These Tangled Vines(33)

“What do you think I’m doing?” Connor replied, groaning as he lifted a heavy cardboard box off the floor and dropped it with a loud thwack onto a table. “I’m looking for those scandalous love letters Fiona’s mother wrote. I hope they don’t make me blush.”

My stomach turned over with nervous apprehension.

Connor glanced at me briefly. “It’s kind of gross, don’t you think? Who wants to read about your father’s sexual exploits from days gone by? But I suppose we all have to make sacrifices when the family business is at stake.”

The box was damp and moldy. As soon as Connor tugged at the flaps, it collapsed in limp defeat, and all the papers spilled onto the floor.

“Great,” he said, resting his hands on his hips.

I moved quickly, traipsing through a tight, twisty path between junk piles, and dropped to my knees at Connor’s feet. I wasted no time sorting through the contents of the box, because if private letters from my mother existed, I wanted to be the one to find them.

Connor stood over me. I felt the scorching heat of his malicious stare on the back of my neck but chose to ignore him as I picked up an envelope and inspected the return address. It was nothing familiar.

Finally, Connor dropped to his knees as well and grabbed a bunch of envelopes before I could examine them.

Maria approached. “Look at the two of you, digging through trash for the family jewels. Your father wasn’t stupid, Connor. He wouldn’t leave something so important in here to rot.”

“I beg to differ,” Connor said. “He was stupid enough to let a woman from Tallahassee, Florida, trick him into handing over his entire fortune.”

“I didn’t trick him,” I insisted.

“I was referring to your mother,” Connor replied, bitterly.

I said nothing and continued to search through the papers.

Connor sat back on his heels, rested his hands on his thighs. “You really have no idea what happened between them, do you.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, I know something,” Connor said.

My eyes shot to meet his. “You do?”

“Yep. I did a little digging today and found out that your mother worked here at the winery for a summer. She was a tour guide in 1986.”

I had known that Mom and Dad spent a summer in Tuscany to research Dad’s first book, but I’d had no idea she actually worked for Anton. I sat back as well. “She was?”

He regarded me with derision. “Your mother must have been a real proper southern lady, sleeping with the boss.”

His sarcasm grated on my nerves, and I returned to the task of digging through the pile of papers on the floor. “Please don’t insult my mother. She was a good woman.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he replied as he rose to his feet and looked around at all the clutter. “Maria, I need a drink. Would you fetch me a vodka martini? Grey Goose if you have it. And make it a double.” He let out a sigh. “I need to self-medicate.”

Maria glanced at me with a look of apology. “Would you like something?”

“No, thank you.”

She stepped around a crate full of empty wine bottles as she made her way toward the door.

“Bring it in a proper martini glass!” Connor shouted after her. “Three olives!” He squatted next to me, and his mouth curled into a sinister grin. “I must be my father’s son, because I like my martinis like I like my women. Dirty. Really dirty.”

I knew he was just trying to get a rise out of me, but I had no intention of taking the bait. “Do you mind?”

“I’m just teasing.”

“And I am not amused.” I got to my feet and found another box on a shelf to sort through.

“Fine. Be like that.” He turned and dug through a dusty pile of magazines.

We worked in silence until Maria returned with the drink on a small tray. She walked carefully to keep her balance as she inched around a stepladder to deliver Connor’s martini.

“Thank you, Maria,” he said. “You are the cat’s meow.” He picked up the drink, sniffed it, and took a sip.

Maria passed me on the way out. “Eight o’clock?” she whispered. “Come around to the back.”

I nodded.

Connor sat down on an old ottoman splattered with different colors of dried paint and sipped his drink. “Did she invite you to dinner?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “I’m trying not to feel heartbroken that she didn’t invite Sloane and me, considering how she used to mother us when we were kids, but I suppose her loyalty has always been with the person who writes her paychecks, whomever that may be.”

I chose to ignore him.

“Don’t worry about us, though,” he added, stirring his martini with the toothpick and olives. “Sloane and I have dinner reservations in town. Don’t get me wrong. The food’s great here. That lady in the kitchen does a bang-up job with pancakes.”

“Her name is Mrs. Dellucci,” I informed him.

“Dellucci. Good to know. Very important information.” Connor sat back and watched me move a heavy box from one stack to another.

“We should lay out some ground rules here,” he said. “If either of us finds something, we should share it. Don’t stick it in your pants and make off with it.”