The Sunday Times Bestseller
Heidi Swain
A Taste of Home
Home is where the heart is…
Praise for
Heidi Swain
‘Sweet and lovely. I guarantee you will fall in love with Heidi’s wonderful world’ Milly Johnson
‘Wise, warm and wonderful – a real summer treat!’ Heat
‘Sparkling and romantic’ My Weekly
‘The queen of feel-good’ Woman & Home
‘A fabulous feel good read – a ray of reading sunshine!’ Laura Kemp
‘The most delicious slice of festive fiction: a true comfort read and the perfect treat to alleviate all the stress!’ Veronica Henry
‘Sprinkled with Christmas sparkle’ Trisha Ashley
‘A story that captures your heart’ Chrissie Barlow
‘Fans of Carole Matthews will enjoy this heartfelt novel’ Katie Oliver
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To
My warm, wise, wonderful friend
Jenni Keer
I’m blessed to have you in my life
Chapter 1
The sun had long since set over the Italian horizon before the last of the mourners finally headed back to their homes, leaving behind a mountain of food and a silence in the farmhouse kitchen that neither the Rossi family nor I could bear to acknowledge.
No one’s eyes strayed to Mum’s much-loved patterned Moroccan shawl draped over the chair next to the stove, or to her collection of thin gold and silver bangles bundled together in a box on the table amid the crockery and cutlery. Early that morning, I had thought I might wear them to her funeral, but when it came to it, I couldn’t.
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ I had sobbed, pulling them off again when it was time to leave for the church, but I wasn’t talking about wearing her jewellery. ‘I’m not ready.’
I had watched Mum’s last breath leave her body and yet somehow, I still couldn’t believe that she was gone. I didn’t want to believe that she was gone. We might have spent more time apart than together, more hours sparring than hugging, but the thought of never seeing her again, never having another spirited cross word, wrenched my heart in two.
I had tried to make myself believe that she was travelling again, off on one of her adventures, but the image of her final moments was imprinted on the inside of my eyelids and that made the pretence impossible.
‘You will never be ready, darling Fliss,’ Nonna had said, her eyes as swollen from crying as mine as she gently took my hand and guided me out the door into the spring sunshine and then to the waiting car. ‘Not for this.’
Nonna’s diminutive figure had been by my side all day. She had led me through the service, walked me to the graveside, and afterwards found me a seat and another plate of food back in the kitchen which had bulged with Rossi relatives all wanting to pay their respects. She was watching me even now, from the far side of the room. I quickly got up and began covering dishes and rearranging chairs, not wanting to worry her further.
‘Fliss,’ said Alessandro, Nonna’s son, the dear man who considered Mum his sister even though they hadn’t shared a single drop of blood. ‘Leave that.’
‘But it needs doing,’ I replied, my voice every bit as hoarse as his. ‘The food needs to be put away, at least.’
There were no dishes to wash. The many friends and relatives had made sure of that. Practically nothing had been left for the family to do aside from grieve for my mother, the woman who had arrived at their door, a pregnant teenager, all alone in the world, almost three decades ago. Without question they had welcomed her in, given her a home and taken her to their hearts and now they mourned her passing every bit as gravely as if she had been one of their very own.
‘It can wait,’ Alessandro kindly said. ‘I need to give you this.’
‘What is it?’ I asked, turning to face him.
‘Una lettera,’ he said, holding out a white envelope.
‘A letter?’ I swallowed. ‘For me?’
I never got mail at the farm. I had no one to write to me in Puglia. Everyone in the world I loved was right here. Except for Mum. I swallowed hard, pushing the thought of her final destination away.
‘It’s from your mother.’
My eyes flicked from the envelope to Alessandro’s care-worn face and I bit my bottom lip to stop it trembling. I couldn’t have more tears to shed. It surely wasn’t possible for my body to produce another single one.
‘She wrote me a letter?’ I croaked.
‘You know your mamma,’ he shrugged, the tiniest smile on his lips. ‘She always liked to have the last word.’
I slid the envelope into my skirt pocket and minutes later, having grabbed a coat and lantern from the porch and made sure Nonna was looking the other way, I slipped out of the house and made my way down to the cherry orchard. It was chilly, even for April, and I turned up the collar of the coat and walked a little faster.
The letter sat heavy in my pocket, almost as heavy as the weight which had settled on my chest the moment Mum had returned to the farm after cutting her last trip short. Footloose and fancy free, there were few corners of the globe she hadn’t visited and she had planned to be away for months. When she turned up again, just a few weeks later, we knew something was wrong. Just one glimpse at her unusually pale and painfully thin face told us something was seriously amiss. The doctor confirmed our fears and the cancer rampaging through her system had claimed her before any of us had even
