“Well, it’s never too late to start fresh,” Fiona replied. “On that note, I have something to tell you.”

“What’s that?”

Fiona strolled to the collection of wine with Sloane’s name on it. “This place is part of your heritage, and your children’s, and I’m your half sister. Evan and Chloe are my niece and nephew. So I asked Mr. Wainwright to write a new will for me. I’m setting it up so that you, Evan, and Chloe will be my heirs and inherit this place one day.”

Sloane wasn’t sure she’d heard Fiona correctly. “What did you just say?”

Fiona faced her. “I don’t have children of my own, and I’m not sure I ever will. If I do, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it and divide the winery up appropriately, but for now, I want to make sure this stays in the family.”

Out of the blue, a childhood memory emerged from somewhere deep in Sloane’s consciousness. She felt her father’s strong arms scooping her up to carry her on his shoulders across an olive grove. She had felt safe and loved in those days, comfortable and at home. She realized she hadn’t felt that way in many years.

Fiona continued. “And believe me when I say that I want you to come here and visit as often as you like. Your rooms in the villa will always be yours. I mean it, Sloane. I’ve been an only child my entire life, and this has been an incredible experience for me . . . coming here and getting to know a part of my life I never knew existed. The villa can be a home for you, or a second home if you want to live in London or LA or wherever.”

Sloane inclined her head. “You’re not planning to sell? Connor thought you might. That’s what he would have done if Dad had left it to us.”

Fiona looked around at all the bottles stacked up against the walls. “I admit, I did think about it. It didn’t take long for an agent to call and make an offer, but I never called him back. Now I know what I want. I want to keep this place because it feels like home. And if your husband won’t give you the money to buy Connor’s share of your London house, I’ll give it to you. You won’t lose it.”

“Seriously? Fiona, are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” She moved to the collection with her mother’s name on it. “Our father made an exceptional wine, and this place was special to my mom. She was never able to come back here, but she dreamed about it until the day she died. I think if she were here, she’d want me to enjoy it and share it with you.” Fiona picked up one of her mother’s bottles and dusted off the label with the palm of her hand. “I say there’s no time like the present. How about we enjoy this bottle, right now.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I feel like celebrating. I want to raise a glass and toast to the fact that I have a sister and a niece and a nephew—and a brother, if he ever decides to lay down his sword. What do you say? We can go sit by the pool and pop the cork.”

Sloane smiled. “That sounds wonderful. Let’s go find the kids.”

Together they walked out, and Sloane held on to the bottle of wine while Fiona closed the big oak door and locked it securely behind them.

CHAPTER 28

FIONA

The flight home across the ocean was far less plaguing than the red-eye I had endured on my journey to Italy. Somehow, I lucked into a direct daytime flight from Rome to New York, with a brief one-hour layover at JFK, no delays, and I flew first class all the way. Whenever the flight attendant offered me something delicious to eat or refilled my glass of wine, I couldn’t stop pinching myself. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Time in the air also provided precious opportunity to reflect upon what I had learned about myself since my arrival in Tuscany. I was relieved to know the complete, unspoiled truth about how I had come into the world. It had not been an assault upon my mother or any other form of seduction or ravishment. It had been an act of love, and even the keeping of secrets had been an act of love, in its own complicated way, stirred together with guilt. A wife had hidden something from her husband to protect him from further heartbreak following a terrible trauma. She had buried the truth to give him a reason to live. She had sacrificed her own desires in the process.

I now understood that my silence had been a continuation of that act of love—to protect the father I’d always adored and idolized for his courage and fortitude in challenging circumstances. At all times, my mother and I had placed his happiness and well-being above our own. We did everything in our power to shelter him from further injury, both physical and emotional.

Had it been a two-way street? Had he done the same for us?

No. I understood now that he had not. He had allowed us to make those sacrifices, and he had been doing that to my mother since the day they met—long before her infidelity and the tragic accident that changed his life. In the beginning, he’d needed her to support him while he wrote his book—not just financially but emotionally as well. He needed her to provide for him and build him up and ignore her own dreams. When she wanted to have a child, he was reluctant because it would have gotten in the way of his writing, and it didn’t matter to him that my mother had deep, genuine longings for motherhood.

After the accident, his needs morphed into something else. He needed her, and me, to remain at his side and never leave him. He needed us for his own physical and mental survival.

As I looked out at the breathtaking view of white cottony clouds just below the aircraft, I didn’t know what to do with my thoughts and feelings. It was a complicated situation, and I had no idea how Dad would react when I told him where I had been for the past week. What would he say when he found out I had been to Tuscany and uncovered all his secrets—and that I had lied about where I had gone?

I supposed I was in no position to judge him for keeping secrets. I had kept secrets too.

After collecting my bags at the airport, I took a cab home and walked into the house where I grew up. Instantly, I detected the familiar sound of light fabrics spinning in the dryer in the laundry room. It was a constant in our home: the washing and disinfecting to guard against infections. Having been away for a week, I realized how much the house smelled like a hospital.

I dropped my keys onto the breakfast bar, then moved down the hall to my father’s room, where he was sitting up in bed and Dottie was giving him a shave.

“Hey there,” I said from the doorway.

Dottie jumped with surprise and set the razor down on a stainless steel tray. “You’re back!” She moved to hug me. “How was your trip?”

“Amazing,” I replied. “Exhausting. Enlightening.”

“I want to hear all about it,” Dottie said, “but I should let you two say hello first. He’s only half-shaved, as you can see.”

“I’ll finish up for you,” I replied, for I had shaved Dad many times. I knew the drill.

“Wonderful. I’ll go pour myself a cup of tea.”

Dottie left us alone. I moved closer and kissed the top of Dad’s head. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, sweet girl,” he replied. “I’m glad you’re home. How was the flight?”

“Wonderful,” I said. “No delays. And the sky was blue over the Atlantic. I could see for miles.”