These Tangled Vines(25)

I felt a deep shudder from within. I had never met my real father in person, but I was about to step into his private bedroom, where he had slept every night of his life.

“Just so you know,” Maria whispered respectfully, “this was where he died. He got out of bed in the morning, not feeling well, and collapsed on the floor. Sofia was with him.”

“His girlfriend . . . ,” I said.

“Sì , but now we’ll need to find a polite way to get rid of her, since she wasn’t mentioned in the will.” Seeming unfazed by that notion, Maria knocked again as she opened the door. “Sofia, are you here? It’s Maria and Fiona.”

The room was empty, but Sofia’s clothes were strewn all over the floor and upon the four-poster bed, as if she had just tried on every outfit she owned and tossed all the rejects aside. Perfume bottles and makeup brushes covered every available space on the mirrored vanity in the corner of the room. It smelled of hair spray.

“I gave up trying to pick up after her,” Maria said, stepping over high-heeled shoes and silk scarves on the floor. “She’s a grown woman, not a child.”

“Where do you think she went?” I asked.

“Probably shopping. If we’re lucky, she went shopping for another man to support her.”

I moved to the bed and ran my fingers along the heavy oak footboard. My gaze fell to the mattress beneath a crimson comforter and half a dozen decorative pillows. Had my mother spent time in this room? Was this the place of my conception?

“It’s strange to be in here,” I said.

“No doubt.” Maria couldn’t seem to help herself. She began to pick clothes up off the floor and hang them neatly in the wardrobe.

I moved to one of the bedside tables and opened a drawer. Inside, I found scented lotions, a cell phone charger, a nail file, and a book of matches. I bent to peer deeper into the back of the drawer.

“Looking for something?” Maria asked.

Feeling like a criminal, I shut the drawer. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be snooping.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s your house,” Maria reminded me.

“I suppose it is. At least for now.”

While Maria tidied up, I opened a few more drawers and rifled through an old shoebox on the top shelf inside the wardrobe. It contained store receipts.

“Sloane said that Anton was a hoarder,” I mentioned. “But this room doesn’t seem that bad.”

Maria responded with a dismissive scoff. “Sloane was exaggerating. I’ll admit, Anton’s study could be a catchall for books and papers. It was always a challenge to dust in there, and his studio hasn’t been cleaned out in decades, but for the most part, he was fairly organized.”

“His studio?” I asked. “What sort of studio?”

I jumped as my cell phone rang in my back pocket. Quickly, I pulled it out. “It’s a local number. Hello?”

“Is this Fiona Bell?”

“Sì. ” I wandered to the window and gazed out at the pristine Italian gardens below and the rolling hills and mountains in the distance.

“Ah, bene . I’m calling from the Mancini Bank in Montepulciano. We just received a copy of your father’s will. I’m very sorry for your loss. We understand that you arrived in Italy yesterday?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

The gentleman paused. “Just to be clear, we’re not the bank he used for his financial accounts, so that’s not what this is about. I am calling because he kept a safety-deposit box here with us, and we have instructions to contact you about the contents in the event of his death.”

A spark of adrenaline lit in my veins. “Do you know what’s inside the box?” Is it the letters?

“No, I don’t have that information,” he replied. “It was a private box, but I do have the key, which I’ve been instructed to turn over to you. When do you think you might be able to come by?”

I checked my watch. “How about this afternoon? Where are you, and what time do you close?”

“We’ve just closed for lunch,” he explained, “but we reopen at three. We’re in Montepulciano, not far from Piazza Grande.” The gentleman provided the street address, which I repeated to Maria.

“It’s not far,” she said. “Marco can drive you.”

“Perfect.” I made an appointment for three o’clock, then Maria insisted that I come down to the kitchen for something to eat before I left.



“Cars aren’t allowed into the town,” Marco said, “so I’ll drop you off here.” He pulled over in front of a restaurant with an outdoor patio. “If you walk straight ahead, you’ll reach the piazza. Turn right and go down the hill next to Contucci Palace. You have your map?”

“Yes, thank you. I should be able to find it.” I opened the car door and got out.

“Take your time,” Marco said. “I’ll wait right here.”

I thanked Marco again and started walking, careful not to stumble across the cobblestones while I gaped in awe at the magnificent stone architecture on either side of the narrow lane.

When I reached Piazza Grande, I stopped and wanted to pinch myself, for I stood before the Palazzo Comunale, an impressive town hall with an imposing clock tower, and Santa Maria Assunta, an ancient cathedral to my right. Children played games in the center of the square, and sidewalk cafés were busy with tourists.