might know something. Will you come for dinner tonight? You could ask him then.”
“That would be lovely,” I replied. “Thank you.” I dropped the key back into my purse. “And there’s something else I need to ask you. When we were upstairs in Anton’s room earlier, just before my cell phone rang, you mentioned a studio?”
“Sì. Anton used to paint when he was younger.”
“Really?” I was astonished and momentarily thrilled to learn that my desire to brush colors onto a blank canvas was an inherited gene, but in the very next second, I felt an emptiness well up inside me—a feeling that I had lost something precious that I could never get back. “I didn’t know that. Was he any good?”
Maria made a face. “I don’t know. I’m not a good judge of that sort of thing. I only go into the studio to dust, very infrequently. A couple of times a year.”
I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Could I see it?”
“Of course. I’ll take you now.”
Marco’s cell phone rang. He answered it, spoke a few words in Italian, and ended the call. “It’s Sofia. She wants me to pick her up.”
“Where did she go this afternoon?” Maria asked, curious.
“I don’t know. Somewhere in town. I’ll be back shortly.” He flipped the car keys around his finger and walked out.
I watched him go, then followed Maria out of the kitchen and up the main staircase. We walked past the south wing, where the family was staying, and down the long corridor to a room at the end of the hall, across from Anton’s bedroom.
Maria pushed the door open but stopped abruptly on the threshold. I nearly bumped into her.
“Connor,” Maria said. “What are you doing in here?”
I peered over Maria’s shoulder and suddenly understood why Sloane had called their father a hoarder. The room was not a studio. It was storage space for junk. Old chairs were piled on top of each other, along with ladders, easels, toppling stacks of books and magazines on tables, jars full of dried-up paintbrushes, cardboard boxes full of heaven knew what, hundreds of rolled-up posters . . . or were they canvases?
“What do you think I’m doing?” Connor replied, groaning as he lifted a heavy cardboard box off the floor and dropped it with a loud thwack onto a table. “I’m looking for those scandalous love letters Fiona’s mother wrote. I hope they don’t make me blush.”
My stomach turned over with nervous apprehension.
Connor glanced at me briefly. “It’s kind of gross, don’t you think? Who wants to read about your father’s sexual exploits from days gone by? But I suppose we all have to make sacrifices when the family business is at stake.”
The box was damp and moldy. As soon as Connor tugged at the flaps, it collapsed in limp defeat, and all the papers spilled onto the floor.
“Great,” he said, resting his hands on his hips.
I moved quickly, traipsing through a tight, twisty path between junk piles, and dropped to my knees at Connor’s feet. I wasted no time sorting through the contents of the box, because if private letters from my mother existed, I wanted to be the one to find them.
Connor stood over me. I felt the scorching heat of his malicious stare on the back of my neck but chose to ignore him as I picked up an envelope and inspected the return address. It was nothing familiar.
Finally, Connor dropped to his knees as well and grabbed a bunch of envelopes before I could examine them.
Maria approached. “Look at the two of you, digging through trash for the family jewels. Your father wasn’t stupid, Connor. He wouldn’t leave something so important in here to rot.”
“I beg to differ,” Connor said. “He was stupid enough to let a woman from Tallahassee, Florida, trick him into handing over his entire fortune.”
“I didn’t trick him,” I insisted.
“I was referring to your mother,” Connor replied, bitterly.
I said nothing and continued to search through the papers.
Connor sat back on his heels, rested his hands on his thighs. “You really have no idea what happened between them, do you.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, I know something,” Connor said.
My eyes shot to meet his. “You do?”
“Yep. I did a little digging today and found out that your mother worked here at the winery for a summer. She was a tour guide in 1986.”
I had known that Mom and Dad spent a summer in Tuscany to research Dad’s first book, but I’d had no idea she actually