Sloane exhaled sharply with disbelief. “Are you serious? You know how much I love that house, Connor. And I’m close to Ruth. She’s like a sister to me, and she’s good for Evan and Chloe.”

The mention of their cousin Ruth did nothing to soften the look of determination in Connor’s eyes. “Then buy me out, and the house will be all yours.”

He sipped his drink and watched her with narrowed eyes over the rim of his glass.

“I can’t,” Sloane replied. “If I do that, I’ll have no savings.”

Connor rolled his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe how daft she was. “Come on. Just because you were dumb enough to sign a prenup doesn’t mean Alan won’t have to pay child support. If we sell the house, you’ll have the proceeds on top of what Dad left you. Think of how much money that will be. Alan might give you the LA house in the divorce—if you actually go through with it—and you’ll be sitting pretty. Stay in LA, for pity’s sake. Bloom where you’re planted.”

Sloane sat back and thought about it. It was true. The house in Belgravia would bring in a tidy sum, but Alan had always been very clear about never giving up the LA house, not even for the sake of the kids, because he’d designed it himself. He’d want to buy them another. Maybe she could ask Alan to buy out Connor’s ownership in the Belgravia house. But would Alan agree to that? Knowing him, probably not. He wouldn’t want her to move his kids to another country. He’d try to control where she went by getting them a house in LA.

The waiter arrived with a serving of pasta, but Sloane sighed with defeat because all she saw in front of her was a plate full of carbs. It wasn’t a large portion, but still . . . this would require her to drag herself out of bed an extra hour early to do cardio in the morning.

Feeling dejected, she glanced around at the other people in the restaurant. They were all laughing and talking and enjoying their food, along with each other’s company. They were twirling fettuccine around their forks without the slightest concern.

Sloane turned her attention to her brother across the table. He was holding his phone up with one hand, using his thumb to scroll through messages, while mindlessly shoveling some kind of chicken penne into his mouth.

Sloane picked up her fork, bent forward, and breathed in the intoxicating aroma of the white truffle cream sauce. A memory of the woods outside their father’s villa flashed through her mind. She remembered running and laughing, chasing the dog as he sniffed and dug at the ground.

All at once, something inside her dissolved into a puddle of nostalgic longing. She wasn’t sure what she longed for exactly and wished she possessed a keener, deeper self-awareness. Twirling the pasta around her fork, she closed her eyes, then tasted the rich, al dente noodles. Flavors of mushroom, butter, and thyme came alive on her tongue, and the texture of the fettuccine caused a swift rush of sensory pleasure to course through her body.

“This is delicious,” she said softly.

“Uh-huh,” Connor replied, still scrolling through his Instagram feed.

All Sloane wanted to do in that moment was go straight home to her children and hug them.

CHAPTER 14

FIONA

It was, hands down, the best dinner of my life. I raised my glass of Brunello after the final course was enjoyed. “Please allow me to say something, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart. You Italians sure do know how to cook.”

Maria raised her glass.

“Grazie, Fiona,” Vincent said. “To wonderful food and good friendships.”

“Cheers to that,” I replied.

We sipped our wine as a cool evening breeze blew lightly through the trellis greenery.

“Tell us, Fiona. Will you be moving into the villa?” Vincent asked.

I set down my glass and thought about how best to answer the question. A part of me wanted to say yes—because that’s what they wanted to hear, and I liked them all tremendously—but the situation was complicated. I couldn’t lie to them.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t really figured everything out yet. I’m still in shock, and I’m barely over my jet lag.”

“She’s staying at the inn,” Marco explained.

“The inn,” Vincent replied with a frown. “You should be at the villa.” He turned to Maria. “Is Sofia still occupying Anton’s room?”

Maria let out a groan. “Mamma mia. Clothes strewn everywhere. Shoes far and wide.” She turned to Marco. “What happened when you went to pick her up in town? Can we dare to dream that she found somewhere else to live?”

Marco rested his arms on the table. “Not today. She had lunch with friends and got into the car with a pile of shopping bags.”

Maria shook her head. “Someone’s going to have to speak to her. She can’t stay here forever, not now that Anton’s gone. I’m certainly not going to clean up after her, and Nora is getting tired of making that same avocado toast she insists on every morning.”

“I could speak with her tomorrow,” I said, sipping my wine. “I’m curious to talk to her, actually.”

Maria and Vincent exchanged a look. “She was the last person with your father at the end,” Maria said, “so I understand your desire, Fiona, but be firm with her. Don’t be taken in by tears. She can get emotional.”

“I’ll be careful.”

A hush fell over the table, and the break in conversation helped me to remember something.

“Vincent, I almost forgot.” I picked up my purse. “I went to the bank in Montepulciano today to collect something from Anton’s safety-deposit box.” I pulled the iron key from my purse and handed it to him. “Do you recognize this?”

He held it aloft against the flickering candlelight. “This looks quite old. Was there a note to go along with it, explaining where it belongs?”

“No, there was nothing else in the box.”

He turned it over and laid it across his open palm, staring for a long moment. “I think I might know.”

“Really?”

“I can’t be certain, but this is probably the key to a room in the wine cellars. It’s been locked for decades, and Anton wouldn’t let anyone set foot in there. My father told me the key had disappeared years ago, but this is probably it. Anton had it all along, naturally. What a devil he was.”

I sat forward. “What’s in the room?”

“Wine, I presume,” Vincent replied, “but I can’t say for sure. I’ve never been inside.” He handed the key back to me. “Maria has asked me to show you around the vineyards tomorrow. Meet me first thing in the morning, in the gift shop, and we’ll go down to the cellars and try that key in the lock. We’ll see if it fits.”

I slipped the key back into my purse. “Thank you, Vincent. You’re a gem.”

“And now for dessert,” Maria said, rising from her chair. “I hope you like chocolate, Fiona.”

“Who doesn’t?” I replied as I marveled at how the joy of spending time with such good people could outweigh the jet lag I still felt from my long journey across the Atlantic.

CHAPTER 15

LILLIAN

Tuscany, 1986