CHAPTER 16

FIONA

Tuscany, 2017

I opened my eyes, discovered that it was morning, and marveled at the fact that I had slept soundly the entire night. I often had trouble sleeping. I’d wake in the predawn darkness and fret about all sorts of things—my father’s health, issues at work, debts that couldn’t be repaid. Anton had been inexplicably generous in his will, but I wasn’t entirely confident that all my money troubles were over. For one thing, Connor was not going to surrender without a fight, and even if he did, I still didn’t feel right about keeping everything for myself. It was too much. That alone should have been enough to make me toss and turn for hours, but for some reason, it hadn’t disrupted a single dream the night before. It must have been the jet lag.

After rolling over to check the clock, I yawned, stretched, and sighed at the pleasant notion that it was only half past six. I had time for a leisurely shower and an extra cappuccino at breakfast before I met Vincent for my vineyard tour at nine.

An hour later, dressed in black cargo shorts and a white T-shirt, I was wandering past the front desk on my way to the breakfast room when Anna called out to me. “Ms. Bell, someone just called for you!”

I stopped and approached, accepted the slip of paper she held out, and read a name and phone number. “I don’t know this person.”

“He’s an agente immobiliare,” Anna told me. “A real estate agent from Florence.”

“Why is he calling me?”

“He wouldn’t say, but he made me promise to ask you to call him. He used the word urgente.”

“Urgent?”

“Sì.”

I backed away from the desk. “Thank you, Anna. I’ll call, but I need coffee first. And please call me Fiona.” I tucked the message into the pocket of my shorts and went for breakfast.

A half hour later, after I finished my second cappuccino and found myself sitting alone in the breakfast room, I keyed in the real estate agent’s number on my cell phone. “Hello, is this Roberto? This is Fiona Bell. I received a message that you called?”

“Sì! I am happy you returned my call. I understand that you are the new owner of Maurizio Wines.”

“That’s correct,” I replied with some curiosity. “News travels fast. Where did you hear that?”

“I have spies everywhere,” he said mischievously.

I sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “That sounds rather alarming.”

He laughed. “I am only joking, signora. Do forgive me. I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man.”

I wasn’t about to tell him that I’d never even met this so-called great man to whom he referred. “Thank you, I appreciate that. Can I help you with something?”

He paused. “I hope so. I am calling to ask if you have any interest in selling Maurizio Wines.”

With a sudden rush of butterflies in my belly, I rose to my feet and walked out of the breakfast room to the flagstone terrace. The morning sun was shining brightly. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to feel its warmth on my cheeks. “I don’t really know what my interests are at the moment. I only just arrived, and I’m getting to know the place.”

“You’re American, am I correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Do you have any experience running a winery?”

I opened my eyes and strolled leisurely across the terrace. “Not yet, but the staff here seems very knowledgeable.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. “No doubt. Maurizio Wines is an exceptionally well-managed company. But I do have a buyer who is willing to make a generous offer.”

“Really.” I couldn’t resist. I had to ask. “How much are we talking about?”

Roberto made a few grumbling noises. “My client would require that his accountant examine the books first, of course, before we begin any official negotiations. But he has given me permission to offer you ninety million euros today, to close the deal without an audit.”

I halted in my tracks and strove to remain calm. “That is an attractive offer.”

“Sì, it is, signora. You could be on a flight home to America in less than a week. A very rich woman!”

My eyes followed the horizon from west to east. A heavy pink haze was hanging over the distant rolling fields. A butterfly fluttered across the rosebushes at the edge of the terrace. “I’ll need to think about that.”

“The offer will hold until midnight tomorrow,” Roberto pronounced. “May I inform my client that you are considering it?”

I raked my fingers through my hair. “Of course. But you should know that the family may be contesting the will, so I can’t guarantee I’ll even be in a position to sell to anyone. Can I ask who’s making the offer?”

“My client prefers to remain anonymous.”

I strolled slowly back across the terrace, taking extra long strides, then hopped across some flagstones, three at a time. “I understand, but I will need to know who I’m selling to, if I decide to sell.”

“I will pass that along,” he said.

“Please do. And give me time to think about it. I’ll call you tomorrow if I’m interested.”

“Very good, signora. Enjoy your day.”

“I will, and same to you, Roberto.”

I ended the call and stood immobile for a moment, completely unable to move. I felt a little dizzy and faint at the amount of money Roberto was waving in front of my face. Crouching low to the ground, I hugged my phone in a prayer position and squeezed my eyes shut.

“Holy moly,” I whispered.

CHAPTER 17

LILLIAN

Tuscany, 1986

A flat tire outside Siena caused a bus tour group to cancel a morning visit to the winery, which left Lillian with nothing to do.

“Take the morning off,” Matteo suggested. “Your next group doesn’t arrive until two. Go for a swim in the pool.”

“Are you sure?” Lillian asked. “I could help out in the shop.”

“For what purpose? There are no customers.” He waved her away. “Trust me, this place will be crawling with tourists in July. You should take advantage while you can. That’s an order, soldier.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

A half hour later, Lillian was stretched out on a lounge chair in her blue bikini, reading a novel and sweating under the hot Tuscan sun. All the hotel guests were elsewhere, wandering around the shops in Montepulciano or driving to Florence in their air-conditioned rental cars, so it was blissfully quiet on the estate.

When it grew stiflingly hot, Lillian got up and dived into the deep end of the pool. She swam laps while she thought about Freddie in Paris. What was he doing at that moment? Writing? Walking around the city? Did he miss her? Or was she out of sight, out of mind?

Moving through the cool water, she reached the far end of the pool, turned, and pushed with her feet to propel herself back in the other direction.

Her thoughts changed direction as well. An image of Anton sitting on her sofa the night before—drinking rum and talking about covered wagons full of the “stuff of life”—materialized in her mind.