“The vineyard where you start the tour,” Mr. Clark said, “was planted by the Maurizio family. It produces quality Sangiovese grapes. No question. But this one is all mine. It’s new, and it’s a merlot.”

Lillian considered this with confusion. “Merlot . . . isn’t that a French wine?”

“Yes. And I have cabernet sauvignon planted on the southwest-facing field over there.” He pointed. “But what does it matter if it tastes like nothing you’ve ever experienced? And this was the perfect spot for it, with good soil, plenty of minerals, and cool breezes in the afternoons. It was a risk, I admit, but I wanted to try something new.”

He knelt and scooped up a handful of dirt, rubbed it into his open palm, then sniffed it. He stood up again and held it out to Lillian. She sniffed it as well.

“There’s a lot of clay here,” he said, “which is why the family ignored this plot. But we’ll see what we can do. It’ll be an interesting harvest this year. The workers are placing bets about it.”

Lillian chuckled. “Can I get in on that?”

He smiled in return. “If you like.”

The sun touched the horizon in the distance. An evening mist was beginning to roll into the valley.

“You keep referring to the Maurizio family,” Lillian said, “and every day I show their private collection to the tourists, but you’re obviously British. I know that you own this winery, so if you don’t mind my asking, what is your relationship to the Maurizios?”

She and Mr. Clark started back toward the rose garden. “Nothing, really,” he said, “except that I purchased the winery from the last living relative five years ago, after the owner passed away. Sadly, he outlived all his children, so there was no one to take over, except for the employees who had been managing the operation for years. They were happy to have a new buyer on the scene, to keep the business running.”

“You’re not tempted to change the name to Clark Wines?” she asked. “Or to put your own stamp on it somehow?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing with that new vineyard I just showed you. So I will put my own stamp on it, but I won’t change the name. This winery is an important part of Italy’s history.”

They returned to the main parking lot and continued walking up the hill toward the chapel.

“What about your family?” she asked. “Do you have children to help you run things?”

“I do have children,” he replied, “but they’re too young to help out. They’re only two and four years old.”

“Oh. That’s wonderful. They must love living here.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. They’re in California with my wife. She’s American, and she prefers LA over Tuscany. I can’t seem to convince her to stay here more than a few weeks at a time.”

Lillian considered this and watched his expression as they walked slowly up the hill. “But you prefer it here? Even though you’re from the UK?”

He gazed up at the sky. “That’s another story altogether, and it requires wine. We should go and get a couple of bottles out of the cellar. I want you to taste something outside of the current inventory. I want you to have a better understanding.”

“A better understanding of what?” she asked, wondering if he was going to share more about what had brought him to Italy.

“Wine,” he replied, as if she had missed something.

She followed him through the pinkish glow of the setting sun toward the wine cellars across from the chapel. Together, they descended the circular staircase to the cavernous gloom belowground. Mr. Clark switched on the lights. The air smelled of oak and wine.

“What do you think?” he asked. “We could try something from a decade ago or go back even further, maybe to the 1950s. It’s risky, though. About twenty-five percent of those old bottles are no good. We’ll be taking our chances.”

He inspected a few different sections of the wine library and selected two bottles. Then he moved deeper into another area and stopped outside a medieval-looking arched door.

“The tour groups don’t come in here,” he told Lillian with a sly grin as he dug into his pocket for his key ring. He unlocked the door, which creaked on ancient hinges as he opened it. Then he led her into a small room and switched on a light. A few hundred dust-covered bottles were stacked up against each wall, resting on wooden slabs.

“I didn’t know this little cellar existed,” Lillian said.

Mr. Clark gave her a moment to look around, then spoke in a quieter voice. “When you’re leading the tour out there and you talk about the family’s private collection, that’s just for show. This is the real private collection.”

Small wooden plaques hung on the walls above each stack. The plaques indicated a name and a year.

“These were gifts for the Maurizio children,” Mr. Clark explained. “Whenever a child was born, one hundred bottles were set aside from that year’s harvest. The intention was for them to begin aging so that the child could enjoy the wine later in life, on special occasions. As you can see, some of the children enjoyed their wine quite a bit while they lived. But look at this one.” He pointed at the largest stack. The plaque said LORENZO, 1920. “All one hundred bottles are still here. I looked into it, and this man lived to be fifty-seven, but he never opened a single bottle. I wonder what he was waiting for.”

“Maybe he didn’t drink,” Lillian suggested. “Or maybe he was a wayward son who wasn’t close to the family. Either way, it’s sad. Especially for the father, to have outlived all his children and to know that they didn’t get to enjoy every last drop of the wine he had left them. Or that they chose not to enjoy every delicious drop of life when they had the chance.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Clark said.

Suddenly, Lillian felt a shiver run down her spine. She rubbed at her arms to warm herself. “It feels like a tomb in here.”

He turned to her. “You’re right. It does. Maybe I shouldn’t have presumed . . .”

“No, don’t apologize. I’m glad you brought me here. I’m honored to see it, especially after . . .”

She stopped herself, because she didn’t want to become maudlin or overly philosophical about the car accident. Freddie certainly hadn’t wanted to talk about it. He kept shutting the conversation down whenever she brought it up.

“You’re thinking about what happened to you when you went off the road,” Mr. Clark conjectured.

Lillian dropped her gaze. “Is it that obvious?”

“Maybe. To me, anyway.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe that’s why I brought you here. Because I’ve been thinking about it myself, quite a bit.”

“Really? Why?”

“I’m not sure. There was just something about the way you fell to your knees when you climbed out of the car. You seemed so grateful to be alive. It was . . . I don’t know . . . humbling to see that. We should all be so grateful. Every day.”

She felt a rush of emotion. “Yes, and I have been feeling immensely grateful. More than that. I feel different. Like it changed me somehow. Now I can’t seem to take my eyes off the moon at night or the way the mist rolls between the hills in the early hours of the morning. Just looking at the world makes me feel euphoric. I’ve never felt such joy before. I can’t begin to explain it.”