These Tangled Vines(85)

“That’s unfortunate,” Sloane said.

“At least he found purpose with a different kind of writing—articles for a charitable foundation he and Mom started for spinal cord research. That was how he looked forward, not back. He was able to pivot and make a change. See a different future for himself and get on board with it. It’s turned out to be the thing he’s most proud of.”

Sloane sat up straighter against the pillows on the bed. “You’re lucky that you have a strong relationship with him. You won’t have any regrets about that. You’ll always know that you were a good daughter. I feel like I ruined that for myself, and my dad must have hated me.”

“No. He loved you. I know he did.” Fiona stared at Sloane for a few seconds. “That’s why I’m here. Would you mind taking a walk with me?”

“Now?”

“Yes, and let’s bring the kids.” Fiona stood up, moved to the sofa, and waved her hands in front of their faces. “Calling all children. Lower your tablets. It’s time to go outside.”

“What for?” Evan asked, tugging the white buds out of his ears.

“Have you been inside the wine cellars yet?”

Uncertain, he turned to Sloane. “Have we, Mom?”

“No, you haven’t been there,” she replied.

“Then let’s go,” Fiona said. “Trust me, you’ll love it. It’s like something out of Harry Potter.”

“I love Harry Potter,” Chloe replied. “I saw all the movies. Hermione’s my favorite.”

“I like Hermione too,” Fiona replied.

Evan and Chloe set down their tablets and followed Fiona and Sloane out of the room. Together, they left the villa and walked down Cypress Row to the little medieval hamlet and chapel at the bottom of the hill. Fiona led Sloane and the children into the stone building where the wine cellars were located, down the circular steps to the dimly lit labyrinth below. Massive oak barrels lay on their sides in the largest cellars, and beyond that, they moved through narrow passages with dusty bottles of wine stacked on either side of the corridors.

“Your uncle Connor and I used to play hide-and-seek down here when we were your age,” Sloane told them.

“Can we do that?” Evan asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Ask your aunt Fiona. It’s her winery.”

Fiona turned and walked backward, smiling, spreading her arms wide. “Of course you can! Why do you think I brought you here? You can come here anytime you like, as long as you don’t pull a plug out of one of those big barrels we just passed, or you’ll flood the place.”

“We won’t,” Chloe replied.

Fiona led them to an ancient oak door at the end of the last corridor and dug into her purse for a key. “This is a very old hiding place,” she said, inserting the key into a wrought iron lock and pushing the door open on creaking hinges.

Rapt with fascination, Sloane, Evan, and Chloe followed her inside.

“What’s all this?” Sloane asked, moving along groups of wine bottles stacked against the walls on wooden slabs.

“It’s a very special room,” Fiona explained. “These are collections from the harvest year of a child’s birth. It was a tradition started by the Maurizio family, who owned this winery before your father did. Some of the bottles are very old, as you can see. Look at the dates on the plaques. But come over here.” She beckoned to Sloane. “This collection is for you.” Fiona removed the plaque from a hook on the wall. “Your father wanted you to have this. There are bottles here for Connor as well. I’ll make sure he gets them.”

Sloane stared at the dusty plaque with her name and date of birth written on it and couldn’t fathom what she was looking at. She picked up a bottle and rubbed the grime off the label. “My goodness. This artwork . . . it’s one of his paintings. I remember when he used to paint when we were small. I would paint, too, in his studio. He’d let me use his brushes and oils. I’d make a terrible mess, but he was never cross with me. He told me how talented I was.”

Sloane’s heart lurched painfully at those fond memories.

Fiona moved deeper into the room. “Come over here. There are two more recent collections you should see.”

Sloane read the names and dates on the plaques. Mesmerized, she turned to Fiona. “These are for Evan and Chloe.”

“Yes.”

Sloane picked up a bottle, saw another of her father’s paintings, and bowed her head with grief. “I should have brought them here. They should have gotten to know their grandfather and seen what he created.”

“They’re here now,” Fiona replied.

“But it’s too late.” With another rush of sorrow, Sloane set the bottle back in place.

“It’s not too late. You can tell them about him, show them pictures, and share stories you remember.”

They looked around for a few more minutes, examining some of the older bottles.

“I know this is difficult,” Fiona said in a quiet, understanding voice. “I’ve noticed that you keep saying what a good daughter I was, but what you need to know is that I wasn’t perfect either. I’ve been feeling the same way as you, wishing I had come here and gotten to know Anton when he was still alive. I’m always going to regret that I didn’t make that effort, but I was too busy resenting him because it was easier and less complicated.”