Lillian drove Freddie to the station to catch an early train to Paris, then spent half a day manning the hotel reception desk before she moved to the wine shop to begin a tour. Afterward, she led the group back to the shop to make purchases and was surprised to find Anton waiting there. Hands in his trouser pockets, one shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, he stood casually, smiling.

“How was the tour?” he asked the guests in a friendly fashion as they filed into the shop, one by one.

“Wonderful!” a woman said.

“Very educational.”

“Fascinating.”

Lillian brought up the rear. “Everyone,” she said, “this is Anton Clark. He’s the owner of Maurizio Wines.”

“Marvelous!” an older man said, pumping Anton’s hand. “You, sir, are living the dream.”

Anton gave him an easy smile. “I can’t argue there.”

He remained to socialize with the group until they made their purchases and headed to their cars. When the last vehicle honked a good-bye as it pulled away from the gravel parking lot, Lillian waved. Then she looked up at Anton, who was standing at her side.

“That went well, I think,” she said.

“It went more than well. You must have set a sales record, Lillian. Twelve cases to be shipped to America. What in the world did you say to them?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just expressed the things I felt last night when we were tasting the older vintages.”

They walked slowly to the stone wall at the edge of the lot that overlooked the vineyards. Angry gray clouds shifted and rolled beyond the mountainous horizon.

“I hope it’s all right,” she said, “but I told them about Signor Maurizio’s special private collections for his children and grandchildren. We stood outside the locked door, and they found it very moving. Then, in the tasting room, I showed them which vintages age particularly well, and I encouraged them to store a bottle or two at home, to put it somewhere special and wait five to ten years for a special occasion, like a daughter’s wedding or the birth of a grandchild. I think that’s what they were all planning to do with the cases they bought. And I think it goes without saying that they’ll talk about those special bottles with their friends. It’ll be good for word of mouth.”

He turned to her. “That’s brilliant, Lillian. Maybe there’s hope for us in America after all, with all these cases shipping out across the ocean.”

They stood side by side, looking across the green landscape. The tall cypresses swayed in a fresh, cool wind, and the leaves on the grapevines fluttered and whispered.

Lillian pointed. “Look at the rain over there. It’s blotting out that mountain completely.” She sighed. “Oh, to be holding a paintbrush right now . . .”

His head turned, and he looked at her raptly. “Do you paint?”

She chuckled at the idea. “No, but I admire those who can. I understand the desire.”

They faced the horizon and watched the dramatic weather unfold.

“It’s coming this way,” he said. “It’ll be good for the soil, but we’ll have to eat indoors tonight. Will you come? Bring Freddie, of course.”

She kept her eyes on the horizon. “I’d love to come, but I’ll be on my own tonight. Freddie left for Paris this morning.”

“Whatever for?”

“To research the ending of his book.”

Anton looked up at a bird hovering lightly on the wind. “How long will he be gone?”

She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Last night he said it would just be for a few days, but I suspect he’ll stay until he’s finished it, however long that takes.”

They started to walk back toward the gift shop.

“Well then,” Anton said. “You must come for dinner this evening—and every night this week. I’d hate to think of you eating alone.”

The idea of him thinking of her at all caused a strange stirring in her. “That’s very generous. I accept your invitation.”

Thunder rumbled, soft and low, in the distance.

“Do you have an umbrella?” he asked. “You might need one to walk to the villa later.” Without waiting for her to reply, he waved at her to follow him into the gift shop and through the back door into the administrative offices. “Take this one,” he said, retrieving a sturdy black umbrella from a large terra-cotta urn full of them. “You can keep it. As you can see, we have plenty of them, all monogrammed with the Maurizio logo. I had them made up specially for the employees.”

“Genius,” she replied, looking it over. “Why aren’t we selling these in the gift shop?”

He turned to the accounting clerk, who was busy at his desk. “Paolo, why didn’t we think of that?”

The clerk raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a bean counter.”

Anton returned his attention to Lillian. “You, my dear, have a very good head for business.”

They smiled at each other in earnest, and she felt a rush of excitement, then had to look away.

“I should get back to work,” she said, sensing a sudden awkwardness. “I’ll see you later.”

Outside, the wind had picked up, and the clouds were shifting wildly as they moved across the sky. A fresh fragrance with the promise of rain filled the air. As Lillian inhaled deeply, her body seemed to vibrate with exhilaration. Was it just Tuscany that thrilled her? Or was it something else inside her that had changed since she’d arrived? She felt as if she had been splayed wide open, and it felt good, because she wanted, for the first time, without fear, to let down her guard and experience everything life had to offer. At the same time, that openness came with a noticeably daunting awareness of her own vulnerability.

The rain came, just as Anton said it would. Lillian walked briskly with the big black umbrella, her feet skipping over puddles, up the hill to the villa. She was drenched because of the wind when she arrived, and Francesco made a fuss over her. “My poor signorina! You should have called. I would have picked you up in the car.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Lillian replied with laughter, feeling joyful as she removed her jacket, shook away the raindrops, and hung it on the coat-tree.

“Come, come. Follow me.” Francesco led her into a large reception room with a hot fire blazing in the hearth, cozy lamplight throughout, and ancient family portraits on the walls. Domenico and Anton were standing in front of the fire, engaged in a conversation, Domenico gesturing with his hands as he spoke.

As soon as Lillian walked in, Anton’s eyes met hers, and he smiled. From clear across the room, she felt strangely disembodied, yet connected to him somehow—as if they shared a secret no one else knew.

“You made it,” he said as she approached. “I was afraid you might change your mind, for fear of drowning.”

She laughed. “I almost did. It was coming down in buckets. It was refreshing, though.”

“Come, my dear,” Francesco said, taking hold of her arm. “Move closer to the fire. We’ll dry you out.”

“Thank you.” The warmth was like a balm to her senses, heating her blood.

The men talked about the vineyards and how the rain would affect plans for the next day, because a crew was coming to remove suckers and trim the vines.