These Tangled Vines(60)

“That’s not true,” I assured her. “I think you’re going to be just fine. Obviously, you’re good at keeping a watchful eye on things. I mean, look . . . Chloe’s not drowning.”

“Maybe not, but her parents might be splitting up, and she’s going to have to live in two different homes and probably always blame herself for what’s about to happen to her family because she screamed her head off when the dick pic came in.” Sloane tipped her head back to rest on the lounge chair and watched a cloud float across the sky. “Call me a pessimist, but I have a feeling the traditional institution of marriage is a dying pipe dream.”

“Let’s not lose hope,” I replied. “Lots of couples spend their entire lives together and are very happy. My parents, for example. Even though my dad came with a lot of challenges, my mom was devoted. She would have done anything for him. I’m sure they’d still be together today if she hadn’t passed away.”

Sloane gave me a look. “I don’t want to be insensitive, but aren’t you forgetting the fact that you were only born because your mother cheated on your dad?”

I thought about that for a moment and couldn’t deny that Sloane had touched on something. Maybe I did look at my parents’ marriage with rose-colored glasses.

But how could I not? All I remember is how my mom doted on my father every day of her life, until she passed that baton to me.

“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t think it was quite like that . I mean, it wasn’t an actual affair . I don’t know what it was exactly, but . . .” I thought of the special wine collections that Anton had created for my mother and me—which he’d kept hidden and locked away for thirty years—and shook my head. “What am I saying? I don’t know anything anymore. I have no idea what happened between them.”

I’d always thought I had it all figured out—that my mother’s relationship to my biological father was a one-night stand, at best, or possibly nonconsensual. But after seeing the secret wine cellar, I had to consider the possibility that I might have been wrong about their relationship and wrong about Anton Clark as a whole.

An oncoming train of regret was picking up speed.

With more questions than ever knocking around inside my head, I sat up, swung my feet to the ground, and donned my T-shirt. “I should get going. I’m sure your brother is up at the villa at this very moment, searching through boxes and files for those mysterious letters from my mother.”

I pulled on my shorts, slid my feet into my flip-flops, and started off, but I turned back to say one more thing.

“Sloane, no matter what happens with the will, you shouldn’t worry. At the very least, you’ll have a house of your own in London with family nearby and quite a bit of money in the bank. You can raise your children with a clean slate.”

“Connor wants to sell it,” she told me. “He wants the fast cash.”

I stepped a little closer, wanting sincerely to help. “I see. Well, you could always take your half of the proceeds and start fresh somewhere new.”

“But I love that house,” she argued, “and so do the kids. It’s the only place we have left that actually feels like home.” She glanced around and looked up at the hilltop town of Montepulciano in the distance. “I never brought them here. I wish now that I had, because it’s very special. You’re lucky, Fiona. Don’t take this for granted.”

“I’ll try not to,” I replied, thinking of the sales agent named Roberto who had offered me €90 million for the winery. He was still waiting for me to return his call. “And as for that house you love in London . . . if it feels like home, then you should buy Connor out, take ownership, and live the life you want to live. Don’t accept defeat just yet. Remember, your husband sent a dick pic to your daughter. That’s not okay. Did you get a screenshot?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust me. He’s not going to leave you in the lurch. He’ll probably buy Connor out for you and maybe even rethink whatever’s written in the prenup, as long as you agree to keep quiet about what he did. So get yourself a good lawyer. Okay . . . I gotta go.” I turned to jog off the pool deck just as Evan knocked the beach ball out of the water, sending it bouncing toward the fence.

“I’ll get it!” I shouted, running to fetch it. I picked it up and served it back like a volleyball.

“Grazie! ” Evan said, jumping to catch it.

“Prego! ” I replied gregariously, then hurried to the gate.

“Mom, who was that?” I heard Chloe ask.

Sloane watched me close the gate, then waved for her children to come out of the pool. “Come and sit next to me, both of you, so I can explain who she is.”

I turned to look back as I walked up the grassy hill and saw Sloane holding Chloe on her lap. Suddenly, both children turned and looked at me. They waved.

I smiled and waved back.

As I continued up the hill, I felt more determined than ever to find those letters.





CHAPTER 19


LILLIAN


Tuscany, 1986

Another week went by, and Freddie didn’t bother to call. At least that’s what Lillian told herself. Maybe he had called. There was no answering machine in the guest suite, and she wasn’t often at home. She was either working at the front desk, conducting tours, or helping in the fields during her off hours—for no other reason than the pure pleasure of it. There was something addictive about pruning vines and snapping off suckers. It was incredibly satisfying. And of course, it was an excuse to work alongside Anton during the day, though there were others around as well.