Zia, understanding that it was natural for Piero’s sister-in-law to be curious about Piero’s date, said easily, ‘No. I haven’t felt the urge and I don’t even have a job to support myself at the moment.’

Jemma began to ask her about that and then broke off as a thickset man with a beige hat and a big moustache let himself into the garden. A woman in her fifties with a mass of curls and a sour expression clutched his hand possessively. ‘Salvatore!’ Jemma exclaimed, leaping up to kiss the elderly man’s cheeks.

Salvatore beamed at her and then at the children, who clambered from the pool to greet their grandfather, ‘Nonno, Nonno!’ and edify him with demonstrations of how they could bomb his sons, who remained in the water and shouted greetings.

Zia was introduced to Salvatore and the fabled Graziella, watching with frank curiosity as the unsmiling woman accepted a glass of wine and then sat herself apart from everybody else.

Salvatore, on the other hand, accepted an ice-cold beer then regarded Zia from under thick grey brows. ‘Piero mentioned you. You’re staying with Lucia and Durante? You’re from England? You look Italian.’ Like his sons, his Italian accent was mixed with American. Yur frum Inglan?

Zia thought it best that as few people as possible knew her reason for being in Montelibertà so answered, ‘Gran always said my father was Italian,’ then went on to tell him how beautiful she’d found Tenuta Domenicali.

He shot Piero a quizzical look, making Zia think her visit was news to him, but he just observed, ‘You know Zia means “aunt” in Italian, right? But I guess Brits are like Americans and will call their kids any damn thing they like the sound of.’

‘Exactly,’ Zia agreed, liking his rolling, if rusty baritone and the occasional smiles that lifted his moustache at the corners, as if his mouth was doing a curtsey.

After they’d chatted for several minutes, Piero joined them, his swim shorts plastered to him and water glistening on his body. ‘Hey, Papà, you moving in on my date?’

‘You wouldn’t stand a chance if I did,’ Salvatore retorted, brushing droplets of water from his arm as they dripped from Piero’s hair.

Though it was the jokiest of remarks, Zia noticed Graziella’s mouth tightening. Seriously? She thought Zia might be making a play for a man about forty years her senior?

Salvatore and Graziella didn’t stay for the meal. In fact, Zia formed the opinion that the done-up, made-up Graziella would have avoided sitting down even long enough for a single glass of wine if she could have. Jemma had been welcoming but Graziella soon bore Salvatore off as, apparently, they were expected at the house of friends. Her friends.

It was the only slightly sour note in an otherwise glorious day.