These Tangled Vines(57)

She approached and held out her hand. “I’m Mia, the gift shop manager. It’s nice to meet you.” We shook hands. “Vin’s already here. He’s in the office. Vin! Fiona’s here!”

He walked into the shop through an open door at the back and smiled warmly at me. “What a beautiful morning for a walk in the vineyards, sì? ” He kissed me on both cheeks. “You’ve met Mia?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Let’s get started, then. First, let me show you the office. Come, come.” He beckoned for me to follow him through the back into a large room with half a dozen cubicles and large windows that let in plenty of light. “Everyone, this is Fiona Bell, Anton’s daughter from America. Our new owner.”

People stood up from their desks, and Vincent introduced me to each person individually. Then he took me into a separate office to meet the sales-and-marketing manager.

Afterward, we walked outside to the parking lot, where Vincent led me to his car—a cute little blue Fiat with a dent in the side.

“Are we going somewhere?” I asked.

“Many hectares to see,” he explained. “Quicker to drive.”

I slowed my pace. “Vincent . . . I wonder if you wouldn’t mind taking me to the wine cellars first. Remember that key I showed you last night?”

“Sì. ”

“I have it in my purse, and the suspense is killing me.”

He stopped and regarded me with understanding. “We can’t have that. We will go. The cellars are this way.”

He led me up the gravel road past the chapel to the little hamlet of medieval buildings. We climbed a set of stone steps to a terrace that took us to a large door with a keypad lock.

As soon as we entered the building, we descended a steep set of stairs to a large underground room with high cathedral ceilings of stone. I was struck by the fragrance of wine, oak, and a cool, earthy dampness. Vincent led me past long rows of giant oak barrels on their sides, and he explained that the wine would age there for two years before it would be bottled and aged further in many modern, state-of-the-art cellars all over Tuscany.

“This place is like a labyrinth,” I mentioned as he led me through more rooms lined with wine racks full of dusty bottles and down dimly lit, narrow corridors. At last we came to an ancient-looking door with iron fittings, set into a stone arch.

“This is it,” Vincent said. “The dead end where no one ever comes. Do you have the key?”

I dug into my purse, pulled it out, and gave it to him.

“Let’s give it a try.” He inserted it into the keyhole and turned it. The mechanism clicked, and Vincent pushed the heavy door open on creaking hinges. “It works. After you.”

I sucked in a breath of anticipation as I stepped across the threshold into a small, dark wine cellar with low ceilings. Vincent pulled the chain on a hanging light bulb, but it was burned out. We had to rely on the dim light reaching in from the corridor and the glow from our cell phones.

“You were right,” I said. “It’s just wine in here. But why would he keep it locked?”

There were no racks, just dusty bottles stacked on wooden slabs. I bent to look more closely at a rough-hewn wooden plaque above one of the batches. “This one says ‘Lorenzo, 1920.’”

Vincent moved to a smaller batch. “This says ‘Bianca, 1926.’”

“Who were they?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.” He continued along the wall and shone his light on the other batches. “Ah . . . here’s something . . .”

I joined him. “This plaque says ‘Connor, 1984.’” I moved to the next one. “And this one says ‘Sloane, 1982.’ These bottles must be from the years his children were born. But who are the others?”

“Judging by the dates,” Vincent replied, “and the Italian names, they must have been the Maurizio children. They all died years ago.”

A chill rippled down my spine. I backed into the center of the room and rubbed at my arms. “It’s kind of morbid, don’t you think? Except for Connor and Sloane, all these people are dead. These plaques are like grave markers.”

“Not everyone’s passed on,” Vincent mentioned, aiming the light from his cell phone at another batch of wine in the back corner. “Come and see this.” He removed the plaque from a hook on the wall and passed it to me.

FIONA , 1987

“My goodness. That’s the year I was born.”

Vincent picked up one of the bottles and wiped it clean with the palm of his hand. “The label says ’87, but I don’t recognize it. Anton must have made a special blend in your name. It’s definitely one of his paintings.”

My heart skipped a beat. “It is? Let me see.” Surprised by the realization that Anton had put his own artwork on the bottles, I examined the image. It was a field of sunflowers with an impressionistic style, and there was a blonde woman standing at the edge of the field. I wondered if it was supposed to be my mother.

“It’s very beautiful,” I said. Then I turned to the next batch and blinked a few times with astonishment. “This one says Lillian. That’s my mom. Nineteen eighty-six. That’s the summer she spent in Tuscany.” I moved to check the label on one of the bottles, and sure enough, it was another of Anton’s paintings—a sunrise over the Tuscan hills.