buckets of rain outside the open windows. Connor was nearby, on the floor playing with his Hot Wheels racetrack, taking great pleasure in crashing Dinky cars together.
Once again, Sloane found herself longing for the happiness she’d known as a child, when life was simple and she felt no pressure to be perfect. A card game with the housekeeper. The smell of rain outside the window. And a father who would scoop her up, hug her tight, and tell her how much he missed her after she stepped off a plane from America.
When the memories began to melt and dissolve into regrets for all the lost years with her father, who finally, in the end, gave up on her, Sloane rose from the chair and ventured downstairs to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Dellucci kneading dough on the worktable.
“Is Maria around?” Sloane asked, wishing now that she had been more friendly and attentive toward Maria over the past few days, especially during her father’s funeral. At the time, Sloane had felt like a stranger in a foreign country among people who didn’t approve of her, and she and Connor didn’t help matters by keeping to themselves because they didn’t want to discuss their plans for the winery—which was to sell it to the highest bidder. Sloane had avoided Maria because she couldn’t bear to have that conversation with her. She didn’t want to disappoint her, so Sloane kept her head down and pretended she needed to wallow privately in her grief. But now, after the reading of her father’s will, what she and Connor had planned to do with their father’s winery was a moot point. Sadly, she couldn’t go back to the day of the funeral for a do-over.
“She went home for lunch,” Mrs. Dellucci replied, still kneading.
Recognizing a well-defined cold shoulder from the woman, Sloane felt like a heel because she knew she deserved it, so she decided to take a walk, pick some wildflowers, and visit Maria at the cozy little villa where she lived. How long had it been since Sloane had seen it? She hoped it wasn’t too late. She hoped that Maria would be willing to visit with her, one last time before she left.
Twenty minutes later, she caught a whiff of roses just before the villa came into view. Cicadas were buzzing in the forest, and the sun was warm on Sloane’s cheeks as she emerged from the path to the gravel lane, then made her way across the garden and up the stone steps to the front door.
Suddenly nervous and wondering if this was a fool’s errand, she hesitated before rapping the brass door knocker. Perhaps Maria would give her the cold shoulder as well, and Sloane would be forced to skulk away in shame and embarrassment, onward to a life full of even more regrets.
The door opened, and Sloane shook herself out of her doldrums. She threw on a bright smile for Maria, who stared at her with surprise. “Hi, Maria. I hope I’m not catching you at an awkward time. I had a few minutes to myself this afternoon and thought I’d pop by and bring you some fresh flowers.”
Maria regarded her suspiciously for a few seconds, then reached out to take hold of the bouquet. “What a surprise. They’re beautiful, Sloane. How thoughtful of you. Would you like to come in?”
Sloane smiled gratefully and entered the foyer, which brought on yet another rushing cascade of nostalgia. How many times had Sloane run up and down those stairs when her father had something to do in the office? Her mother often said that Maria was a dutiful babysitter who never refused an opportunity to look after them. Comments like that, however, always came on the heels of a criticism about their father.
Sloane followed Maria into the kitchen, where Maria found a vase for the flowers, filled it with water, and set it on the antique hutch where she displayed her dishes.
“How are your children getting along?” Maria asked as she arranged the flowers just so. “I suppose they’re missing their friends.”
“Not as much as you would think,” Sloane replied as she wandered around the kitchen, looking at everything. “I think they’re secretly enjoying this time away from all the social activity that doesn’t seem to let up, even for a ten-year-old. You’d be surprised at the daily dramas.”
“These are different times,” Maria replied with understanding. “I don’t envy parents today. Would you like an espresso?”