These Tangled Vines(2)

“I apologize again,” she said. “I should have explained myself. I work for the legal offices of Donatello and Costa. We were your father’s legal team in Italy, which is why I’m calling.”

I sat up straighter against the pillows, feeling more awake now.

“Your father named you as a beneficiary in his will,” she explained, “and we’re going to need you to sign some papers.”

“Wait a second . . . he what?” My heart seemed to plummet into the pit of my belly.

“The funeral is on Monday, and there will be an official reading of the will with family members on Tuesday. I realize it’s short notice, Fiona, but could you arrange a flight?”

I felt a sudden, rapid rush of heat to all my extremities at the prospect of traveling to Europe on my own to meet the family of a man I’d never wanted—or expected—to know. Whatever he left to me, I didn’t want it, because this man had caused my mother discomfort and shame on the day she died. I’d recognized it when she told me the truth. As she lay on her deathbed, she could barely speak of it. Whatever happened between them was not a pleasant memory for her.

Besides that, how would I ever explain it to Dad? To the loving father who raised me? I couldn’t possibly confess to more than a decade of dishonesty. It would break his heart to know that I wasn’t really his and that I had kept such a monumental secret from him. And he had been through enough. Suffered more than enough loss.

I shifted uncomfortably on the mattress. “Um . . . this is a lot to take in. I’m not sure . . .” I swallowed hard. “Is it really necessary for me to be there in person? I mean, it’s a long way to travel, and I’ll be honest—I wasn’t close to . . .” Again, the word father got stuck in my throat, so I managed a quick pivot. “I’m not sure how much you know about the situation, Ms. Moretti, but I’ve never even met Mr. Clark. I always assumed he didn’t know about me. He certainly never made any attempts to contact me, which is why this comes as a surprise. I don’t know his family at all, so it might be awkward for me to be there. And I don’t like to be away from my father. He needs me here. Is there any way we can do this through email or fax?”

Ms. Moretti went silent for a moment. “I am aware that you weren’t a part of Mr. Clark’s life, but he was very explicit in his instructions about the will. I won’t be coy, Fiona. He left you some property, which is why I think you need to come here and see it, sign for it, and then decide what you want to do with it.”

“Property.” My eyebrows pulled together with bewilderment. “In Italy? How much, exactly? I mean, how much is it worth?” I shut my eyes and shook my head. “Oh God. I’m sorry. That sounded very greedy. I’m not a greedy person. I’m just surprised, that’s all. And confused. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Ms. Moretti said. “I caught you off guard. And I wish I could tell you more about your inheritance, but I don’t know anything beyond what I’ve already said. It’s a bit complicated. Your father was a British national, so he had a British will. There’s a lawyer coming tomorrow with the actual documents. I’m just the messenger, trying to get everyone gathered here locally to hammer out the details.”

He was British? I’d always imagined him to be Italian.

Pressing my fist to my forehead, I tried to think this through. I had just been told that I was inheriting property in Italy from a virtual stranger. I had no idea how much it was worth, but I’d be a fool to turn it down. Heaven knew we needed the money. It wasn’t cheap, taking care of Dad.

So there it was. I had to accept the fact that I would need to book a flight to Italy straightaway, get time off work, and figure out how to explain all of this to Dad.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try and get on a flight today. Where am I going, exactly? What city?”

I heard papers shuffling on the other end of the line. “You should fly into Florence. I’ll arrange for a driver to pick you up and bring you to Montepulciano. Do you have an email address where I can send you some information and contact numbers? And do you have a cell phone number I can put in the file?”

“Yes.” I relayed all my contact information, and Ms. Moretti promised to send me a message in the next few minutes.

I ended the call and set the phone down in the cradle. For a moment, I sat on the bed, staring wide eyed at one of my paintings on the wall—the one that made me feel as if I were standing on the edge of a high, rocky coastline, staring out at the vast, stormy sea. I had painted it a year ago, shortly before Jamie and I split up. A chill seeped into my bones, and I shivered.

My biological father was dead, and for some reason, he had remembered me in his will.

I turned my face away from the painting and tossed the covers aside. Then I rose from bed, deciding that I would need coffee before I opened my laptop and started searching for flights. As I donned my bathrobe, the wind howled like a beast through the eaves, and I felt a dark cloud of sorrow settle over me.

He wasn’t really my father, I tried to tell myself, because what did blood tests and DNA results have to do with parenthood? I’d had no personal connection to the man, no love or loyalty, which were the benchmarks of a normal family. Ms. Moretti had used that word on the phone. She said, “There will be an official reading of the will with family members on Tuesday.” This included me .