These Tangled Vines(8)
“Good morning,” the young woman replied. From the sound of her accent, I speculated she was from the southern US. “Have you tried the cappuccino yet?” she asked. “It’s delicious.”
“Not yet. I’ll give it a try tomorrow.”
We made small talk, and I learned they were on their honeymoon. They’d started in Rome, and now they were on their way to Venice to board a private schooner and sail around the Mediterranean.
After they left, an older couple—also American—walked in and ordered cappuccinos before filling their plates with eggs, toast, and sliced meats. I chatted with them as well. They were recently retired and making the rounds in Tuscany, touring a different winery every afternoon, but this was their home base for the full two weeks.
“We love Montepulciano,” they explained. “And the wine here . . .” The man kissed his fingertips with a flourish. “Simply the best.”
“I’m not much of a wine connoisseur,” I quietly admitted, keeping my head down as I stirred my yogurt. “I always go for the same label at home—a California merlot that hits all the right notes when it comes to the price tag.”
They laughed and nodded with understanding. “You’ll enjoy trying these old-world wines. There’s a very different flavor here.”
“In more ways than one,” his wife said with a smile as she gazed across at her husband. “There’s just something about Europe.”
They seemed very happy. “How long have you two been married?” I asked.
“Going on forty years,” the man replied.
“You’re lucky you found each other.” I sipped my coffee and set it down, cupping it in my palms. “This is just what the doctor ordered. I’m still a bit jet lagged.”
“That will pass,” the woman said. After a pause, she asked, “Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes, though I’m not really ‘traveling,’ so to speak. I’m here for a funeral.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. We saw everyone heading to the church yesterday. Our condolences.”
“Thank you.” I finished my yogurt and changed the subject before they had a chance to ask about my relationship to the family. “I might try to walk around Florence for a few hours before I head back,” I said. “Have you been there?”
“Yes, and do try,” the woman said. “Pitti Palace is worth a visit. The gardens are impressive. And walk across the Ponte Vecchio. It’s an old medieval bridge with shops. Mesmerizing at sunset. Of course, go and see David . You can’t visit Florence without feasting your eyes on that .”
I laughed. “I’ll make sure to get there.”
After breakfast, I returned to my room to brush my teeth, then ventured downstairs to the reception desk to ask the clerk how to get to the villa. It turned out to be Anna, the same young woman who had checked me in the night before.
Anna pulled a colorful map out from behind the counter and used a red Sharpie to circle a building, dead center. “We’re here at the inn. Go out the front door to the parking lot, turn right, and walk up the gravel road between this building and the new winery facilities. When you get to the top, turn right at the chapel and follow Cypress Row up the hill, past the cemetery to the big iron gate. Here’s a fob to open it, and you might as well hold on to this while you’re here so that you can come and go as you please. It’s about a two-minute walk from the gate. The family’s up there now, so the front door should be open. If it’s locked, just ring the bell. Maria will answer. She’ll take good care of you.”
I thanked Anna, then walked outside and crossed the parking lot to overlook a vast valley of fields, forests, and grape vineyards with neat, straight rows on sloping terraces. Olive trees to the east shimmered like silver in the sunlight, their leaves pale next to the darker pines of the forest.
I could have stood there for a while, but the lawyers were due to arrive at the villa soon, and my nerves were getting the best of me. I was under no illusions that the family members would be happy to see me. I was an outsider, an illegitimate child, a skeleton in the closet who had emerged at the worst possible time—to claim a piece of their inheritance. Undeserving, of course, because I had never expressed any interest in meeting them or the father who had sired me.
I still couldn’t believe I was even here. Why in the world had Anton included me?
Dread filled my insides as I turned and walked slowly up the steep gravel lane toward the villa, all the while wishing that I had brought a trusted friend with me so that I wouldn’t have to face the family alone. But I had never confided in anyone about my mother’s secret. It was mine alone to bear.
I continued past the chapel and what appeared to be a small medieval hamlet halfway up the hill, then turned onto Cypress Row, a straight dirt road lined with towering evergreens. At the end of it, I came to an iron gate and pressed the key fob button. The gate swung slowly open, and I passed through it. A few steps farther, over a gentle rise, the enormous stone villa came into view.
My breath came a little short at the sight of it, and I stopped and stared. It was a Renaissance-style mansion, butter colored with a six-column, Palladian-style portico at the entrance and a massive stone terrace surrounding the entire building. There were formal Italian gardens to the left and tennis courts to the right.