were right,” I said. “It’s just wine in here. But why would he keep it locked?”
There were no racks, just dusty bottles stacked on wooden slabs. I bent to look more closely at a rough-hewn wooden plaque above one of the batches. “This one says ‘Lorenzo, 1920.’”
Vincent moved to a smaller batch. “This says ‘Bianca, 1926.’”
“Who were they?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.” He continued along the wall and shone his light on the other batches. “Ah . . . here’s something . . .”
I joined him. “This plaque says ‘Connor, 1984.’” I moved to the next one. “And this one says ‘Sloane, 1982.’ These bottles must be from the years his children were born. But who are the others?”
“Judging by the dates,” Vincent replied, “and the Italian names, they must have been the Maurizio children. They all died years ago.”
A chill rippled down my spine. I backed into the center of the room and rubbed at my arms. “It’s kind of morbid, don’t you think? Except for Connor and Sloane, all these people are dead. These plaques are like grave markers.”
“Not everyone’s passed on,” Vincent mentioned, aiming the light from his cell phone at another batch of wine in the back corner. “Come and see this.” He removed the plaque from a hook on the wall and passed it to me.
FIONA, 1987
“My goodness. That’s the year I was born.”
Vincent picked up one of the bottles and wiped it clean with the palm of his hand. “The label says ’87, but I don’t recognize it. Anton must have made a special blend in your name. It’s definitely one of his paintings.”
My heart skipped a beat. “It is? Let me see.” Surprised by the realization that Anton had put his own artwork on the bottles, I examined the image. It was a field of sunflowers with an impressionistic style, and there was a blonde woman standing at the edge of the field. I wondered if it was supposed to be my mother.
“It’s very beautiful,” I said. Then I turned to the next batch and blinked a few times with astonishment. “This one says Lillian. That’s my mom. Nineteen eighty-six. That’s the summer she spent in Tuscany.” I moved to check the label on one of the bottles, and sure enough, it was another of Anton’s paintings—a sunrise over the Tuscan hills.
I checked Connor’s and Sloane’s bottles, and they also had Anton’s paintings for labels, unlike all the others with traditional Maurizio labels—a sketch of the villa. “This is such a surprise,” I said, looking around the room.
It was the first time I had considered the possibility that Anton might have truly loved my mother.
“Do Connor and Sloane know about this cellar?” I asked.
“I couldn’t tell you,” Vincent replied.
I thought of the rolled canvases in Anton’s studio and was desperate to go and look at them. Only then did I recall what I had been hoping to find in this secret cellar. “The letters aren’t here.”
“Apparently not. You’ll have to keep searching.” He moved to the door, and I followed him out. “We should keep this door locked,” he said, “and guard the key well, Fiona. Those are precious vintages. There’s a small fortune in there.”
“I understand.”
He locked the door, gave me the key, and escorted me out.
After my morning tour of the vineyards, I decided to take a swim in the pool before heading up to the main villa. I was halfway down the grassy hill when I spotted Sloane stretched out on a lounge chair, wearing a red one-piece bathing suit and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Two children were in the pool, splashing around.
I was half-tempted to turn around and go elsewhere, but it was scorching hot outside, and I had been looking forward to a swim all morning, so I pressed on and opened the wooden gate.
At the sound of the gate closing, Sloane slid her sunglasses down her nose to see who was approaching.
“Hi,” I said without shyness, walking toward the lounge chair beside her and dumping my towel there. I kicked off my flip-flops and pulled my T-shirt off over my head. “What a scorcher.”
Holding her sunglasses low on the tip of her tiny nose, Sloane inspected my red polka-dot bikini and plastic shoes. “Yes, it’s very hot today.”
“Are those your children?” I asked, bending forward to pull my shorts down to my ankles.
Sloane pointed a well-manicured finger at them. “Yes, that’s Evan, and the younger one is Chloe.”