I gazed out the car window. “That’s true.”

Two letters remained in the box, these not addressed in my mother’s hand. I dug one of them out, bracing myself for the words it probably contained: news of my mother’s passing. It was a business-size envelope with a typed address label. The return address was our home in Tallahassee.

I opened the envelope and unfolded the page. Before I began to read, I glanced at the salutation at the bottom and felt a shiver of apprehension at the sight of my father’s typed signature.

Dear Mr. Clark,

I am writing to inform you that my wife Lillian passed away yesterday from a brain aneurysm. It happened unexpectedly when she was at home in the kitchen and she died a few hours after reaching the hospital.

I am writing now to ask that you respect the promise you made to her and that you do not contact Fiona for any reason. We are both very distraught, and because she is not aware that I am not her real father, I believe it would cause her undue pain and dishonor her mother’s memory if Fiona ever found out, because it’s not what Lillian wanted. Most importantly, I need Fiona here with me. She is all I have left, and she lifts my spirits on the bad days. I couldn’t possibly go on without her. If you have any feelings left for my wife, and if you have any compassion for me, given that you are responsible for what happened to me, you will continue to honor Lillian’s wishes until I am gone.

Sincerely,

Fred Bell

My blood ran cold. “Oh my God.”

“What is it?” Marco asked.

“This letter . . . it’s from my dad. He’s telling Anton about my mother’s death, but he knew . . .”

“He knew what?”

I couldn’t breathe. I could barely think straight. “That I wasn’t his daughter. That I was Anton’s.” I glanced up and frowned with shock and bewilderment. “If he knew about that, he never let on to my mom. She thought it was her secret. All her life, she was trying to protect him from the truth, but he knew . . . he always knew . . . and he pretended to believe that I was his.”

“But how could he have known,” Marco asked, “if your mother didn’t tell him?”

“Maybe because everyone says I look so much like Anton,” I replied. “It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, given that he knew they’d had an affair and he was away in Paris. But why would he pretend not to know? Why would he never confront my mom about it?”

I read the letter a second time, which caused a fresh flood of anger to surge through my body. “And then he kept the truth from me because he wanted me to stay at home and look after him. He says it right here in black and white.” Lowering the letter, I turned to Marco. “I always felt so guilty about keeping that secret from him. I did it because I was protective of him, just like Mom was, and I didn’t want him to be hurt, but he knew the truth all along. And he didn’t care that I might want to know I had another father. That I might want to meet him.”

Marco shifted into a lower gear as he slowed down at a sharp turn. “We’re about five minutes away from Montepulciano. What are you going to do?”

I slid the letter back into the box. “As far as my dad is concerned, I’m not sure, but as far as the will is concerned . . .” I met Marco’s gaze directly. “I’m going to give these letters to the lawyers and tell them everything that Francesco told me today. That should take care of any suggestion of undue influence. It’s proof of what Anton really wanted, and he deserves to get what he wanted for once, because he certainly didn’t get it during his lifetime. Then I’m going to go knock on Connor’s door and tell him to stop tearing my house apart.”

I replaced the lid on the shoebox, though I knew there was still one more letter at the bottom. But I was not prepared to read it yet, because the seal had not been broken and it was intended for my mother. The return address said Anton Clark, Maurizio Wines. According to the postmark, it was mailed shortly before my mother’s death. It was stamped Return to Sender.

CHAPTER 26

ANTON

June 12, 2005

Dear Lillian,

I just finished reading your letter and I will write the same thing I write every year: Please let me come and help you. Let me meet our daughter. I don’t know how it would be possible to explain it to her, but maybe there is a way? Please let me share your burden. I would shoulder it all if you would let me.

Even as I’m writing this from a thousand miles away, I can feel your reaction. You’re afraid I’m going to break my promise to stay away. Please, don’t let yourself worry. That is the last thing I would ever want—to cause you any fear or concern. I gave you my word. I will never reveal that I am Fiona’s real father, and my word is true, but I need to say something I have never said to you before, because I never wanted to add to your burdens. Maybe it’s the wine tonight. I’ve probably had too much, and the moon is full, which always makes me think of you. But here it is: With every day that passes, I feel like I am slowly dying. Your letters break me apart because I share your sorrow—the guilt over what happened to Freddie and the agony of being separated from you. I wish we could be together to comfort each other, but maybe that’s not what we deserve. Maybe the fates have decided that we stole a lifetime of happiness that one summer. We used it all up and there is no more left for us.

Since you left Tuscany, nothing is the same. There are no words to describe my loneliness which grows worse with every passing year. The loss of you was devastating, but it came on top of the loss of my children. What man could survive that? As you know, Kate was brutal in the divorce. Connor and Sloane have no interest in coming to visit me and I still don’t understand what I did wrong as a father. It was Kate who left me, not the other way around, and I believe now, without a doubt, that she only married me for my money. All I ever wanted was to be a normal family and raise our children here, on the vineyard. I think Kate must say bad things about me . . . I don’t know. Or maybe the children just prefer the city and their new stepfather, who’s richer than I ever was. I am lost. I love them and I miss them. I wish they would come here. I’ll keep asking. I’ll invite them again next week.

You asked about my artwork. The answer is no, I haven’t picked up my paintbrush since you left because whenever I see beauty in the world, I don’t want to capture it because it reminds me of you and my children and everything that’s gone. There is no one to share it with.

Maybe this is my punishment for falling in love with a married woman. I wanted too much, and what happened to Freddie is the cross we both must bear. You are drained and worn out, and I am without you and without my children . . . Connor, Sloane, and Fiona.

I am sorry for all this. I don’t want to add to your burdens. Whatever the case, I am in awe of your strength, your sacrifice and devotion to your husband, so I will soldier on, waiting for the day when we will see each other again.

But I must ask . . . perhaps it’s time for a brief reprieve? I miss you, Lillian, and the waiting is tearing me apart. Please consider it. If you could put my promise to you into a drawer and push it closed, even just for one day, I would come to you. No one would have to know. No one but us.

Yours,

Anton