Second Chances in Chianti (Escape to Tuscany Book 2) by T.A. Williams (online e reader .TXT) 📕

on it. Although worn smooth by the passage of thousands upon thousands of feet over many centuries, there could be no mistake – it was the same coat of arms with the wasps that she had seen on the wall of Conrad Chesterfield’s villa. Unfortunately, the name on the stone was now illegible and the date in Latin numerals equally indecipherable. Could it be that this slab commemorated or even housed the tomb of one of the forebears of the person responsible for building the villa? She took a number of photos and resolved to research it further.

One evening she decided to try the restaurant in the village that Signor Innocenti had mentioned. As he had warned, the exterior didn’t look promising. It was in a side street off the square – barely a three-minute walk from her home – and the building looked extremely old, maybe even medieval. It was pretty clear that nothing much had been done to the façade over the intervening centuries since its construction, and it looked a bit down-at-heel, with lizards living in cracks in the wall and what looked like a remarkably healthy sapling growing out of the roof. However, once inside the door, she realised that her landlord had been dead right. The dining room was clean, bright and unexpectedly smart. Rather like her own little house, the restaurant had a garden at the rear, but this one was considerably larger than her little patch of dry grass and weeds, and it was full of tables where people were having dinner.

She received a cordial welcome from the middle-aged man behind the bar – quite probably Giovanni himself – and a waitress showed her to a small table in the corner of the garden, from where she could sit back and observe the other diners. At this time of the evening the whole area was already in the shade and the temperature outside was perfect. As she sipped a glass of the same excellent sparkling wine that Signor Innocenti had given her, she checked out the occupants of the other tables. As her eyes roamed around, they encountered another pair of eyes trained upon her. These belonged to a young red-haired woman who gave her a quizzical – but not unfriendly – look, followed by a hint of a smile, and then turned her attention to the menu.

Alice was familiar with the scenario, although she had got out of the habit of being recognised – it was just about the first time since arriving in Chianti that she had encountered somebody who presumably thought she had spotted Polly the flirt. At least, she told herself, it was a woman, rather than a man, so she was unlikely to be pestered. The woman was sitting at a large table set for eight people, opposite a man in a pink shirt, who had his back to Alice. Evidently, the rest of the party still had to arrive.

The waitress brought the menu, written on a blackboard that she held up, so that Alice could decide what to have. There was a lot of choice, but she finally ordered mixed bruschetta as a starter and then her favourite, fritto misto, as a main course. This delightful mix of lightly fried prawns, octopus, squid and whitebait was a dish Alice often chose when she was in Italy. Whether it was thanks to the oil in which they were fried, the amazingly light batter coating them or just the excellence of the raw materials, it had been delicious each time and it had become her go-to choice.

She was sitting back, looking forward to a good meal, when the rest of the party on the big table in the middle arrived and her evening suddenly took a most unexpected turn.

Hearing the voices of the new arrivals, she glanced up and did a double-take as her heart sank. Leading the group was none other than Conrad Chesterfield, her erstwhile boss, the man whose offer of employment she had just refused. With his sleek black hair and upright stance, he looked ten years younger than the sixty-year-old she knew him to be. At his shoulder was his stunningly attractive wife, Amber, along with a younger couple and their two little children. They hugged the red-haired woman and her partner, and they all sat down. As they did so, the waitress arrived with Alice’s starter and by the time she had moved away, Conrad Chesterfield’s group were all chatting animatedly – and Alice was relieved to see that he and his wife were sitting with their backs to her. She did her best to make herself inconspicuous, resolving to make this the fastest meal in the history of eating so she could get the hell out of there just as soon as she could.

Her plan failed.

The red-haired woman who had recognised her earlier was leaning towards Conrad Chesterfield, talking into his ear. Seconds later, just as Alice took a big mouthful of Tuscan bread, topped with sumptuous tomatoes and dowsed in olive oil, her former boss swivelled round and looked across at her. Recognition dawned on his face and she gave him a nervous little wave, doing her best to chew and swallow as fast as she could. To her relief, he smiled and rose to his feet.

He came striding across, hand outstretched, and she jumped up to meet him, hastily wiping the olive oil off her lips and fingers. ‘Alice, great to see you again.’

‘Mr Chesterfield, good evening. Paolo told me you were coming over.’ She would dearly have liked to grab her glass of wine and drain it in one, but she resisted the temptation, deciding the best thing to do would be to clear the air as far as Pals was concerned, but he got there first.

‘Call me Conrad, please. We’re on holiday. Sorry you aren’t going to join us for the new show. Quite understand.’ His words were as staccato as ever. ‘You’ve chosen a different career path. Congratulations