“I have people who do my homework.”
La-di-da. “Okay, here’s the rundown. Pay attention, it’s all going to come at you very fast.”
“Okay. I’m a quick study.”
He seemed more relaxed now. Much better on two feet and solid ground than he’d been clinging to her on the bike. Not that she’d minded his strong hands on her waist or the pressure of his body against her back. Nope, didn’t mind that at all.
“Okay, the older woman you will meet is Anamaria, who was married to Giorgio Sebastiani, who was the caretaker and vintner since 1966, but he died two years ago. Don’t mention his name, or she’ll cry. And don’t ask her how old she is, or she’ll—”
“Shove a garlic clove down my throat.”
She put a hand on his arm, delighted. “Oh, you have done your homework.”
“My driver mentioned it,” he said.
“Well, he’s absolutely correct. But don’t be scared of her. She’s quite sweet and has been saying rosaries for you since we found out you were coming.”
“Really. Then I guess my altar-boy experience will impress the hell out of her.”
She angled her head at the choice of words. “So to speak. And you can call her Anamaria or Nonna, and her English might surprise you. I’ve been teaching her since we live together.”
He turned to her. “You live here, too?”
“Anamaria and I share the northernmost house.” As they reached a small rise in the path, she pointed. “See those three stone structures on the other side of the main house? Anamaria and I live in the smallest one. The big one in the middle is Filippa, Enzo, and the boys’. Enzo is Lorenzo and Elena’s oldest son.”
“You mentioned them, but…” He gave her a questioning look.
“Lorenzo is Anamaria and Giorgio’s son, and Elena is his wife, and they are the official caretakers of the winery now. Are you confused yet?”
“Borderline.”
“Then hang on, because there are more Sebastianis. Antonio, Lorenzo’s younger brother, is married to Sofia, and they live in the last house.”
He studied the landscape intently, as if memorizing the visual and the names. “Sofia’s pregnant with a girl.”
She stopped and beamed at him, an unexpected warmth filling her. “My, you are a fast study.”
“Keep teaching me,” he said. “We’re almost there. Who lives in the big house?”
“Lorenzo and Elena have the upstairs apartment, with Bruno, their youngest son.”
“Ah, Bruno. Every family has one.”
She hooted softly. “Only if they’re unlucky. What else did Silvio tell you?”
“Not much,” he said, sliding a look at her. “He certainly didn’t mention you.”
Something in the way he made the comment, a little sly, a little bit flirtatious even, made Kyra’s heart stutter. “Lorenzo is a master enologist and the brains behind the operation. Enzo runs the business end and also happens to be a great cook, and Antonio has a degree in enology and has been certified in viticulture.”
“So they aren’t just…country farmers.” He seemed surprised by that.
“They are bright, hardworking, wonderful people who have been the caretakers of Villa Pietro since the 1960s. Wine is their life and family…” She smiled, thinking of the phrase she’d heard a thousand times since she’d arrived. La famiglia è tutto. “Family is everything.”
They turned the last corner before the long set of stone stairs up to the house. The boys were waiting at the top, blocking the entrance to the courtyard. She knew that the entire family would be waiting in the large open patio where they had parties, held tastings, and gathered tour groups.
He paused at the bottom and looked up, taking in the grandeur of the main house, where so much of the winery’s business took place. His gaze drifted over the mountainside, lingering on the rows and rows of vine-covered pergolas plunging halfway down to the sea.
What must it be like to look at this slice of paradise and know that you own it? An ache she didn’t even understand squeezed her chest. Fear for the family, of course. Fear of change. Her lifelong fear of yet another upheaval.
Without thinking, she put her hand on his arm again, adding some pressure, not surprised that his bicep was well developed and hard. “James,” she said softly.
He turned to her.
“Don’t hurt them.”
A flicker of something she didn’t know how to interpret flashed in his eyes. Surprise or disappointment that she would make that request? Or was it a warning she saw? As if he knew he was about to do just that.
* * *
Even with Kyra’s lesson, the names and faces ran together in James’s head, one big blur of dark eyes, big smiles, loud laughs, flying hands, and an onslaught of Italian greetings. Before James had a chance to look around the expansive patio and drink in the jaw-dropping scenery, he had a thick stemless glass of wine shoved into his hand and a mix of questions and comments and broken English coming at him.
Kyra stayed close, translated with ease, and even kept the wild little boys at bay when they got close and stared up at him like he’d dropped down from Mars. But after the initial excitement died off and they’d all had their chance to show off some English phrases, James started to size up the family. There was the de facto leader, fiftysomething Lorenzo with his salt-and-pepper hair and keen brown eyes, and his soft-spoken but sharp-eyed wife, Elena. Two more serious-seeming sons, with lovely wives—one looking like she’d pop any second—the little guys, and the quiet, brooding Bruno.
But it was the tiny white-haired woman they called Nonna who interested James the most. Anamaria Sebastiani couldn’t have been four feet ten inches. She literally stood at the height of James’s chest, and he had to bend over to speak to her.
When he did, she looked up—way up—and he sensed the entire family holding its collective breath as she studied him with an unwavering golden-brown gaze. Her skin was surprisingly smooth, he noticed, her hair still thick and wavy. She wore a clean white apron over her clothes, and something told him she never took it off.
“Hello, Signora Sebastiani,” he said again when she didn’t speak and her scrutiny became a little uncomfortable for everyone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The father. Padre. Father.”
He blinked, completely unsure of what she meant by that. Remembering Kyra’s comment about the rosary, he wondered if the sight of him had her praying. Maybe he should play the altar-boy card now.
Kyra stepped closer and said something in Italian, but the old woman held up a hand as if to quiet her. And everyone. And still, she stared.
“You”—she turned a crooked, veiny finger on him—“look like the father.”
“The…father?”
“Colin. Colin Brannigan.”
Even with her thick accent, he understood that. And felt the whole family share looks of worry and concern. All they got from Anamaria was a wave as if she sensed that same worry and it didn’t bother her a bit.
“Che occhi.” Using two fingers, she pointed to her eyes, and again, he was confused. Did she mean she could see the resemblance or that James shared his father’s eye color?
“Do you remember him well?” he asked.
“Sì, sì. I remember him. And her,” she said, obviously understanding more English than she spoke. “He was a…a…” She dug for a word, then turned to Kyra and rattled off a long string of Italian. Kyra’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and she nodded.
“Say!” Anamaria ordered, pointing that busy, gnarled hand to James. “Tell!”
Kyra turned and gave a slightly apologetic smile. “She said your father was very handsome. And you are, too.”
“Oh.” He grinned, mostly at the color rising in Kyra’s pretty cheeks. “Thanks.”
Anamaria added something, insistent, poking Kyra’s shoulder and making everyone else laugh.
“Something tells me you’re not giving a full translation,” James said to Kyra.
br />
“She says she’s sorry for your loss. We all are.”
James might not understand Italian, but he knew she was not telling the whole truth, because they wouldn’t laugh at that. “Thank you,” he said, then narrowed his eyes. “Now tell me what she really said.”
“That you are very sexy.”
He laughed and leaned closer to the old woman, who looked at him with an expression somewhere between salacious and smug. “You’re too kind,” he said.
“And your smile is from the mother.” The old woman pressed her hands together and lit from the inside. “Kathy.”
For a moment, James was speechless. Maybe it was because he didn’t remember his mother being called anything but Kathleen. Or maybe because he’d been expecting this family to know only his father, who had been, in essence, their boss. But of course, Mom and Dad had come here together once, before Dad had purchased the winery, about six or eight months before Mom died. So, if this old woman remembered Dad, she remembered his mother, too.
With the exception of his Aunt Claire, few people in James’s life talked about his mother. Coming face-to-face with someone who’d met her and remembered her took him aback, for some reason.
“Kathleen,” he corrected automatically. She’d hated the nickname Kathy.
But Anamaria shook her head. “Kathy,” she insisted. “That is what I call her. She was lovely woman and…and…” She turned to Kyra and gestured. “Like my Cara. How do you say?” She ran her finger in front of her face, as if drawing a smile. “Happy. Always, always happy.”
Yes, she was. Mom had exuded joy like no one he’d ever met. He glanced to the woman next to him, whose blue eyes took in every nuance of the exchange. No one he’d ever met until now. “I remember her that way, too,” he said.
“But no girl,” Anamaria added, sounding a little disgusted. “Just boy babies. Seven.”
He nodded. “No girls, but I’m sure they hoped every time.”
Anamaria stepped closer, lifting up on her tiptoes. “She tried here. Every night, they try.”
“Mamma!”
“Nonna!”
Unaffected by the chastising from her family, the little woman raised her narrow shoulders, turned down her mouth, and nodded. “Happy, though. So she must like trying for the baby girl. Always the laughing. Like my Kyra,” she repeated.
“I can see that. She was like you,” he said to Kyra. “Very…enthusiastic.”
Was that why bubbly blondes never did it for him? He didn’t get a chance to wallow in that self-analysis or the news that Mom and Dad had ever considered an eighth child, because Lorenzo stepped forward and Elena gently eased Anamaria away.
Kyra and Lorenzo flanked James, and with the rest of the family falling behind in a way that almost seemed choreographed or practiced, they walked him across the courtyard, announcing that it was time for the tour.
Yes, they’d definitely worked hard to impress him. And once again, James was pinged with some guilt over what he’d really come to Italy to do.
Chapter Five
He was an exemplary guest, Kyra thought as they reached the cellars after a long, slow tour through the rustic main house. Except for the fact that he never took one sip of the Pietro Rosso Riserva, one of their best wines, he asked questions and showed interest in every aspect of the winery’s business. Like so many guests and tourists, he was fascinated by the “vertical” winery and the many varieties of grapes that grew on the acres of decades-old trellises along the mountainside.
Amalfi wine was like no other, and Kyra spoke with pride as she explained how the vines grew into the soil under the rock—where the name “Pietro” came from—and how that rock gave the grapes a unique and earthy flavor.
He spent a long time in the cellars, listening intently as Antonio explained the winemaking process and detailed, with Kyra’s help, the blend of old-school technique and modern technology that they’d brought into the business.
The group broke up after that, off to prepare the tasting room, while Kyra and James took another walk through the highest level of the vineyard so he could have a chance to taste the casavecchia grapes that Antonio had talked so much about.
“You seem surprised at the level of up-to-date equipment we use,” she commented as they ducked under some low-hanging branches.
“I really don’t know a lot about the process of making wine,” he said. “And this place looks so authentic and old, it’s surprising to see a state-of-the-art destemmer and crush pad in action when I half expect to see the family stomping on the grapes in their bare feet.”
“We do some of that for the tourists at harvest time,” she assured him. “But don’t you know what machinery is purchased? Lorenzo doesn’t make any major financial moves without consulting the owner.”
“The owner’s business manager,” he corrected. “And remember, I’ve only had this winery in my portfolio for eight months. I assume my father knew about the improvements and technology, but I honestly haven’t had time to look into it.”
“And that’s why you’re here?” she asked.
He turned to her, his expression solemn as he didn’t answer right away. “Partially,” he said.
“To learn about our business.” She made it a statement, because that’s what she wanted to be true. “Right?” she added when he didn’t answer.
“I’m here to…see everything,” he said.
She let out a breath, relieved. Not here to sell everything. “Well, I’m glad you’re here,” she said brightly. “I think the owner of the business should show up periodically, and it’s always bothered Anamaria that your father never came back after all those years.”
He nodded. “It sounded like he and my mother had quite the, uh, romantic getaway here.”
“Anamaria is nothing if not blunt and honest, in any language.”
“Wait until I tell Finn he might not have been last in our long line of boys.”
“Finn is number seven, I take it?” she asked, relieved to have the conversation momentarily off the fate of the winery. “What are their names, these six brothers of yours?”
“In order? I’m the oldest. And then there’s Gabe, who, I guess, I’m closest to.”
“You guess?”
“We’re not a particularly close family.”
“What a shame,” she said. “I would think seven brothers would be so much fun.”
He considered that for a second. More than a second. “We were, once,” he said almost under his breath. “But now…” He shrugged. “Anyway, Gabe is the most like me.”
“How so?” she asked.
“He has his head on straight and knows a good business deal when he sees it. He has a twin, Hunter, who’s pretty much the opposite and lives to be a pain in the rear. Succeeds at that, most of the time, too.”
She smiled, thinking of Bruno. “Who else?”
“After Gabe and Hunter, there’s Max, a Navy SEAL badass. Then Luke, who never met an adventure he couldn’t turn into a documentary. Knox, our resident party boy, is second to the end, and last is Finn.” He grinned. “The baby who flies fighter jets, or did. So I guess I should stop thinking of him as a baby.”
All those Brannigans. And all so impressive. What would it be like to be raised in a home like that? That was something Kyra, who moved from one sterile, lonely, isolated high-end apartment to the next with nothing but the revolving door of nannies to keep her company, would never know.
“It sounds wonderful, that big family. I’m jealous.”
He gave a soft snort. “Don’t be. It wasn’t easy to corral that crew growing up, and the hard stuff fell to me.”
“Because you’re the oldest?” she asked.
“And because my mother died when I was twelve, less than a year after she and my dad came here.”
Kyra tried to imagine the impact of that loss on a twelve-year-old boy with six siblings and failed.
“I’m sorry for your whole family.” And then she bit her lip, a thoug
ht occurring to her. “Do you think that’s why your father never came back to Positano?”
He reached out to touch a grape hanging in a thick bunch from the pergola above them. “I don’t know the history. I don’t know why he bought it or…” He looked directly at her. “Why he gave it to me.”
“Probably because he loved you.”
He gave a wry smile. “My dad always had a strange way of showing that.”
She gestured behind her, toward the house. “What did he say about it when he was alive? Did he reminisce about being here with your mom? Did they have pictures in an album? Did he ever hint he might leave it to you someday?”
“No one knew he owned it until he died.” He plucked a grape. “Can I eat this?”
Her jaw dropped. No one knew? Why not? Who would hide this place? “Well…that explains why he never came here,” she said on a sigh, reaching up for the grape. “Falanghina.” She took one for herself. “It’s one of my favorites.”
He popped the fruit in his mouth, and she did, too, his eyes widening at the sweetness.
“But you’re here now,” she said after swallowing. “And that’s all that matters. A Brannigan owner has arrived and now…”
He studied her for a moment, silent and expectant, as if he waited to see what she thought he would do. But he certainly didn’t finish the sentence for her.
“And now it’s time to taste the bianco wine this grape makes,” she finished.
“I don’t drink wine.”
Oh Lord. Another jaw-dropper of an announcement.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” he said, smiling at her reaction.
“Insane, more like. You have to taste the wine.” Her voice rose in a little bit of panic. “You can’t appreciate Villa Pietro if you don’t taste the wine.”
“I don’t drink,” he said simply.
She blinked at him, wondering why, but knowing it would be rude to ask.
“I don’t do anything that makes me lose control.”
“So you don’t…do roller coasters or fast cars or downhill skiing?”
“None of the above.”