“Thank you, Marco. I appreciate that.”

He turned the car around, and we drove back down the hillside.

CHAPTER 9

LILLIAN

Tuscany, 1986

“The shed” was one of three stone buildings that each contained luxurious guest suites. Lillian and Freddie would occupy suite number two—a two-bedroom, two-level apartment with a kitchenette, two luxury bathrooms, and a sitting room. There was a small car park outside beneath an overhang, an olive orchard on a terrace below, and, from the kitchen window at the back, a magnificent view of the hilltop town of Montepulciano, high in the clouds. The suite also came with weekly maid service.

After the accident, Mr. Clark had dropped Lillian and Freddie off at the hospital, then handed Lillian a business card with a phone number for the winery’s shuttle service, which would pick them up whenever they were ready to leave the hospital.

Now, at last, after a long, exhausting day, they were finally settled into bed for the night.

Lillian lay on her back, gazing up at the ceiling fan. “I feel like we were given a second chance today, and we can’t take it for granted.”

“How do you mean?” Freddie asked.

She wondered how he could not recognize the magnitude of what they’d just experienced.

“I mean”—she propped herself up on an elbow—“we could have been killed this morning. Do you know how lucky we were that those trees were there? If not for them, we would have gone straight over the edge and down five hundred feet.”

Freddie rolled onto his side, facing the other direction. “But it didn’t happen. We’re fine and it all worked out, so you shouldn’t worry about it.”

Did he think she was complaining?

“I’m not worrying,” she replied defensively. “I’m thankful.”

“Me too. But can we put it behind us? I really don’t want to think about it, Lil. Would you mind turning off the light?”

She stared at him for a moment, frustrated and dissatisfied, then said, “Sure.”

Lillian rolled over to tug the little chain on the lamp. As soon as darkness descended, she lay with her back to Freddie, listening to the sound of crickets chirping in the grass outside the open window. The fresh scent of the country air filled her with a strange, unfamiliar euphoria as she gazed out at the full moon.

She didn’t want to think about the accident either. It had been a terrifying, harrowing experience. But she did want to think about how lucky they were to be alive. What a wonder it was—that she was lying in a cozy bed with no broken bones, no skin lacerations or internal bleeding. Freddie’s nose wasn’t broken. He was just a little banged up. Lillian was comfortable and warm, gazing up at a dazzling moon and a bright, starry sky.

A fresh breeze billowed the white, gauzy drapes, and she let out a sigh, for the world was more beautiful to her than she had ever known it to be. Whether it was some sort of spiritual awakening brought on by the accident or simply the beauty of this place, she didn’t know. Either way, she was inexplicably overcome by the night’s magic.

Lillian began her first day of training the morning after she and Freddie moved into the shed. From there, it was an easy walk up a gravel lane through the forest to the main winery facilities, where the gift shop served as a reception area for tour guests.

The senior tour guide was a handsome young Tuscan by the name of Matteo. He was happy to have an American take over the English-language tours, which never went well for him due to his thick Italian accent and his tendency to speak too quickly.

After a week, Lillian felt only somewhat confident in her basic knowledge of the wine-making process, but Matteo assured her it would be adequate for the majority of tourists, who knew very little about it.

“What happens if I get a professional winemaker from Napa who knows more than I do?” she asked.

“All you can do is your best,” Matteo replied. “If you can’t answer a question, be honest and refer that person to me. But if he’s in the business, Mr. Clark will probably want to meet him anyway, so just pass him up the chain, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Got it.”

When Lillian finally began conducting daily tours on her own, Freddie established a habit of driving to Florence and Siena to visit churches and art museums, then write in different coffee shops. At night he sat at the desk in the upstairs bedroom, clicking away on his portable electric typewriter, working on revisions, until well past midnight. It was wonderful that he was so focused and inspired, and Lillian knew enough not to disturb him when the creative juices were flowing. She brought him meals on a tray, and she kept the volume low on the television.

She didn’t mind doing those things. She was pleased and proud of Freddie and wanted to support him, because all she’d ever wanted over the past few years was for him to finish his book so that they could start living a normal life. Now, at last, he was getting somewhere.

He slipped into bed one night and shook her awake. She had been up early that morning and realized she had fallen asleep with the lights on.

“Lillian,” he whispered, leaning over her. “You were right. Coming here was the best thing ever. It was exactly what I needed. The plot’s really coming together. There’s just something about this place. Don’t you think?”

She rubbed her eyes and fought her way out of sleep. “Yes. Definitely. I’m glad it’s working for you.”

“It is. Love you.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then rolled to his side, facing away from her. “Could you shut off the light? I want to get an early start tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Lillian tugged the little chain on the lamp, and the room went dark.

After two weeks on the job at Maurizio Wines, Lillian had not seen or encountered the owner, Anton Clark, since the day he’d rescued her and Freddie from the wrecked car. Then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, he appeared in the vineyard and joined a tour group just as she was beginning her talk.

The sight of him caused her belly to burst into nervous flames because she wasn’t completely confident in her position yet. There was still so much she didn’t know about wine making. She wondered if she should introduce him to the group. She was about to do just that when he raised a finger to his lips and shook his head, as if to say, Shh.

“This particular vineyard,” Lillian said without missing a beat, “is thirty years old. The grapes are Sangiovese, which are used in many of the winery’s most popular blends.”

She continued her memorized speech about the time it took to grow and harvest the grapes, then answered questions and led the group out of the vineyard and up the steep gravel lane toward the chapel and cellars.

“If you’ll follow me this way,” she said, “we’ll step inside the ancient Maurizio wine cellars, which have been used for the aging of red and white wine in oak barrels since the medieval period, when the family acquired the estate.”

There was a murmur of anticipation from the group. As she continued along, a young man wearing a red leather jacket, with too much gel in his spiky hair, pushed his way to the front to ask a question. “How much wine do you sell in the US?”

“That’s an excellent question,” Lillian replied. “In total, the winery produces about five hundred thousand bottles each year, and most are sold in Europe and the UK. Only about ten thousand are shipped to America.”