From Italy With Love. Jules Wake

no paperwork, no exchange of ownership, Miles wouldn’t have made the promise idly. A curl of satisfaction unfurled in his belly warming him. He could probably pick up the keys today.

      ‘Well that was the weirdest funeral I’ve ever been to,’ exhaled Robert as soon as they stepped out of the church and into the privacy of the shade of the cedars outside.

      His mouth wrinkled in a line of displeasure. ‘And I can’t believe you did that.’

      She sighed. Neither could she.

      Meatloaf’s song had not been written for the organ – that was for sure. Certainly an interesting interpretation. The guy beside them had thought so too, although if he hadn’t started laughing first, she could have held out a bit longer.

      ‘I don’t think anyone else realised,’ he eyed her sombrely, ‘and they say grief does funny things to people.’ He gave her a swift pat on the shoulder. ‘It’s over now. We won’t stay too long at the wake. I suppose we have to go, though I’m not sure it matters.’ He gave a disapproving look around at the people who were all talking a storm.

      She followed his gaze, the two of them tucked away in the shadows away from the main event. For a moment it was like staring down a tunnel at another world, one she was long divorced from. An echo of a former life. Gaudily clad women danced and flitted here, there and everywhere resembling brilliant butterflies. They all seemed to know each other and had no inhibitions greeting and kissing with grace and ease, several times on either cheek, as if sliding into a dance and knowing all the moves – two kisses, three kisses, even four kisses. Everyone seemed instinctively to know the rules. Knowing her, she’d get it wrong and end up in an awkward embrace with a misplaced kiss right on the smacker.

      She huddled closer to Robert.

      ‘We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to, although it would look a bit odd. You seem to be his only living blood relative … here.’ His mouth turned downwards in blatant disapproval. ‘You’d have thought your mother would have made the effort for her own brother.’

      Laurie hugged his arm to her, grateful for his support and ignored a twinge of irritation. Although she felt relieved her mother hadn’t turned up; Robert had never met her.

      Across the crematorium, she caught sight of her fellow conspirator. The sun glinted down on his dark glossy hair, firing up chestnut highlights but his attractiveness was enhanced by the memory of the laughter lines crinkling around those deep blue eyes as he’d tried to hold back his amusement. He scanned the crowd, but his gaze skipped right past her before he returned his attention to the older couple standing with him, bending his head and listening intently.

      ‘Wow.’ Robert voiced his astonishment as he steered through a pair of imposing gate posts and pulled up in front of the house, the circular driveway already ten deep in cars.

      As Laurie looked up at the house, Merryview, a breath caught in her throat and without warning tears welled up. A shocking pull of homesickness tugged at her. If only Miles had told her he was dying. She wouldn’t have stayed away. For a moment she gazed at the house, taking in the sun glinting in the leaded windows and the lichen-stained roof skimming the windows of the upper floor. It felt as if she’d come home. Her eyes traced the progress of the branches of wisteria, tracking across the east side of the house, framing the lower windows.

      ‘You never said your Uncle was rolling in it.’ The words were loaded with accusation as if the information had been deliberately withheld.

      She shrugged. ‘I suppose.’ She’d spent so much time here when she was younger, it hadn’t occurred to her to talk about the size of the house.

      He glanced at her, his eyes suddenly intent. ‘Do you think there’ll be a reading of the will?’

      Robert’s question surprised her.

      ‘Do they still do that sort of thing? I thought it was just in books and films.’

      ‘Would make sense, if all the family is gathered together at one time.’

      ‘Knowing Miles, he would have told them all already.’

      ‘Them? What about you? You’re a blood relative.’

      Laurie swatted a fly away from her face with an irritable wave. ‘I’ve got no expectation from Miles, I haven’t seen him for …’ Guilt stabbed her. She should have seen him. All the excuses in the world didn’t justify her absence.

      ‘What did he do? Apart from constantly sending those crappy postcards.’

      A good question and Laurie couldn’t help but smile. What didn’t he do? Dilettante, bon viveur, raconteur. He’d played a bit of cricket for England, done some commentary, raced fast cars, and collected expensive wine and classic cars. She had no idea how he’d come by his money but he’d certainly known how to spend it.

      ‘Wheeling and dealing,’ she laughed, repeating Miles’ words. Only now did she get it. He’d meant it quite literally.

      Robert’s mouth wrinkled in displeasure. For a brief disloyal moment, it reminded her of a prune. Unfair; he just liked things to be clear-cut and precise. He didn’t do riddles. Regret pinched at her. He probably wouldn’t have got on terribly well with Uncle Miles.

      ‘He bought and sold classic cars. He would take commissions from wealthy people to go and find a specific classic car. You know … the last Ferrari designed by Enzo.’

      Robert looked even blanker. Of course he did.

      ‘Enzo as in Enzo Ferrari.’

      She’d forgotten she even knew that. Like pinpricks of light through dark cloth, snippets of knowledge lit up her memory. Dots suddenly joined in ever-expanding memories. Facts she’d forgotten she knew. How could she have forgotten how much time she’d spent here in the holidays as a child? During the battleground of her parents’ divorce this had been her second home.

      ‘Oh,’ Robert sounded distant. ‘Do you want to lead the way?

      Stepping over the threshold was like snagging the trip wire of a booby trap, and a thousand more memories exploded in her head. In some ways nothing had changed in the huge airy entrance hall. Dappled sunlight still poured through the bank of leaded windows, just as it had every summer when she’d come to stay. The wicker baskets filled with piles of traditional green Hunter wellies; a size in there for everyone. The solid dark oak staircase looked as formidable as ever, the burgundy patterned carpet snaking down the middle held in place by brass stair-rods. The sight of the stack of Racing Posts, so high an avalanche was surely imminent, brought memories tumbling, stirring a lump in her throat almost choking her.

      For a moment she could hear the sound of hooves thundering down on turf. York Races, just down the road. She’d forgotten that. The memory crystalized in her mind bringing with it the smell of horses, the crowd roaring on their favourite and the magpie chatter of touts shouting their odds. For a moment she faltered, as if caught between two worlds and then became aware of her surroundings.

      An impassive waiter guarded the entrance to the grand hall, balancing a tray of wines, champagne in tall flutes, white in cut crystal and red in glass balloon goblets.

      At least she could guarantee the quality of the wine today. When was the last time she’d tasted decent wine? Taking a glass from the waiter, she motioned to Robert to join her. He was still taking in the hall.

      ‘Are you sure you want that? It’s a big glass. Drinking at lunch time? Is that wise?’

      ‘Probably not but what the hell … it’ll be good. I guarantee it.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Definitely. Miles knew a thing or two about wine. Taste it.’ She took a deep sniff, poking her nose right into the glass and then swirled the wine around.

      Robert pulled a face, making it quite clear he thought she was being pretentious, and took a tentative sip. His brows drew together and begrudgingly he said, ‘Very nice.’

      ‘Chateau