These Tangled Vines(32)

“A few times.” His eyes glimmered with amusement.

“I haven’t been to Rome yet,” she said, “or to the Vatican, but I’d like to go.”

“You should.”

“Freddie wants to see it as part of his research for the book, so he’ll probably go without me.”

“Why would he do that?” Mr. Clark asked with surprise.

“Because I have to work, and he won’t want to wait. When he gets inspired with an idea for a scene, he wants to go and research it right away, that very second. He has no patience. Off he goes. I’ve learned not to hold him back when inspiration is striking, because it never seems to strike twice in the same place. Or so he says.”

“You can take time off, you know,” Mr. Clark told her. “Just arrange it with Matteo.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “I would do that, but it’s difficult because I can’t plan in advance. Freddie wants to go when he wants to go.” She sat forward and took another sip of wine. “But that’s enough about Freddie. I sound like I’m complaining. I’m not.” The room began to spin a little, so she set down her glass. “I should stop now.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. I probably should have eaten something, though. What time is it?” She checked her watch.

“Almost eight,” he replied.

She listened for sounds. People in the building. Voices. There was nothing but the clock ticking and the crickets starting to chirp outside the windows as the moon began its rise.

“Everyone’s gone home,” she said.

“Yes. We seem to be alone.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and she felt the effects of the alcohol in her blood—the way it made all her muscles relax and her eyelids grow heavy. Through the gigantic windows, she watched a moth flitting about, bouncing off the glass, wanting to reach the light inside.

Mr. Clark was stretched out on the sofa, his long, muscular legs crossed at the ankles. Silence floated around them like the belts of fog in the Tuscan valleys. She realized he was right—they were very alone here—and she felt a touch of discomfort, as if she were doing something wrong. Drinking too much wine with her employer, a man who was handsome and interesting. He was as intoxicating as the wine.

Was he the type of man who had a temper that he covered with good looks and charm, like her father had done in the early days of her parents’ relationship?

Lillian certainly felt charmed, and she began to wonder with some unease if she might have walked into a situation she wasn’t entirely equipped to handle.





CHAPTER 10


FIONA


Tuscany, 2017

After the trip to the bank, Marco drove me back to the villa. We entered through a side door on the lower level and walked to the kitchen, where we found Maria helping Mrs. Dellucci reorganize the pantry cupboard.

“How did it go?” Maria asked.

“I’m not sure,” I replied, setting my purse on a stool. “The only thing in the box was a very old key, which looks like something to keep Rapunzel in the tower.” I dug it out of my purse and handed it to Maria. “Do you recognize this?”

Maria shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t, but it could belong anywhere. There are all sorts of old buildings on the property. I can’t think of any locks here in the house that would require a key of this size, but my husband might know something. Will you come for dinner tonight? You could ask him then.”

“That would be lovely,” I replied. “Thank you.” I dropped the key back into my purse. “And there’s something else I need to ask you. When we were upstairs in Anton’s room earlier, just before my cell phone rang, you mentioned a studio?”

“Sì. Anton used to paint when he was younger.”

“Really?” I was astonished and momentarily thrilled to learn that my desire to brush colors onto a blank canvas was an inherited gene, but in the very next second, I felt an emptiness well up inside me—a feeling that I had lost something precious that I could never get back. “I didn’t know that. Was he any good?”

Maria made a face. “I don’t know. I’m not a good judge of that sort of thing. I only go into the studio to dust, very infrequently. A couple of times a year.”

I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Could I see it?”

“Of course. I’ll take you now.”

Marco’s cell phone rang. He answered it, spoke a few words in Italian, and ended the call. “It’s Sofia. She wants me to pick her up.”

“Where did she go this afternoon?” Maria asked, curious.

“I don’t know. Somewhere in town. I’ll be back shortly.” He flipped the car keys around his finger and walked out.

I watched him go, then followed Maria out of the kitchen and up the main staircase. We walked past the south wing, where the family was staying, and down the long corridor to a room at the end of the hall, across from Anton’s bedroom.

Maria pushed the door open but stopped abruptly on the threshold. I nearly bumped into her.

“Connor,” Maria said. “What are you doing in here?”

I peered over Maria’s shoulder and suddenly understood why Sloane had called their father a hoarder. The room was not a studio. It was storage space for junk. Old chairs were piled on top of each other, along with ladders, easels, toppling stacks of books and magazines on tables, jars full of dried-up paintbrushes, cardboard boxes full of heaven knew what, hundreds of rolled-up posters . . . or were they canvases?