‘Then maybe things will be patched up,’ he said experimentally. As he said it, he realised that he wouldn’t even resent such a reconciliation because if ever a woman was short of people to care about her, it was Zia.

She grimaced. ‘I don’t think Zia’s in the mood to dish out second chances. She’s never wishy-washy or codependent about relationships.’

It seemed as if there was a lot more to the story but he didn’t press it. He said his goodbyes and left, feeling comfortable that he could invite Zia to dinner one evening without treading on anyone’s toes.

Chapter Eight

Piero set off for the vineyard on Monday morning wishing he could spend all week in his workshop. He drove downhill to Montelibertà town, cut across its suburbs and took the lane to the vineyard. A mile as the crow flew became four miles by road, but in all the time he’d owned Il Rifugio he’d never felt tempted to make the old track into Tenuta Domenicali functional, though it was used by vineyard machinery further down its length. He loved his isolation and Binotto’s plan to upgrade the track to a road felt an affront.

He parked his car between the office and the winery, inhaling the familiar earthy, herby vineyard smells, stronger when, as today, storm clouds sat on the mountaintops like vast grey-purple cushions. A warm wind tugged his shirt as he crossed to the offices and took the three steps up as one.

His father’s desk in the big office was vacant as he passed through. Emiliano’s voice floated from his own space, already involved in a phone conversation about vendemmia, the harvesting of the grapes, which would take place around early October when the sugar levels would be highest. Piero’s first job when he reached his desk was to phone the order through to the glazier and text Zia the information she needed to pick it up.

She returned: Will bring it over later.

Usually, his glass order was delivered by two sweaty blokes in a Fiat truck. A beautiful woman with expressive eyes beat the hell out of that.

Emails took up the next hour. Monday’s inbox was always gruesome because Friday’s messages had gone unattended. As he worked, he kept an ear open for Salvatore’s rich, rolling voice but instead he got a WhatsApp message from Graziella. See your father and me this morning. He swiped it from his screen as if swatting a wasp, infuriated, especially when seeing his father was exactly what he wanted. Ignoring the message, he sent his own to Salvatore and Emiliano. Possible to meet about ten this morning, please?

Emilio: Sí.

Salvatore: Graziella and I are available.

OK, typed Piero, thinking it was not OK, wondering whether Salvatore had actually written Salvatore’s message or if it was Graziella ‘helping’.