The dark woman smiled too. ‘I’m English.’ She hadn’t removed her sunglasses.

Then Lucia’s voice rang out from behind them. ‘Buongiorno! I’m sorry not to have heard you arrive. Welcome. I’m Lucia Costa.’

Ursula and Zia turned to greet Lucia. Even in beige shorts and a prettily flowered top, small, round Lucia was always uncreased, as if she were still a businessperson. Ursula made introductions and answered Lucia’s friendly questions about their journey – they’d driven from the south of England and been three days on the road, which made it odder still that Zia was dressed in what Piero saw as office clothes. He noted how Ursula spoke for them both and that some of Zia’s composure seemed to have slipped since Lucia’s arrival. Lips slightly parted, she took quick, shallow breaths as Lucia explained Durante would soon arrive to show them to Villino Il Pino. Did she always look as if she were quivering with tension at meeting someone new? She must find life exhausting.

Lucia, in contrast, always had an easy manner. ‘You are Zia?’ she asked her. ‘Is it a common name in England?’

The tension in the dark woman’s expression seemed to intensify. ‘It’s not common but there are a few of us.’ She smiled then. ‘I expect it seems odd as I know it means “aunt” in Italian.’

Whatever Lucia might have replied was lost as Durante strolled from the house – he rarely hurried since retiring. His shorts were crumpled and hugged his paunch. ‘Buongiorno! I am Durante.’ After introductions he added, ‘I show you your accommodation.’

The guests rose as Lucia added, ‘You’ll find a map of the area in your cottage but ask questions any time.’

Piero stood beside Lucia, who only reached his shoulder, and they watched Durante herd them away. The moment they’d disappeared down the steps she turned to him. ‘What happened at the meeting?’

Wearily, he dropped into a terrace chair beside a pot of nodding pink geraniums. ‘More pressure. Alberto Gubbiotti upped the offer, so he’ll no doubt be contacting you with a similar increase. I was asked to vote for it. At least, Papà asked. Emiliano hoped and Graziella demanded.’

Lucia dropped into another chair, resting her head on her hand so the softening flesh pulled to one side. ‘Oh, Piero. How I wish they’d just leave us alone. Or that Salvatore and Emiliano weren’t your family.’

He nodded but added fairly, ‘Or that I didn’t want the vineyard to be sold too.’

Though her mouth quivered as if she might cry, she reached out and took his hand. ‘You, my friend, are in an impossible position.’

Chapter Three