These Tangled Vines(91)
“Me too,” he replied. “And you were special. You still are. Because if you can sit here in this house and forgive me for everything that I . . .”
“Stop, Dad,” I said gently. “Of course I’m going to forgive you. How can I not? Life is rough for everyone, and it’s complicated. It’s full of hairpin turns we don’t see coming. You know that better than anyone. You suffered a terrible trauma. And we all make mistakes. Mom certainly wasn’t perfect. She left a fair bit of destruction in her path.”
“Yes, but she gave me you.”
“And she gave me you.”
I realized in that moment that I was going to have to find a way to accept how my life had played out and let go of the frustration and regret about not meeting Anton. This was my reality going forward. What good could come from grappling forever with “could have beens”? Every life was full of “could have beens.” The best we could do was make the most of what was and what had been.
At least I finally knew the truth about my mother’s life, and I was no longer lying to my father. There was a tremendous relief in that—in the purging of secrets and the guilt that accompanied them. I felt somehow lighter, as if I had used a shovel to excavate my soul.
Dad and I regarded each other in the rays of the early-morning sunlight through the window, and I believed he felt lighter, too—that he was relieved to have let the truth out of its long confinement.
“What are you going to do with the inheritance?” he asked.
I thought about it for a moment. “Well. That’s an interesting question. I should probably tell you that I received an offer on the winery, and I did consider selling. It was a lot of money. Ninety million euros.” I shook my head in disbelief.
“Fiona . . .”
“I know. I can barely conceive of that much money. Selling it would have probably been the easiest thing. Then I could have come home, stayed here with you, and we’d have more money than we’d know what to do with. We could buy a bigger house and pay off the van . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck. “But Dad, I loved being there. I can’t explain it, and I hope this isn’t hurtful to you when I say it, but I feel like Tuscany is in my blood. I loved the people and the way of life. I loved learning about the vineyards and the wine-making process and, of course, drinking it.” I gave him a sheepish smile. “And I have a half sister named Sloane, and she has two children, and I want to get to know them better. If I keep the winery, I could learn how to run it and . . .” I faced him and spoke openly. “I could move to Italy and build a pretty amazing life for myself there.”
Dad stared at me intently, and I understood that this had always been his greatest fear and worst nightmare—that he would be left behind. Alone. That Mom would leave him for Anton, and I would disappear too.
I turned on the sofa to look out the window and watched the young palm trees in our yard as they blew in the wind, swaying and bending. My future lay before me, unpredictable like the force and direction of the wind at any given moment. I didn’t want the wind to be destructive. I wanted it to lift me up and carry me, to give me the push I needed to figure out what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I wanted it to lift us both.
Then I turned back to face Dad, and my indecision seemed to hang in the air between us.
With a note of conviction, Dad touched the button on the joystick and drove his chair closer. “Then you should do it. Go and make great wine in Italy. And don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine here, as long as I know you’re happy. You’ll call?”
I stared at him with a strange, buoyant feeling, as if I had just fallen from a great height and bounced like a balloon.
“Of course,” I replied, leaping immediately into the promise of a new future. “And I’ll come home often to visit. I’ll make sure that you have the best of care whenever I’m away. Dottie . . . she’s devoted, and she loves you.”
“I love her too.”
My heart softened, as it always did with my dad. “Or you could come with me,” I suggested. “It’s a big house and—”
“No,” he said flatly. “I don’t want to go back there.”
This I understood.
Rising from the sofa, I sighed and took hold of his hand. “Please don’t feel that I’m leaving you, Dad. I’m still your daughter, and I’ll love you forever. But I need to do this. I need to go out there, into the world, and figure out what I’m capable of.”
“I want that for you too,” he replied shakily, with tears in his eyes. “I’ll miss you, but I’ll be so proud.”
I kissed him on the forehead and hugged him, then wiped the tears from my own eyes and prepared myself for a new beginning.
EPILOGUE
FIONA
Tuscany, one year later
Maria found me in the studio, paintbrush in hand, standing before an easel that had once belonged to Anton. It was a tool he had carried across unknown distances to paint colorful fields of sunflowers and poppies or sunsets over Tuscan vineyards. I hadn’t done that yet—painted outdoors—but I had learned to never say never. Perhaps one day I would venture outside to paint Tuscany as well.
Until then, I was overjoyed to have a studio of my own, surrounded by boxes full of my father’s canvases, for which I had great plans. I was discovering that, like my mother, I had a rather good head for business. One of my current projects was an upcoming art auction, which would showcase my father’s paintings while raising the profile of Maurizio Wines. I planned to donate the proceeds of the auction to the local hospital in Montepulciano.