These Tangled Vines(66)
Inside, a college-aged young woman was manning the desk. Sloane let Evan and Chloe browse through the displays of cookbooks, key chains, magnets, and coffee mugs. Most of the tall shelves displayed bottles of wine and grappa in special gift boxes.
A family of tourists walked in and said they were there for the guided tour. The girl behind the desk checked the list and told them it began outside on the stone patio.
Sloane thought of Fiona Bell’s mother, who had been a summertime tour guide thirty-one years earlier and had somehow managed to upend all their lives. Sloane found herself making enquiries at the desk.
“What exactly does the tour entail?”
The young woman didn’t seem to realize that Sloane was the daughter of the late owner and these were his grandchildren. Why would she when Sloane was totally clueless about her father’s business operations?
“It starts with a guided walk through the vineyards,” the young woman explained. “Then you’ll visit the cellars, and it ends with a wine tasting. Are you interested in the English or Italian tour?”
“English,” Sloane replied.
“Then you’re just in time. It starts in five minutes.”
Sloane wanted to go but didn’t think a wine tour would be an appropriate activity for her young children. “Maybe another time,” she said, “when I can come back on my own.”
A few minutes later, after purchasing some pens and a couple of umbrellas with the Maurizio logo printed on them, Sloane left the gift shop with Evan and Chloe.
Out on the stone patio that overlooked the sloping vineyards below, a young American guide in a red T-shirt and black golf skirt was just beginning the tour. She was an attractive, dynamic speaker with honey-colored hair and a natural beauty, most likely a summer student, and was explaining the types of grapes that were grown on the estate.
Sloane found herself growing curious about the looks and charms of Fiona Bell’s mother thirty-one years ago. She supposed if the woman was anything like her daughter, who seemed to possess a rather endearing and relaxed personality, their father might have indeed become genuinely infatuated. It was certainly plausible.
When Connor returned to the villa after a fruitless search for the mysterious letters, Sloane convinced him to take a step back, regroup, and eat some gelato. He finally agreed to take Evan and Chloe into town for a few scoops.
As soon as they were gone, Sloane took advantage of some rare private time and collapsed onto an upholstered chair in her bedroom. For a while she sat there, alone, noticing the silence as she looked around at the familiar furniture, window coverings, and light fixtures, none of which had been changed since she was a child. A memory came to her then, of Maria playing cards with her on the bed while it poured buckets of rain outside the open windows. Connor was nearby, on the floor playing with his Hot Wheels racetrack, taking great pleasure in crashing Dinky cars together.
Once again, Sloane found herself longing for the happiness she’d known as a child, when life was simple and she felt no pressure to be perfect. A card game with the housekeeper. The smell of rain outside the window. And a father who would scoop her up, hug her tight, and tell her how much he missed her after she stepped off a plane from America.
When the memories began to melt and dissolve into regrets for all the lost years with her father, who finally, in the end, gave up on her, Sloane rose from the chair and ventured downstairs to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Dellucci kneading dough on the worktable.
“Is Maria around?” Sloane asked, wishing now that she had been more friendly and attentive toward Maria over the past few days, especially during her father’s funeral. At the time, Sloane had felt like a stranger in a foreign country among people who didn’t approve of her, and she and Connor didn’t help matters by keeping to themselves because they didn’t want to discuss their plans for the winery—which was to sell it to the highest bidder. Sloane had avoided Maria because she couldn’t bear to have that conversation with her. She didn’t want to disappoint her, so Sloane kept her head down and pretended she needed to wallow privately in her grief. But now, after the reading of her father’s will, what she and Connor had planned to do with their father’s winery was a moot point. Sadly, she couldn’t go back to the day of the funeral for a do-over.
“She went home for lunch,” Mrs. Dellucci replied, still kneading.
Recognizing a well-defined cold shoulder from the woman, Sloane felt like a heel because she knew she deserved it, so she decided to take a walk, pick some wildflowers, and visit Maria at the cozy little villa where she lived. How long had it been since Sloane had seen it? She hoped it wasn’t too late. She hoped that Maria would be willing to visit with her, one last time before she left.
Twenty minutes later, she caught a whiff of roses just before the villa came into view. Cicadas were buzzing in the forest, and the sun was warm on Sloane’s cheeks as she emerged from the path to the gravel lane, then made her way across the garden and up the stone steps to the front door.
Suddenly nervous and wondering if this was a fool’s errand, she hesitated before rapping the brass door knocker. Perhaps Maria would give her the cold shoulder as well, and Sloane would be forced to skulk away in shame and embarrassment, onward to a life full of even more regrets.
The door opened, and Sloane shook herself out of her doldrums. She threw on a bright smile for Maria, who stared at her with surprise. “Hi, Maria. I hope I’m not catching you at an awkward time. I had a few minutes to myself this afternoon and thought I’d pop by and bring you some fresh flowers.”