Isabel didn’t believe it for a moment.
Giulia tilted her head at a charming angle. “I trust Anna took care of everything while I was away.”
Isabel made a noncommital murmer, but Ren was suddenly all hospitality. “Would you like to join us?”
“Are you sure we won’t be a bother?” Vittorio was already steering his wife toward a chair.
“Not at all. Let me get some wine.” Ren set off for the kitchen and quickly returned with more glasses, the wedge of pecorino, and some fresh slices of bruschetta. Before long they were settled around the table laughing at Vittorio’s stories of his experiences as a guide. Giulia added her own tales centering on the wealthy foreigners who rented villas in the area. She was more reserved than her husband but just as entertaining, and Isabel began to set aside her earlier resentment and enjoy the young woman’s company.
She liked the fact that neither of them questioned Ren about Hollywood, and when Isabel was guarded about her own work, they didn’t press. After several trips to the kitchen to check the oven, Ren invited them to stay for dinner, and they accepted.
While he sautéed the porcini, Giulia put out the bread, and Vittorio opened a bottle of sparkling mineral water to accompany the wine. It was getting dark, so Isabel found some chunky candles to set in the middle of the table, then asked Vittorio to climb on a chair and light the candles in the chandelier she’d hung in the trees. Before long, glimmers from the flames were dancing through the magnolia leaves.
Ren hadn’t misrepresented his abilities as a chef. The chicken was perfect, juicy and flavorful, and the roasted vegetables held subtle undertones of rosemary and marjoram. As they ate, the chandelier swayed gently from the tree limb above them, and the flames flickered happily. Crickets sang, the wine flowed, and the stories grew more outrageous. It was all very relaxed, very merry, very Italian. “Pure bliss.” Isabel sighed, as she bit into the last of the meaty porcini.
“Our funghi are the best in the world,” Giulia said. “You must come and hunt the porcini with me, Isabel. I have secret places.”
Isabel wondered if Giulia’s invitation was genuine or another gambit to get her away from the house, but she was too relaxed to care.
Vittorio chucked Giulia under the chin. “Everyone in Tuscany has secret places to find porcini. But it’s true. Giulia’s nonna was one of the most famous fungarola in the area-what you would call a mushroom hunter-and she passed on everything she knew to her granddaughter.”
“We will all go, yes?” Giulia said. “Very early in the morning. It is best after we’ve had a little rain. We will put on our old boots and take our baskets and find the best porcini in all of Tuscany.”
Ren brought out a tall, narrow bottle of golden vinsanto, the local dessert wine, along with the plate of pears and a wedge of cheese. One of the candles in the tree chandelier sputtered out, and an owl made a soft whoo nearby. The meal had passed the two-hour mark, but it was Tuscany, and no one seemed in a rush to finish. Isabel took a sip of vinsanto and sighed again. “The food has been too delicious for words.”
“Ren’s cooking is much better than Vittorio’s,” Giulia teased.
“Better than yours, too,” her husband responded, mischief in his smile.
“But not as good as Vittorio’s mamma’s.”
“Ah, my mamma’s.” Vittorio kissed his fingers.
“It is a miracle, Isabel, that Vittorio is not one of the mammoni.” At Isabel’s puzzled expression, Giulia explained, “These are the… How do we say this in English?”
Ren smiled. “The mama’s boys.”
Vittorio laughed. “All Italian men are mama’s boys.”
“So true,” Giulia replied. “By tradition, Italian men live with their parents until they marry. Their mamas cook for them, do their laundry, run their errands, treat them like little kings. Then the men don’t want to get married because they know younger women like me won’t cater to them like their mammas.”
“Ah, but you do other things.” Vittorio traced her bare shoulder with his finger.
Isabel’s own shoulder tingled, and Ren gave her a slow smile that made her blood rush. She’d seen that smile on the screen, usually just before he led some unsuspecting woman to her death. Still… not the worst way to go.
Giulia leaned against Vittorio. “Fewer Italian men get married all the time. This is why we have such a low birthrate in Italy, one of the lowest in the world.”
“Is that true?” Isabel asked.
Ren nodded. “The Italian population could decrease by half every forty years if the trend doesn’t change.”
“But it’s a Catholic country. Doesn’t that automatically mean lots of children?”
“Most Italians don’t even go to mass,” Vittorio replied. “My American guests are always shocked to learn that only a small percentage of our population truly practices Catholicism.”
The headlights of a car coming down the lane interrupted their conversation. Isabel glanced at her watch. It was after eleven, a little late for visitors. Ren rose. “I’ll see who it is.”
A few minutes later he came into the garden with Tracy Briggs, who gave Isabel a tired wave. “Hey, there.”
“Sit down before you collapse,” Ren growled. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
While Ren went inside, Isabel performed the introductions. Tracy wore another expensive but rumpled maternity dress and the same run-down sandals she’d had on yesterday. Despite that, she looked gorgeous.
“How was the sight-seeing?” Isabel asked.
“Lovely. No kids.”
Ren emerged holding a plate piled with leftovers. He slapped it in front of her, then filled a glass with water. “Eat and go home.”
Vittorio looked shocked.
“We used to be married,” Tracy explained as the last of the candles sputtered out overhead. “Ren has leftover hostility.”
“Take all the time you want,” Isabel said. “Ren is being insensitive as usual.” Not so insensitive, however, that he didn’t make sure Tracy had plenty to eat.
Tracy looked longingly toward the farmhouse. It’s so peaceful down here. So adult.”
“Forget it,” he said. “I’ve already moved in, and there’s no room for you.”
“You haven’t moved in,” Isabel said, even though she knew he had.
“Relax,” Tracy said. “As much as I enjoyed getting away from them, I’ve been missing them like crazy for hours.”
“Don’t let us keep you a minute longer.”
“They’re asleep by now. No reason to hurry back.”
Except to begin making peace with your husband, Isabel thought.
“Tell me where you went today,” Vittorio said.
The conversation moved on to the local sites, with only Giulia remaining silent. Isabel realized she’d been subdued ever since Tracy had appeared, almost resentful. Since Tracy had been friendly, Isabel didn’t understand it.
“I’m tired, Vittorio,” she said abruptly. “We need to go home.”
Isabel and Ren walked them out to their car, and by the time they got there, Giulia had recovered her good cheer enough to invite them to their house for dinner the following week. “And we will go funghi hunting soon, yes?”
Isabel had been enjoying herself so much she’d managed to forget that Giulia and Vittorio were part of the forces trying to get her out of the house. Still, she agreed.
As the couple drove off, Tracy headed for her own car, munching a bread crust on the way. “Time to get back.”
“I’ll take the children for a while tomorrow if you’d like,” Isabel said. “That’ll give you and Harry a chance to talk.”
“You can’t,” Ren said. “We have plans. And Isabel doesn’t believe in sticking her nose into other people’s business, do you, Isabel?”