These Tangled Vines(83)

CHAPTER 26


ANTON


June 12, 2005

Dear Lillian,

I just finished reading your letter and I will write the same thing I write every year: Please let me come and help you. Let me meet our daughter. I don’t know how it would be possible to explain it to her, but maybe there is a way? Please let me share your burden. I would shoulder it all if you would let me.

Even as I’m writing this from a thousand miles away, I can feel your reaction. You’re afraid I’m going to break my promise to stay away. Please, don’t let yourself worry. That is the last thing I would ever want—to cause you any fear or concern. I gave you my word. I will never reveal that I am Fiona’s real father, and my word is true, but I need to say something I have never said to you before, because I never wanted to add to your burdens. Maybe it’s the wine tonight. I’ve probably had too much, and the moon is full, which always makes me think of you. But here it is: With every day that passes, I feel like I am slowly dying. Your letters break me apart because I share your sorrow—the guilt over what happened to Freddie and the agony of being separated from you. I wish we could be together to comfort each other, but maybe that’s not what we deserve. Maybe the fates have decided that we stole a lifetime of happiness that one summer. We used it all up and there is no more left for us.

Since you left Tuscany, nothing is the same. There are no words to describe my loneliness which grows worse with every passing year. The loss of you was devastating, but it came on top of the loss of my children. What man could survive that? As you know, Kate was brutal in the divorce. Connor and Sloane have no interest in coming to visit me and I still don’t understand what I did wrong as a father. It was Kate who left me, not the other way around, and I believe now, without a doubt, that she only married me for my money. All I ever wanted was to be a normal family and raise our children here, on the vineyard. I think Kate must say bad things about me . . . I don’t know. Or maybe the children just prefer the city and their new stepfather, who’s richer than I ever was. I am lost. I love them and I miss them. I wish they would come here. I’ll keep asking. I’ll invite them again next week.

You asked about my artwork. The answer is no, I haven’t picked up my paintbrush since you left because whenever I see beauty in the world, I don’t want to capture it because it reminds me of you and my children and everything that’s gone. There is no one to share it with.

Maybe this is my punishment for falling in love with a married woman. I wanted too much, and what happened to Freddie is the cross we both must bear. You are drained and worn out, and I am without you and without my children . . . Connor, Sloane, and Fiona.

I am sorry for all this. I don’t want to add to your burdens. Whatever the case, I am in awe of your strength, your sacrifice and devotion to your husband, so I will soldier on, waiting for the day when we will see each other again.

But I must ask . . . perhaps it’s time for a brief reprieve? I miss you, Lillian, and the waiting is tearing me apart. Please consider it. If you could put my promise to you into a drawer and push it closed, even just for one day, I would come to you. No one would have to know. No one but us.

Yours,

Anton





CHAPTER 27


SLOANE


Tuscany, 2017

Seated at the dining room table with the lawyers, Sloane was first to finish reading a copy of her father’s final letter to Lillian Bell. The room was quiet as a tomb as Connor, Fiona, and Maria continued to read. When Fiona set down her copy, Sloane turned to her, and her voice shook as she spoke. “I guess this is the proof you were looking for.”

Connor was still reading, his face twisted into an infuriated frown.

Mr. Wainwright folded his hands upon a file that contained the original copies of the letters, sent over a span of eighteen years. “It shows, without a doubt,” he said, “that Mr. Clark possessed genuine feelings of love for Fiona’s mother. This will make it very difficult to overturn the will.”

Connor finally finished reading the last letter and tossed it onto the table. “How do we know these are even real?”

“It’s Dad’s handwriting,” Sloane said.

He pointed at Fiona. “There’s a lot of money at stake here. She could have forged it.”

Mr. Wainwright held up a hand. “I spoke to Francesco Bergamaschi, who confirmed that the letters were genuine. He also confirmed Mr. Clark’s final wishes.”

“Who the hell is Francesco Berg . . . whatever his name is?” Connor asked.

“He was your father’s driver and personal assistant for many years,” Mr. Wainwright replied.

Teardrops pooled on Sloane’s eyelashes. “I remember him. He used to drive us into town for ice cream when we were little. Remember?”

“That guy?” Connor replied. “He must be senile by now. You trust what he has to say?”

“We believe the letters speak for themselves,” Mr. Wainwright informed Connor, with a note of impatience. “The will stands.”

A tear spilled from Sloane’s eye. She quickly wiped it away, but Connor noticed and turned to Fiona. “Do you see that? That’s the kind of father he was. A vindictive bastard to the very end, cutting his own kids out of his will just to spite us. Look what this is doing to her.”