These Tangled Vines(6)

I inclined my head. “Who’s ‘we’?”

Marco shrugged. “Everyone. He had a certain . . . how do you say?” Marco gestured with a hand. “Power. A way to charm anyone into doing anything.”

I gazed out the window again and wondered what would have happened if I’d traveled here when Anton was still alive. It might have been interesting to witness his alleged charisma for myself. He had, after all, seduced my mother into cheating on a husband she deeply loved. If that’s what happened. I wasn’t actually certain that seduction was the right word. It might have been something far less romantic, a situation she couldn’t control, based on the anguish on her face when she told me.

Feeling a little sick at the thought, I tapped my finger on my knee and realized that the curiosity I had managed to bury for the past twelve years was waking up like a sleeping dragon. I was eager to reach Montepulciano.



Marco was a confident driver, but he liked to speed.

“You must know these roads pretty well,” I said, waking from a nap and running my fingers through my hair as I took in our surroundings. We seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, careening through dark and twisty country roads.

“Sì. I’ve lived here all my life.”

I wished I could see more than the leafy foliage closing in on us from either side of the narrow road.

“It’s foggy,” I mentioned, being tossed suddenly to the left as Marco maneuvered around a hairpin turn at a breakneck speed.

“Fog is common in Tuscany,” he replied. “Lots of hills and valleys where it likes to worm its way in. Almost there. Not far now.”

I reached into my purse for some gum and rubbed the pad of my finger under my eyes to wipe away the smudges of yesterday’s mascara. It was 10:00 p.m. local time, and I prayed I would be reaching a soft bed soon. Or a hard one. It wouldn’t matter. I just needed to be horizontal.

Marco hit the brakes and turned onto a gravel road with a big sign that said MAURIZIO WINES . The road snaked through a forest and sloped steeply uphill. I bounced on the seat as Marco hit the gas on the final approach toward a tall wrought iron gate flanked by massive brick columns. He stopped, retrieved a key fob from the console, and pressed the button, and the gate slowly opened, creaking on hinges in need of oil. He pulled onto the gravel parking lot in front of a large, medieval-looking stone building.

Did Anton own all this?

“We are here.” Marco shut off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt, then hurried around the car and opened my door for me.

As I stepped out, a fresh scent of damp earth and the chill of the thick, briny fog sneaked through the fabric of my jean jacket. Marco carried my suitcase, and I followed him into what appeared to be the reception area of a B and B type of establishment. A young Italian woman greeted us at the desk.

“Ms. Bell?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Anna. It’s nice to meet you.” She bent to retrieve a key card from under the counter. When I whipped out my credit card, Anna held up a hand. “No need for that. It’s all taken care of. You’re in room number seven, on the top floor. Up those stairs, to the left. Breakfast is in the dining room just through there from eight thirty to ten thirty. And you’ll find the Wi-Fi password on a card in a basket in your room.”

“Thank you very much, Anna.” I took the key card and was surprised to see Marco already carrying my suitcase up the worn black marble steps.

The building seemed ancient, with thick plastered walls and heavy exposed beams on the ceilings. I paused to inspect framed photographs on the staircase walls with celebrity guests. George Bush had visited the inn, as well as Tom Hanks and Audrey Hepburn. I felt a little like Alice going down the rabbit hole.

Marco led me to a dark mahogany door on the fourth floor. I inserted the card into the key reader, pushed the door open, and found a light switch that lit up a massive hotel suite with antique furniture, velvet drapes on the windows, and a king-size bed with luxurious white linens. I could have wept with joy at the sight of it.

Marco set my suitcase down inside the door and moved to switch on the light in the bathroom. “You should be comfortable here. It’s the best room we have.”

“It looks wonderful.” I peered in at a gigantic bathroom with black and white tiles, a deep soaker tub, a stand-up tiled shower with glass doors, and a bidet, which I studied curiously for a moment.

Marco moved to the door and pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. “Here is my cell number in case you want to be driven anywhere. You’ll definitely want to visit Montepulciano. Cars aren’t permitted in the town, but I can drop you off at Piazza Grande, and you can walk everywhere from there. There are lots of good shops with leather goods. I can recommend some restaurants. Tomorrow you’ll meet the family.”

His mention of the family caused a sudden nervous tremor in me because I had no idea what to expect. Visions of The Godfather sprang to mind.

Marco turned to leave, but I stopped him with a question. “Wait. Do you mind if I ask . . . ? Is my presence here going to be awkward? I mean, Anton had a wife and children. Do they know who I am? Have they always known?”

Marco regarded me steadily for a moment, and I sensed a measure of sympathy in his expression, which I wasn’t sure how to interpret.

“It was a shock to them,” he finally admitted.