On Sunday we silently blessed Angela for her generosity in letting us use her villa, breathed a collective “Aaaahhhhh!” and sank into deck chairs on the terrace in the shade of the wisteria.
Boak disappeared into a Dick Francis novel, while I stitched scenes from Sicily into “The Italian Job” (my quilt) and listened to Alice Sebold’s “The Lovely Bones” being read on my iPod.
There we stayed all day, only stopping to fix bread rolls with tomatoes, cheese and prosciutto for lunch, which we ate where we were, accompanied by glasses of chilled white wine.
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