“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 mighttry 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 seeDavid. You can’t visit Florence without feasting your eyes onthat.”
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 theirinheritance. 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.
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 stonefacade. 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?”
