so disturbingly, so disarmingly charming.
“Really sorry,” a man said, stepping from the shadows. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
I’d jumped away from the door and dropped my keys. I may have screamed, as well, and although I can’t remember hearing my voice, the expression on the man’s face told me that my reaction had startled him.
He held up his hands to show they were empty. “I’m harmless, I promise,” he added, giving me a big smile. “Unless you have a legal problem. In that case, I can be quite devastating.”
Devastating to say the least. He was thirty-something and handsome, with dark, unruly hair, very shiny oxfords, and a well-cut suit. Not winter attire in rural New York, to be sure. He spoke with a strange accent, one that I later understood to be British English softened by the fluidity of his native Italian.
“Who the hell are you?” I said, recovering my composure enough to retrieve my keys from a snow-filled planter.
“Enzo Roberts,” he said, offering me his hand. “I realize this is an unconventional way to approach you. But . . .” He shivered and looked past me, into the house. “Could I possibly . . . ?”
“Come in?” I said, ignoring his extended hand. “No way.”
He looked wounded. “I’m here to help you, if you would let me explain.”
“Help me?” I said. “Help me with what?”
“With the details.” He tapped snow from his oxfords on the edge of the concrete step. “I’m a lawyer with the Montebianco Estate. You should have received some rather complicated legal documents. I want to clarify some points that may be . . . confusing.”
“Not necessary,” I said, stepping into the foyer of my house and gripping the door. “Thank you very much.”
“Just let me explain . . .”
But he didn’t need to explain. The letter had caused too much pain and confusion already. I didn’t want to speak to Enzo Roberts. I didn’t want to shake his hand or hear his explanation. I wanted Enzo Roberts to turn around and walk away, so that I could hold off thinking about the Montebianco family, and the bundle of death certificates in my purse, for one more night.
I pushed the door closed and latched the lock.
“Truly,” he called from the other side of the door, “I’m sorry to approach you this way. It is an odd situation, to be sure, and you must want to think it all over in peace. But please allow me to come inside for just a few minutes and explain. There is more to this than you might suspect. Give me five minutes. Then I will leave you alone. I promise.”
“Wait there,” I said, pulling out my phone and dialing Luca. “My husband will be here in a few minutes.”
Ten minutes later, Luca’s Jeep pulled into the driveway. By then, I had googled Enzo Roberts and found, according to his profile on LinkedIn, that he was a thirty-seven-year-old lawyer who lived in Turin. Outside, Luca asked a few questions before he rapped on the door. As he brushed by me, he squeezed my arm to reassure me that everything would be okay. Although I had explained the situation on the phone—namely, that there was a strange man on the front steps and that we might want to call the police—it was clear that Luca was going to handle this the way he handled everything else: with a cool head and a generous pour.
“I think we all need a drink, what do you say?” he said, leading Enzo Roberts into the living room.
A drink was exactly what we needed. Sometimes, I wondered if I wasn’t divorcing a saint.
“I’ll make them,” I said, heading to the kitchen, where I dug out a bottle of my favorite gin from the cupboard, sliced a lime, and grabbed a bottle of tonic water from the fridge. The sound of the ice cracking and the smell of juniper and lime calmed my nerves. No need to panic, I told myself. Nothing bad was happening. We would have a drink with Enzo Roberts, hear him out, then send him on his way.
Enzo and Luca were laughing by the time I joined them in the living room. Luca had begun his usual charm offensive, telling Enzo about one of the regulars at the bar, a guy named Butch who got drunk and used the bar phone to prank call his ex-wives. With his silk tie and buffed oxfords, Enzo looked nothing like the locals at the Miltonian, but