the aftershocks of Anton’s kiss and the chaos of her emotions.
She tried to tell herself that she had done the right thing—that she was a married woman. What she felt for Anton was just a temporary sexual attraction.
Freddie was her husband of five years. He was a good, kind man, and he didn’t deserve to be betrayed. She couldn’t leave him.
CHAPTER 20
SLOANE
Tuscany, 2017
While Connor made off for the garage behind the villa in search of Lillian Bell’s mysterious lost letters, Sloane took her children to the winery gift shop. The sun was high in the sky when they left the villa, and beyond the iron gate, tall cypresses swayed in the wind. The path down Cypress Row was as familiar to Sloane as the back of her hand, and she recalled a pink bicycle she rode when she was young, back and forth from the villa to the wine cellars. It boasted a shiny silver bell and blue foil tassels, like a cheerleader’s pom-poms, that dangled from the grips of the handlebars. How she loved to pedal fast down the hill, racing with her cousin Ruth while Connor followed on his three-wheeler.
She was pleased to see Evan running ahead, shouting “I’ll race you!” and encouraging Chloe to keep up. Sloane jogged as well, and soon they circled around the bend and arrived at the main parking lot, out of breath and laughing. Sloane recovered and led them to the large stone building that housed the main inn, dining room, and gift shop.
“Let’s see if we can find some souvenirs to take home for your friends,” she suggested, not entirely sure they could find age-appropriate gifts in a winery gift shop, but it was worth investigating.
Inside, a college-aged young woman was manning the desk. Sloane let Evan and Chloe browse through the displays of cookbooks, key chains, magnets, and coffee mugs. Most of the tall shelves displayed bottles of wine and grappa in special gift boxes.
A family of tourists walked in and said they were there for the guided tour. The girl behind the desk checked the list and told them it began outside on the stone patio.
Sloane thought of Fiona Bell’s mother, who had been a summertime tour guide thirty-one years earlier and had somehow managed to upend all their lives. Sloane found herself making enquiries at the desk.
“What exactly does the tour entail?”
The young woman didn’t seem to realize that Sloane was the daughter of the late owner and these were his grandchildren. Why would she when Sloane was totally clueless about her father’s business operations?
“It starts with a guided walk through the vineyards,” the young woman explained. “Then you’ll visit the cellars, and it ends with a wine tasting. Are you interested in the English or Italian tour?”
“English,” Sloane replied.
“Then you’re just in time. It starts in five minutes.”
Sloane wanted to go but didn’t think a wine tour would be an appropriate activity for her young children. “Maybe another time,” she said, “when I can come back on my own.”
A few minutes later, after purchasing some pens and a couple of umbrellas with the Maurizio logo printed on them, Sloane left the gift shop with Evan and Chloe.
Out on the stone patio that overlooked the sloping vineyards below, a young American guide in a red T-shirt and black golf skirt was just beginning the tour. She was an attractive, dynamic speaker with honey-colored hair and a natural beauty, most likely a summer student, and was explaining the types of grapes that were grown on the estate.
Sloane found herself growing curious about the looks and charms of Fiona Bell’s mother thirty-one years ago. She supposed if the woman was anything like her daughter, who seemed to possess a rather endearing and relaxed personality, their father might have indeed become genuinely infatuated. It was certainly plausible.
When Connor returned to the villa after a fruitless search for the mysterious letters, Sloane convinced him to take a step back, regroup, and eat some gelato. He finally agreed to take Evan and Chloe into town for a few scoops.
As soon as they were gone, Sloane took advantage of some rare private time and collapsed onto an upholstered chair in her bedroom. For a while she sat there, alone, noticing the silence as she looked around at the familiar furniture, window coverings, and light fixtures, none of which had been changed since she was a child. A memory came to her then, of Maria playing cards with her on the bed while it poured