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the unexpected things that give pleasure, in that kitchen.
    I could tell Grant fell in love with the house. Not only its size. ‘It’s massive, Brod. It’s more than big – it’s absolutely lovely. Where does the passage behind us lead?’
    I took him up and back down the vaulted corridor and we ascended the back stairs to the wing, where some of the rooms were renovated. Papa’s B & B plans, schemes, and dreams never came true, but a lot of work and expense had gone into the house. Mama admired some of the improvements. The rooms down this way were smaller than the bedchambers upstairs in the main block of the mansion, but they were pretty.
    ‘It’s because this part of the house was built much later, I think. Successive owners added, took away, renovated … you know.’
    Grant walked on. ‘It’s what’s so lovely about it. I like organic houses where the changes happen through the years, where you can see the pauses and the re-takes. There’s nothing more maddening than a house all built and decorated to one instant plan.’ He opened double doors and peeked into a bedroom whose walls were butter yellow. Even on a dull rainy day it was a bright sunny room. Even with an English ticking mattress rolled up on a metal bed base, curtains hanging to an expedient knot in their ends, and crates of things piled in corners; even with a door standing ajar showing a dated bathroom, it was attractive. I saw it too.
    ‘What’s happening to the house, Brod? It’s not being sold, is it? It would be such a shame.’
    I could see what he was thinking. ‘I could never afford to buy Suzanna, Paola, and Nigel out, Grant – it can’t happen.’
    ‘Would a mortgage …? Would …? No, I guess not, but it would be wonderful if it stayed in the family so we could visit. Can you see us in this yellow room, eh, can you?’ He smiled, charming, his beautiful face twisted into a playful grimace.
    ‘I can. What we should do is talk Paola into buying us out – our share at least. Paola is most likely the only one who can afford it … she’s an author. I told you.’
    ‘I thought Suzanna and Lewis …’
    ‘They’re buying an enormous yacht. Their heart is set on it. It can only be Paola, my sister the author.’
    ‘Not a household name author, though.’
    ‘No – but she’s written something like … what? Thirty mystery novels? Paola Larkin, and her special detective, Emanuele Bondin. It should mean something – she does sell books. How do we get her to buy us out? I’d rather she had it than either of the others. Oh – look, it’ll never happen.’ I walked to the next double doors and opened them to reveal a small bedroom whose walls were a shade of rust. The ceiling cornice was decorative, and there were French windows to a small balcony, drenched with rain. The balustrade out there was not safe. ‘It would take a fortune to fix the place, Grant. Even you can see it.’
    ‘Especially me. I have to stop myself doing sums in my head. Take me away. Take me away! I’m thinking of how we could have this place.’
    ‘We can’t.’
    ‘I know – we can’t.’
    ‘You still want it, though.’
    ‘Of course I do. I’d give my right arm.’
    I wondered how Mama felt when she was still here, what she put in her will, and whether it would present problems for us. Would she have left this crumbling Tuscan mansion to us all, to quarrel over? And what about the cottage in Cornwall?
    Grant read my mind. ‘There’s a house in England too, isn’t there?’
    ‘Yes – but it’s small, with only four bedrooms, only two bathrooms. Nothing like this.’
    He laughed. ‘Only four bedrooms.’ He thought we were all privileged spoilt kids, even though we were all now in our fifties. ‘What’s it like, the one in Cornwall?’
    ‘It overlooks the estuary, in Newquay, a funny place with extra bedrooms built into the roof space. Nigel and I had to share. We all crammed into it at Christmas, and Mama decorated everything with