He smiled with understanding. “I once read that people who are going through cancer treatment sometimes feel like the disease was a gift, no matter the outcome, whether they beat it or not, because they feel like their spirits are awakened.” He grew quiet and contemplative for a moment. “I’m not sure if I would consider it a gift, myself, because I already feel in awe of the world most of the time, and I don’t want to leave it anytime soon. But who knows what I have yet to learn? Socrates believed that true knowledge exists in knowing that you know nothing. So I guess I’m still just a student of life. Always will be.”

Lillian marveled at the way he spoke about spiritual awakenings and true knowledge. Freddie never spoke that way, even though he considered himself to be a poet. He was very good at rhythm and rhyme, but she couldn’t say that he ever wrote deeply about the heart or the soul. A touch of guilt struck her suddenly for comparing Freddie to Mr. Clark, but she supposed none of that had occurred to her in the past because she had never been terribly spiritual herself. At least not before now.

“I’m learning too,” she said.

Mr. Clark moved closer to Lorenzo’s section—the tallest stack of bottles, which had never been touched by the man who was no longer alive to claim them. “Maybe we should drink one of these.”

Lillian glanced all around. “Are you sure?”

“Why not? They’ll just go to waste otherwise.”

“Have you ever opened any of these?”

“Not yet. I’ve owned the winery for five years, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch them. I always felt like it would be a violation of the sanctity of this room. But life is meant to be enjoyed, don’t you think? As long as we’re not hurting anyone.”

“Yes, I believe it is,” Lillian replied. “And I think that if Lorenzo were here, he would tell us to drink up his wine and not squander it. Not to squander anything. You can’t take it with you, right? And you never know when it will come to an end, in the blink of an eye.”

Mr. Clark considered that. “Why do we always wait for traditional special occasions to enjoy good things? Maybe we just need to create our own special occasions.”

Lillian made a face. “You know, I’ve always objected to Valentine’s Day, because I don’t think a day like that should come only once a year. Every day should be Valentine’s Day. People should say I love you all the time or show their love, even in small ways.”

He nodded. “We’re in agreement, then. It’s decided. Let’s celebrate the fact that we woke up this morning.”

She laughed. “And we’ll raise our glasses to Lorenzo, wherever he is.”

Mr. Clark held up the two bottles he’d already selected. “My hands are full. Will you pick one of them?”

“I’d be honored.” She tried to inspect the labels. “They’re so dusty I can’t tell what’s what, so I’ll just close my eyes and trust the hands of fate.”

A short while later, they were sitting down on the leather sofa in the tasting room. Mr. Clark opened all three bottles and poured three small glasses for each of them—for sampling, just like she did with the tour groups.

“Now we wait for it to breathe,” he said, sitting back and resting his arms along the back of the sofa. “To pass the time, I’ll ask you about your family, Lillian. Any brothers or sisters?”

She sat back also and told him that she was an only child. Then she opened up about her parents’ volatile relationship and how she had spent most of her childhood hiding under the bed when they were shouting and smashing things.

“During my teenage years,” she told him, “I was a textbook case when it came to relationships. I dated boys who treated me exactly like my father treated my mother, because it seemed normal to me. But thankfully, my mother’s lecturing finally sank in.”

“What sort of lecturing?” he asked.

“After my father left, she apologized for not doing a better job protecting me. I think she’ll take that regret to her grave. And then she warned me about boys with bad tempers—her way of protecting my future, I suppose. She told me to run in the opposite direction, even if they were handsome and charming. Then I met Freddie, and he was the exact opposite of what she was talking about.”

Mr. Clark studied Lillian’s expression. “He’s good to you, I take it?”

“Very. He would never hurt a flea. Those were my mother’s words. It’s what she told me to look for in a husband.” Lillian sighed. “So that’s why I’ll never take Freddie for granted. I’ll always appreciate how good he is. And someday, when we have children, I’ll be protective of them.”

Mr. Clark sat forward on the sofa. “Where is your mother now?” He picked up the first glass of wine and swirled it around.

“In Chicago—with a new man these days. She finally followed her own advice. He wouldn’t hurt a flea either. He’s an older man. A retired math teacher.”

Mr. Clark gestured for Lillian to pick up her glass. “Shall we? We can toast to your mother.”

“Yes.”

The first sample was a Brunello from 1962. Lillian was no expert when it came to wine. She was only just beginning to appreciate the experience of tasting different blends and vintages and to understand something about the variety of what existed in the world.

Each wine they tasted was different, delicious in its own way, and Mr. Clark was wonderful about helping her to identify the flavors and aromas. They sampled everything and talked more about her life back in the US, her childhood and work experiences. She’d been holding down jobs, at least part time, ever since she was fifteen.

“These bottles have been amazing,” she said. “I hate to admit it, but I think I might be a little drunk.”

Mr. Clark chuckled softly. “But clearly you’re a happy drunk, which speaks volumes about you, Lillian.”

She wondered if her cheeks were flushed. She felt very warm suddenly and shrugged out of her sweater.

The building was dark and quiet after hours, except for the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Lillian leaned back against the sofa and looked up at the frescoed ceiling.

“That’s very beautiful. We don’t have old painted ceilings like that back home. This house would be a museum if it were in Tallahassee. But you live here. You get to look at these beautiful paintings every day.” She lifted her head off the back of the sofa and frowned slightly. “I’ve never seen the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Have you?”

“A few times.” His eyes glimmered with amusement.

“I haven’t been to Rome yet,” she said, “or to the Vatican, but I’d like to go.”

“You should.”

“Freddie wants to see it as part of his research for the book, so he’ll probably go without me.”

“Why would he do that?” Mr. Clark asked with surprise.

“Because I have to work, and he won’t want to wait. When he gets inspired with an idea for a scene, he wants to go and research it right away, that very second. He has no patience. Off he goes. I’ve learned not to hold him back when inspiration is striking, because it never seems to strike twice in the same place. Or so he says.”