Stunned by meeting the Lucia Costa she might owe part of her cumbersome name to, Zia sat silently as Ursula drove down the slight slope past Bella Vista’s olive grove, bearing right and then halting at Durante’s direction. He beamed, looking like an ageing cherub with his big tummy, wide smile, turned-out sandals and a ruff of pale grey hair above his ears. When they’d climbed back out of the car, he opened the close-boarded door of the nearest of three cottages. ‘Here is your little house for two weeks.’ Quickly, he showed them the cooking and showering facilities. ‘In the past, workers from the vineyard live here and bring their water from the well.’ He had little trouble communicating in English but he stuck with the present tense and uncomplicated sentences whereas Lucia spoke more fluently, with only the occasional awkward phrase.

‘I’m glad we don’t have to do that,’ Ursula joked. The booking had been made in her name and they’d agreed in advance that she’d do most of the early talking. Sooner or later, Zia knew, the hosts would need to take a copy of their passports but the longer she could put that off, the longer she could lurk in the background and assess Lucia Costa. Was she the Italian lady Gran had said had been kind to Zia’s mother? Would she know something about Zia and the conundrum of the two Victoria Chalmers?

Durante chuckled. ‘The well is closed.’ He placed one hand on top of the other to demonstrate then picked up a fold of paper from a low table. ‘Here is your map and you see Lucia marks to you the supermarket. Other things also. Church. Shops. Piazzas.’ He tapped a fresh point on the map. ‘Here is Bella Vista. You see a line of cypress trees on the boundary? Please, you do not go through because it is Piero’s land.’ He folded the map again. ‘The patios in front and behind the cottage are for you. There are sun loungers. Lucia gives you a small welcome—’ Durante indicated a bottle of red wine and an uncut loaf of bread in the kitchen then opened the fridge to display oil, cheese and a pack of parma ham. He treated them to another beaming smile. ‘You like me to carry in your luggage? No? Please, we ask all guests, when the car is empty, park behind the gazebo.’ Via the open door he pointed out a wooden structure of such elegance and size that Zia might have called it a pavilion. Villino Il Pino was too small and set-back for them to see much but the mountain tops but the gazebo, set on the lip of the plateau, must offer awe-inspiring views of the valley. Durante said goodbye and pulled the door behind him as he left.