eighties, maybe. Tanned face, lean frame, he wore baggy work pants, sandals and a cool linen short sleeve shirt, years of work in his sinewed arms.

A layer of white whiskers suggested an early morning, and when he looked up at her, his eyes blue and curious, she felt like she knew him.

Strange.

“Vieni qui.” He patted the space beside him on the cart. Gestured her over.

Okay. She came over and sat next to him. “Ciao.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m RJ.”

“Umberto.” He shook her hand. Then he turned to Hana and held out the kitty. “Bella.”

Hana repeated the name.