Beside the kettle, I found a tin of loose leaf tea that still smelled fresh, and a china teapot decorated with delicate pink roses. Setting the kettle to boil, I rinsed out the teapot at the enormous sink, noting the deep crack in the side of the marble, then brewed a strong pot of tea. The comforting, familiar smell in this alien place calmed me. Though I’d been fully prepared to drink the tea black, I discovered fresh milk in the fridge. Someone had anticipated my arrival. Luca?
I poured out two steaming cups, then sat across from Luca at the big wooden kitchen table. ‘Okay. I’m ready to hear it. What haven’t you told me?’
He looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Under English law anyone making a will has the “testamentary freedom” to choose whoever they would like to inherit their estate.’
I nodded. That was easy enough to follow.
‘However, here in Italy we have the rule of legittima, of forced heirship. This means that in Italy, the person making the will cannot freely determine who gets what. Italian law is set up to protect the inheritance of family members who might have been … overlooked.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Here in Italy we cannot threaten to disinherit a family member who has displeased us, since everyone knows the law will decide who inherits and who will not, to ensure that all heirs receive a fair share.’
I sipped my tea. Could he just get to the point, already? I didn’t see how any of this was relevant, since I was John’s only child.
Luca’s expression turned serious. ‘You see, under Italian law it is obligatory for certain immediate family members to inherit a proportion of the estate, regardless of what it says in the will.’
It finally occurred to me where this conversation was headed. ‘You’re saying there’s another heir? Someone else with a claim who might want to contest the will?’
He nodded, relieved I’d got there ahead of him. ‘You are that someone.’
It took a moment for his words to sink in. And an even longer moment for me to shut my mouth again.
Slowly, I drained the last of the tea from my cup and poured another, careful to keep my hand from shaking. Only when I’d added milk and stirred, did I risk looking back at Luca, my emotions once again under firm control.
‘You are telling me that my father did not leave me any part of his estate. He left it to someone else. And it is only because of this law of legittima that I have any claim at all?’
‘Si.’
‘Who did he leave it to?’ My voice sounded astonishingly steady, considering my entire world had suddenly shifted beneath my feet.
Sure, we were never close, but whose fault was it that my father and I were as good as strangers? I was the only child he’d ever had, and this was how little he’d cared for me?
‘He left it to Tommaso.’
That name again.
At my blank expression, Luca added: ‘John’s business partner.’
I didn’t even know my father had a business partner. The last time we’d spoken, at Christmas on one of our semi-annual phone calls, we hadn’t talked about anything consequential. I’d asked after the vineyard, and John told me one of his wines had won some award. He’d asked about my work, and I told him everything was fine, as I always did.
I cleared my throat. ‘So what are my chances of inheriting anything?’
‘The chances are good that you will receive at least half the value of the property. The courts are very fair that way, but Italian court cases can drag on for years, so we should try to settle. Tommaso is a reasonable man and we will talk to him. If we can persuade him to buy you out of your share straight away, then everything can be resolved amicably. Alternatively, the property could be sold, and you and Tommaso can split the profits equally between you once the debts are paid.’
Of course there were debts. There always were. And no one knew better than I how to finance them, re-structure them, and turn them to good use. ‘How much debt?’
‘Several loans, and your father re-mortgaged a few years ago to finance new equipment for the farm. The balance still owing stands at nearly three million euros.’
My breath whistled out. According to my research, properties this size sold for anywhere between three and five million. But they had fully renovated villas. So not only would I have to share the proceeds of John’s estate, I’d be lucky if there were any proceeds.
I sipped my tea. It tasted bitter. Or maybe that was just the bad taste in my mouth. For so many years I’d resented this land because it was the only thing John ever loved. That it had so little value only made it worse. I’d been worth less to him than a crumbling building with grand pretensions and a heavily mortgaged farm.
‘I guess I need to call the taxi back then. If this property doesn’t belong to me, I can hardly stay here.’
‘Tommaso is happy for you to treat the castello as your own until this is settled.’
How magnanimous. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘You sound like your father. Always so practical.’
What else could I be under the circumstances but practical?
Luca pushed away his cup of only partially-drunk tea. ‘We will need to complete the paperwork to prove who you are, and to confirm that you will contest the will. But since it is now nearly five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, there is not much more we can do today. Tomorrow morning at ten, you and Tommaso will meet at my office, and we will discuss how to proceed.’
I walked Luca to the front door, where he handed me the massive set of keys. I took them, feeling like a fraud. This wasn’t my house. My father had chosen to leave everything to someone else, someone he valued more highly than his own daughter.
Luca had to help shut the front door, him pulling and me pushing. It was not the most dignified of farewells, and with the door shut between us I couldn’t even say a proper goodbye. Instead, as his little sports car revved to life and roared off down the drive, I sank back against the big warped wooden door, energy spent.
Perhaps I was more tired than I realised. I was glad I’d only have to face my father’s mysterious business partner tomorrow, because right now all I wanted was to curl up in a ball, with a duvet pulled over my head, and hide from the world.
Chi cerca, trova, e talor quel che non vorrebbe
(He who seeks, finds, and sometimes finds what he would rather not)
I wrestled my cases upstairs. The stairs, made of stone, seemed solid enough, but the wrought iron hand railing wobbled at my touch. The house needed a lot of work. Maybe this Tommaso guy would be just as happy as I to be shot of the place?
I couldn’t remember how many bedrooms the house had. Lots, it had seemed to my kid self. But considering how impressed I’d been by a few decorative crenellations, maybe not as many as I’d thought. I started with my father’s room, peeking inside, then shutting the door quickly. I wasn’t yet ready to face the tumbled emotions evoked by his personal space.
Instead, I chose the guest room at the opposite end of the long corridor, the same one I’d used as a child. Both the shutters and the curtains were closed. I set my smallest bag down on the bench at the foot of the wooden four-poster