my glass of Brunello after the final course was enjoyed. “Please allow me to say something, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart. You Italians sure do know how to cook.”
Maria raised her glass.
“Grazie, Fiona,” Vincent said. “To wonderful food and good friendships.”
“Cheers to that,” I replied.
We sipped our wine as a cool evening breeze blew lightly through the trellis greenery.
“Tell us, Fiona. Will you be moving into the villa?” Vincent asked.
I set down my glass and thought about how best to answer the question. A part of me wanted to say yes—because that’s what they wanted to hear, and I liked them all tremendously—but the situation was complicated. I couldn’t lie to them.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t really figured everything out yet. I’m still in shock, and I’m barely over my jet lag.”
“She’s staying at the inn,” Marco explained.
“The inn,” Vincent replied with a frown. “You should be at the villa.” He turned to Maria. “Is Sofia still occupying Anton’s room?”
Maria let out a groan. “Mamma mia. Clothes strewn everywhere. Shoes far and wide.” She turned to Marco. “What happened when you went to pick her up in town? Can we dare to dream that she found somewhere else to live?”
Marco rested his arms on the table. “Not today. She had lunch with friends and got into the car with a pile of shopping bags.”
Maria shook her head. “Someone’s going to have to speak to her. She can’t stay here forever, not now that Anton’s gone. I’m certainly not going to clean up after her, and Nora is getting tired of making that same avocado toast she insists on every morning.”
“I could speak with her tomorrow,” I said, sipping my wine. “I’m curious to talk to her, actually.”
Maria and Vincent exchanged a look. “She was the last person with your father at the end,” Maria said, “so I understand your desire, Fiona, but be firm with her. Don’t be taken in by tears. She can get emotional.”
“I’ll be careful.”
A hush fell over the table, and the break in conversation helped me to remember something.
“Vincent, I almost forgot.” I picked up my purse. “I went to the bank in Montepulciano today to collect something from Anton’s safety-deposit box.” I pulled the iron key from my purse and handed it to him. “Do you recognize this?”
He held it aloft against the flickering candlelight. “This looks quite old. Was there a note to go along with it, explaining where it belongs?”
“No, there was nothing else in the box.”
He turned it over and laid it across his open palm, staring for a long moment. “I think I might know.”
“Really?”
“I can’t be certain, but this is probably the key to a room in the wine cellars. It’s been locked for decades, and Anton wouldn’t let anyone set foot in there. My father told me the key had disappeared years ago, but this is probably it. Anton had it all along, naturally. What a devil he was.”
I sat forward. “What’s in the room?”
“Wine, I presume,” Vincent replied, “but I can’t say for sure. I’ve never been inside.” He handed the key back to me. “Maria has asked me to show you around the vineyards tomorrow. Meet me first thing in the morning, in the gift shop, and we’ll go down to the cellars and try that key in the lock. We’ll see if it fits.”
I slipped the key back into my purse. “Thank you, Vincent. You’re a gem.”
“And now for dessert,” Maria said, rising from her chair. “I hope you like chocolate, Fiona.”
“Who doesn’t?” I replied as I marveled at how the joy of spending time with such good people could outweigh the jet lag I still felt from my long journey across the Atlantic.
CHAPTER 15
LILLIAN
Tuscany, 1986
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.”