It was the first Saturday in August and the landscape shimmered in a heat haze, the grass so dry it looked like spun gold. It was too hot to sleep easily and last night Piero had grumbled when Zia had rolled away from him to seek a cool spot on the sheets, his small air conditioning unit defeated by the stifling air.

The day promised to be hectic as new guests were due for all three cottages; the young couple departing Villino La Quercia had requested late checkout and incoming guests for Villino Il Pino an early one. Zia and Fiorella were working with the front and back doors of Villino Il Pino open but Fiorella’s grey hair was dark with sweat. Zia had given her the bathroom to clean because splashing water about was cooler than changing sheets but the older woman was moving slowly. ‘Fa troppo caldo,’ she complained. The heat is too much.

Zia paused in the bathroom doorway. ‘Would you like to go home? Villino Il Pino’s almost done.’ She’d step on it despite the oven-like temperatures and get Tasso and then Quercia done alone rather than threaten Fiorella’s health. Or … Gerardo was harvesting the last of the apricots from a tree on the other side of the house before the wasps spoiled them all. Might he turn his hand to cleaning bathrooms to give his elderly mother a rest? Zia had passed only a few words with him today. She was working up the courage to approach him but, though her imagination had conjured up various scenarios, she hadn’t come up with the right way of saying, ‘I’m your daughter. I think you might have guessed. Will you admit paternity to make my paperwork a little easier? We don’t need to tell anyone.’

Fiorella straightened up with a groan but didn’t meet Zia’s eye. ‘Sto bene.’ I’m fine.

Alarm rippled through Zia. She knew Fiorella relied on her cleaning money to augment whatever pension she had but it was tricky to convey ‘I’ll make sure you still get paid’ in a way sufficiently diplomatic to render it acceptable. Instead, when they’d washed the surfaces and swept the floors of Villino Il Pino, she wiped her forehead emphatically. ‘Phew. I need a cold drink. Let’s take ten minutes in the shade.’

Relief flashed in Fiorella’s eyes and she followed Zia to the terrace, plumping down into a chair in a way that told Zia she’d made the right call. She fetched cold water and took the next seat. Automatically, the two of them turned to survey the view. The vineyard was quiet and still, the mountains hazy. Nothing seemed to stir in the oppressive heat apart from slowly buzzing bees drawn to white geraniums and blue plumbago.

Then a man’s voice tore the air in a volley of irascible Italian.