Free Summer in Tuscany by Elizabeth Adler

Arrici.”
    Don Vincenzo was authentic all right, right down to the holy ring on his finger, the old black soutane, and the scuffed black shoes of a rural parish priest.
    Uh-oh, I thought, as we arranged ourselves around the small table and ordered grappa and San Pellegrino water and generally took each other in. This is moment-of-truth time. Now we get to hear about the worthless little field with two olive trees and a couple of clucking old hens.
    Don Vincenzo spoke practically no English, so Nonna had to translate for us.
    “I will get to the matter of importance right away, signore, ” he said, taking a sip of his grappa and beaming at us over his little round glasses. “It happened this way. One winter, many years ago, signora Jericho, your father risked his own life to save the youngest son of the count of Piacere from drowning in the rain-swollen river. That son never forgot his fear of death, nor did he forget his savior. The years passed, and the Piacere family dwindled, until finally this son was the only one left. He never married, he had no heirs, and so, when the time came to meet his maker, he left the Villa Piacere and all its land to the family of the man who had saved him.”
    “La mia famiglia?” Nonna clasped that hand to her heart again, as though to still its astonished beating.
    “ Sil, signora, la Sua famiglia . The Villa Piacere and all its contents now belong to you.”
    “Dio mio,” she said, stunned.
    I suddenly realized this was no hoax; it was for real. I took a gulp of my grappa, choking as it hit my throat like fire. I wondered why anybody drank the stuff, although it was surely strong enough to cure the common cold. But it didn’t help the shock.
    Livvie was staring, bug-eyed, at me. “Does that mean we have to live here?” she whispered, horrified.
    I shook my head. “Of course not, baby. It’s just some old neglected villa nobody wants.” But then I thought, What if Nonna really did want to live here? What would I do?
    “You must meet with the attorney, signor Donati,” Don Vincenzo was telling Nonna. “He has the details of all the little…complications.”
    We stared at him, too stunned to even take in that ominous word… complications.
    “It will be necessary to speak to this attorney in order to make an appointment to inspect your villa,” he continued. “But at the moment, signor Donati is…out of town.”
    The priest twirled his grappa glass between his fingers, avoiding our eyes. “There’s one other little matter,” he added. “The Villa Piacere is rented out for the summer to a tenant who has been coming here for several years. This means you will not be able to take possession for some time, even when all the complications are straightened out.”
    “But,” he added, smiling now, “every year the signore at the villa throws a big Fourth of July party. He invites all the locals, the villagers as well as the grandees. Everyone is invited. The party is this weekend. It will give you an opportunity to visit your property.”
    Nonna ordered more grappa to celebrate, and I slumped back in my uncomfortable little metal café chair, staring at the bocce players and the greenish copper cross on the honey-colored church and the chipped cherubs in the mossy fountain. The villa would have to be sold, that was all there was to it. But how many buyers could there be for a no doubt run-down old Tuscan villa that I’d bet needed an expensive new roof and probably new plumbing, to say nothing of the wiring? I groaned inwardly. I was looking at a bottomless pit.
    And anyway, who was renting the place? And for how much ? I perked up a bit at the thought of income, but then reality returned. Any money coming in would go out just as quickly to maintain the place. The Villa Piacere, I thought gloomily, was a white elephant.
    But Nonna obviously didn’t think so. She was aglow with the news, already chatelaine of a three-hundred-year-old villa. Long Island and the blue house