These Tangled Vines(9)

Suddenly intimidated, I felt my heart begin to thump in my chest. I had learned from Ms. Moretti’s email that Anton owned a winery, but I had no idea it would be anything like this. Marco had said he was a wealthy man. How wealthy, exactly, and what in the world had he bequeathed to me, and why? What had he been thinking when he added my name alongside his other two children as a beneficiary? Would anyone here know the facts behind that decision?

Inhaling a deep breath, I strode forward purposefully, my feet crunching over white gravel. The stone steps took me up to a wide terrace and a massive medieval door with an ancient lion’s head for a knocker. I was about to take hold of it and rap a few times when I noticed an electronic doorbell to my right, wired and fixed to the stone facade. I pressed the black button and heard a bell chime. A moment later, the door opened.

An older Italian woman with gray upswept hair in a loose bun greeted me with a smile. “Buongiorno . You must be Fiona?”

“Sì ,” I replied, grateful for this initial warm welcome. It calmed my nerves slightly, at least for the time being.

“I’m Maria Guardini, the housekeeper.” She opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”

I stepped over the threshold onto a wide terra-cotta tiled floor in a brightly lit central foyer. A large wrought iron chandelier hung over a round table with a vase full of fresh flowers, and the plastered walls were painted cream. Straight ahead, the foyer opened onto a large reception room with a bank of french doors, all flung open, toward the back terrace.

“How was your flight?” Maria asked.

“Long,” I replied. “It was hard to wake up this morning.”

“I don’t doubt it. Can I get you anything? A cappuccino or espresso?”

“No, thank you. I just had coffee at breakfast.”

She stared at me for a moment, and I felt suddenly self-conscious. If I were a turtle, I would have retreated into my shell.

“Marco was right,” she said. “You do look like him. In his younger days.”

I swallowed uneasily. “Do I?”

“Sì. ” Maria checked her watch. “The lawyers won’t arrive for about twenty minutes. We have time to get acquainted. Would you like to come into the reception room?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She led me to the expansive space at the back of the villa, which housed a few cozy groupings of sofas and chairs on area rugs. A grand piano was nestled at the far end of the room, and the walls were adorned with oil paintings that looked like they should be kept in a museum.

I followed Maria to a sofa in front of the large stone fireplace. “You must have many questions,” she said.

“I do, actually.”

“We do as well,” she replied.

There was a tightening in the pit of my belly, and I cleared my throat nervously. “I’ll be honest, Maria. This is very awkward for me. I’m not sure how much you know about the situation, but Mr. Clark wasn’t a part of my life. My mother only told me about him an hour before she died, more than a decade ago, and she revealed very little. Even my father doesn’t know I’m another man’s child. So you see, it’s complicated.”

“Oh, mamma .” Maria’s eyes held a puzzled look. “You know nothing about your mother’s relationship to Anton?”

Nothing except for the fact that she had turned her face away in shame and despair when she made her deathbed confession.

“I’m not even sure if it was an actual relationship ,” I explained, “because my mother was happily married to my father when they spent a summer here, thirty-one years ago. That’s why I wasn’t told that Anton was my real father, at least not until she was dying. I guess she just wanted me to know for some reason . . . maybe in case there were ever any medical issues in the future? That’s the only reason I can think of for why she wanted me to know. But she begged me not to tell my dad because it would have broken his heart, and he has enough to deal with. He’s a quadriplegic, and he needs twenty-four-hour care.”

“Santo cielo .”

I lowered my gaze to the floor. “Pardon me. I’m rambling.”

“Not at all.”

I took a deep breath. “I just have so many questions.”

Maria sat back. “I wish I had answers for you, but this is as much of a shock to us as it must be to you. We only learned about your existence from Anton’s legal team in London a few days ago. They’re the ones who are coming here this morning with the will that he updated recently.”

I frowned with uncertainty. “How recently?”

“Two years ago. In 2015.”

I considered that. “Was that when he found out he had a heart condition, maybe?”

She shook her head with regret. “He wasn’t aware, as far as I know. He seemed healthy as a horse.”

A door slammed somewhere in the house, and I turned to the sound of a woman’s heels clicking briskly down a flight of stairs. Maria rubbed her temples. “Porca vacca . I apologize in advance for what is about to happen.”

A tall, beautiful Italian woman with long black hair, an ivory complexion, and full red lips stormed into the room. She wore a black Armani pantsuit and began ranting in Italian, shouting an endless wave of complaints while gesturing wildly with her french-manicured hands. I couldn’t understand a single word she said, but I suspected it had something to do with the lawyers’ visit.