Francesco shook his head. “He knew your mother. He knew how she would raise you.”
We sat together, listening to the gentle thunder of the surf on the rugged coastline below, breathing in the salty scent of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
“Thank you for all this,” I said. “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t been able to learn the truth. But I do have one more question.”
“I’ll try to answer if I can.”
“I never got the chance to meet Anton. Marco described him as a tyrant, and Connor said he was ornery. Everything you’ve told me doesn’t sound consistent with that. What was he really like?”
Francesco gazed out at the turquoise water. “When I first met him, and when your mother knew him, he was a joyful, passionate lover of life. As for him being a tyrant? I was loyal to him, right up until the very end, but I can’t deny that he was difficult and bad tempered at times. There was a very specific moment when he lost his sense of joy, and he was never the same after that.”
“When was that?”
“When your mother died. I believe all his hopes for future happiness died with her. Thunderclouds moved in, and they never left. And don’t listen to what anyone says about him being a womanizer. He was faithful to your mother until the day she died. But then he just gave up. He was lonely. He wanted to fill the emptiness. Hence the women. But he was good to them.” Francesco gazed up at the treetops. “I wonder if Anton and your mother are together now, at last. I like to think so. I imagine them sitting together, watching the sunset. Enjoying a very good wine.”
I couldn’t help myself. I burst into tears as I pondered the many sorrows they had suffered after they parted, the guilt they both endured for their adultery, and the profound sacrifice they had made to pay for it—for the safety and well-being of my father in Tallahassee.
A strong breeze blew through the tall cypresses along the hillside, and through my tears, I watched the waves break against the rugged shoreline below.
When I finally collected myself, I reached for Francesco’s hand across the table and squeezed it. “Thank you for everything. I’ll never forget what you shared with me.” I rose to my feet. “But I should probably go now.”
“Sì, sì. But before you do . . .” He leaned over the side of his chair. “I have something for you. It might come in handy to push back the enemy.”
“What do you mean?”
He picked up a shoebox from under his chair. “This is proof of what your mother meant to Anton and what she meant to him.”
I accepted the box and opened the lid. To my surprise and profound relief, it was filled with letters from America, written in my mother’s hand, addressed to Anton. “Oh my goodness.”
“She wrote to him once a year,” Francesco told me, “always on your birthday, until the day she died.”
I let out a breath. “I’ve been looking for these. Everyone has been looking. How did you come into possession of them, Francesco?”
He shrugged again and spoke with humility. “Because I was Anton’s good friend. After your mother died, he gave them to me for safekeeping in case anything ever happened to him. I was supposed to wait until after your father passed to deliver them to you.”
“But he hasn’t passed,” I replied. “He’s still very much alive.”
Francesco gazed out at the sea. “True. But I’m not as good at keeping promises as Anton was. As far as I’m concerned, it was merely a suggestion that I wait. So there you are, Fiona. Those letters belong to you. Do whatever you wish with them, but may I suggest you use them to secure your inheritance? It’s what Anton wanted. He knew how much your mother loved Tuscany and the winery. He always believed that her love for the place would be in your blood.”
I closed the lid and hugged the shoebox to my chest. “Thank you, Francesco.” I rose from the table, kissed him on both cheeks, and walked out.
CHAPTER 25
FIONA
The drive back to Montepulciano passed in silence while I read my mother’s letters to Anton. Each one described my development and accomplishments since the previous year and included four or five photographs. Altogether, it was a detailed chronicle of the first eighteen years of my life, written with