These Tangled Vines(71)

Francesco’s head drew back as if I had swung a punch at him. “You thought Anton forced himself on her?”

I chewed my bottom lip. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought that. I was only eighteen when she told me that my dad, who I adored, wasn’t my real father. It was a shock, and I didn’t know how to process it, and then she died within hours, so I didn’t get a chance to have a proper conversation with her about what happened.” I reflected upon my thoughts and feelings over the past twelve years. “I was too young for all of that. I was grief stricken and angry. It was a shock to hear it, and I felt betrayed—for myself and on my father’s behalf. Maybe I still feel betrayed.”

Francesco watched me with sympathy. “I was sorry to hear about your mother’s passing.”

I looked up. “Did you know her back then?”

“Sì. She was a very important person at the winery, and important to Anton.”

“In what way?”

He regarded me with a frown of disbelief. “Do you really know nothing about what happened between them?”

I shook my head. “All I know is that she spent a summer in Tuscany so that my dad could research his first book and that she worked at the winery as a tour guide.”

Francesco tapped his finger on his temple. “She was much more than a tour guide. She had a real head for business and a great nose for wine.”

“Really,” I replied, surprised. “I only ever knew my mother to be a caregiver to my father. She occasionally worked outside our home, but only part-time, temporary positions. She never revealed any personal goals or career aspirations.”

“If it weren’t for your mother,” Francesco said, “Anton might never have gained a foothold on the American market for his wines. He was one of the first European winemakers to really understand how to sell effectively in North America.”

I sat forward. “Are you telling me that he felt he owed my mother something for the success of his wine business? That she was responsible for it? Is that why he left it to me?”

Francesco closed his eyes, laughed softly, and shook his head. “No, that’s not what I am saying at all.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He scratched the back of his head. “I cannot believe you don’t know. But it’s Anton’s fault for taking his promises so seriously, even beyond the grave.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Francesco reached across the table and took hold of my hand. “Your mother was the great love of Anton’s life. The only woman he ever truly loved, and that included his wife. He didn’t want to let your mother go—it killed him to do it—but he did, because he loved her so much.”

“I don’t understand.”

Francesco sat back. “Is your father still alive? The one who raised you, I mean.”

“Yes, and he means more to me than anything, which is why this is all very upsetting to me. He never knew my mother was unfaithful. She begged me to protect him from the truth, and I’ve kept that promise all these years. He has enough to deal with in his life, every single day. I don’t want him to learn about this and be hurt by it. He’s been through enough. He doesn’t deserve that.”

Francesco’s cheeks reddened, and my heart stilled.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked. “Did you know my dad?”

He slowly shook his head. “No, I was never introduced to him. I never spoke to him, but I know what happened to him.”

A strange numbness settled into the tips of my fingers and toes. “You’re referring to his accident?”

“Sì. I was there that day. I know everything.”

I stared at Francesco intently. “I hope you’re going to tell me.”

He slowly nodded. “Oh yes, Fiona. I’m going to tell you. I’m going to tell you everything, just as Anton told it to me.”





CHAPTER 22


LILLIAN


Tuscany, 1986

“Why didn’t you call me more often from Paris?” Lillian asked Freddie, after the waiter opened a bottle of wine at their table and poured two glasses. She wondered if things might have been different if he had called every night instead of only once a week, at best.

“It was long distance,” Freddie explained. “And you know what my writing schedule is like. I always seem to be just getting started when you’re getting off work.” He wagged a finger at her. “But I did call a bunch of times when you didn’t answer. You were probably up at the villa.”

He watched her intently over the rim of his glass as he sipped, and she wondered uneasily if he suspected something.

Freddie narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think I was cheating on you in Paris, do you? Because I was alone in the city of love? Or should I say the city of amore ?”

He was just teasing her, but still, Lillian couldn’t bring herself to look at him. On the one hand, she felt terrible for cheating on him, but on the other, she was devastated over the loss of Anton. That afternoon, her heart had broken into a thousand pieces.

She looked down at the place setting in front of her. “Of course I don’t think that.”

After a moment or two, Freddie grew pensive and serious. He reached for his glass and raised it. “We never made a toast. To our summer in Tuscany. And to me finishing my book. Here’s to the next one.”