The man glanced at Freddie in the rearview mirror. “It’s good to meet you both. I’m Anton Clark.”

Lillian exhaled heavily. “Well, this is awkward, Mr. Clark. I swear, we weren’t speeding or anything.”

“No need to apologize,” he replied as he turned the car around to head back toward Montepulciano. “You’re not the first to run into trouble on this curve. I’ll call a tow truck for you, but I think your car’s probably beyond repair.”

Freddie spoke with defeat. “Wonderful. We just spent everything we had on that car, Lil. We can’t buy another. How am I going to do my research if I can’t get around Tuscany?”

Mr. Clark interjected. “Where are you living?”

Lillian turned to him as he picked up speed, and the wind blew her hair in all directions. “We just rented an apartment for the summer. It’s near the train station on the other side of Montepulciano.”

Seeming unconcerned about their commitment to the landlord, Mr. Clark waved a hand. “It won’t be a problem. You can stay on the property, at the winery. The shed is usually empty.”

Freddie gave Lillian a quick look. “A shed?”

Mr. Clark looked at Freddie in the rearview mirror again and tried to explain. “It’s not an actual ‘shed’ in the literal sense. We just call it that because it was part of a farm in a previous century, but now it’s expanded and renovated for tourists. We usually keep one suite empty for overbookings or emergencies like this one. You’re welcome to it, if you like. You’ll be able to walk to work, Lillian, and Freddie, we might have a car you can borrow for your own purposes, until you make other arrangements.”

Lillian turned in her seat to look at Freddie, who was wiping blood from his nose. “That sounds wonderful,” she said. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem. I’ll make a phone call and arrange for you to start tomorrow, Lillian, instead of today, if you’re up to it.”

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.” She settled into the leather bucket seat and looked at the dashboard with fascination. She’d never been in a Mercedes before.

“I’m so sorry about all this,” she said as Freddie buckled his seat belt behind her. “I’m sure you had better things to do today.”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Mr. Clark replied as he shifted gears and took them back toward town.

CHAPTER 8

FIONA

Tuscany, 2017

All I wanted to do was find those letters that my mother had allegedly written to Anton Clark, but Maria wanted to take me on a tour of the villa first. It began in the kitchen on the main floor, where Maria introduced me to the cook, Mrs. Dellucci. She was a heavyset woman in a white dress, a black apron, and white leather nurse’s shoes, and she was busy kneading dough on a stainless steel worktable in the middle of the kitchen.

“This is Anton’s daughter from America,” Maria said. “Fiona Bell—the new owner of Maurizio Wines. Basically, Nora, she’s our new boss.”

Mrs. Dellucci stopped her kneading and spoke with disbelief. “He didn’t leave it to the children?”

“She is one of his children,” Maria reminded her. “We just didn’t know about her.”

Mrs. Dellucci turned to me with her arms outstretched. “What a happy day. It’s so good to meet you.” She pulled me into a snug embrace and didn’t let go.

Maria touched Mrs. Dellucci’s arm. “Easy, Nora, you’re going to frighten her off.”

“Spiacente, spiacente,” she replied, smiling as she backed away.

Later, as Maria led me up a wide marble staircase, I asked, “Was I mistaken, or was Mrs. Dellucci relieved to hear that Connor and Sloane didn’t inherit everything?”

Maria continued walking. “You’re not mistaken. Everyone who works here was speculating about what would happen if the children took over. Most of the workers expected them to sell to the highest corporate bidder—who would immediately carpet-bomb all the vineyards with chemical insecticides. But if they had decided to keep it and run it themselves, I’m not sure who would have stayed around to work for them.”

I paused at the top of the stairs. “They weren’t popular, I take it?”

Maria shrugged. “They never kept in touch.” She continued along a red-carpeted corridor and pointed at a closed door. “This is the entrance to the south wing,” she whispered, “which is where Mrs. Wilson and the children are staying. It’s always reserved for them, so we won’t go that way this morning. Not while they’re in there.”

I didn’t argue, but I slowed down to listen as I passed by the door. Connor and Sloane were speaking in hushed, angry tones, about the contents of the will, no doubt. I felt inclined to tiptoe softly down the rest of the corridor.

We came to another closed door at the end, and Maria put her ear to it as she knocked. No one answered, so she knocked again. “C’è qualcuno lì dentro?” Before she opened the door, she turned to me. “This was your father’s room.”

I felt a deep shudder from within. I had never met my real father in person, but I was about to step into his private bedroom, where he had slept every night of his life.

“Just so you know,” Maria whispered respectfully, “this was where he died. He got out of bed in the morning, not feeling well, and collapsed on the floor. Sofia was with him.”

“His girlfriend . . . ,” I said.

“Sì, but now we’ll need to find a polite way to get rid of her, since she wasn’t mentioned in the will.” Seeming unfazed by that notion, Maria knocked again as she opened the door. “Sofia, are you here? It’s Maria and Fiona.”

The room was empty, but Sofia’s clothes were strewn all over the floor and upon the four-poster bed, as if she had just tried on every outfit she owned and tossed all the rejects aside. Perfume bottles and makeup brushes covered every available space on the mirrored vanity in the corner of the room. It smelled of hair spray.

“I gave up trying to pick up after her,” Maria said, stepping over high-heeled shoes and silk scarves on the floor. “She’s a grown woman, not a child.”

“Where do you think she went?” I asked.

“Probably shopping. If we’re lucky, she went shopping for another man to support her.”

I moved to the bed and ran my fingers along the heavy oak footboard. My gaze fell to the mattress beneath a crimson comforter and half a dozen decorative pillows. Had my mother spent time in this room? Was this the place of my conception?

“It’s strange to be in here,” I said.

“No doubt.” Maria couldn’t seem to help herself. She began to pick clothes up off the floor and hang them neatly in the wardrobe.

I moved to one of the bedside tables and opened a drawer. Inside, I found scented lotions, a cell phone charger, a nail file, and a book of matches. I bent to peer deeper into the back of the drawer.

“Looking for something?” Maria asked.

Feeling like a criminal, I shut the drawer. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be snooping.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s your house,” Maria reminded me.