A strong breeze blew through the tall cypresses along the hillside, and through my tears, I watched the waves break against the rugged shoreline below.
When I finally collected myself, I reached for Francesco’s hand across the table and squeezed it. “Thank you for everything. I’ll never forget what you shared with me.” I rose to my feet. “But I should probably go now.”
“Sì, sì. But before you do ...” He leaned over the side of his chair. “I have something for you. It might come in handy to push back the enemy.”
“What do you mean?”
He picked up a shoebox from under his chair. “This is proof of what your mother meant to Anton and what she meant to him.”
I accepted the box and opened the lid. To my surprise and profound relief, it was filled with letters from America, written in my mother’s hand, addressed to Anton. “Oh my goodness.”
“She wrote to him once a year,” Francesco told me, “always on your birthday, until the day she died.”
I let out a breath. “I’ve been looking for these. Everyone has been looking. How did you come into possession of them, Francesco?”
He shrugged again and spoke with humility. “Because I was Anton’s good friend. After your mother died, he gave them to me for safekeeping in case anything ever happened to him. I was supposed to wait until after your father passed to deliver them to you.”
“But he hasn’t passed,” I replied. “He’s still very much alive.”
Francesco gazed out at the sea. “True. But I’m not as good at keeping promises as Anton was. As far as I’m concerned, it was merely a suggestion that I wait. So there you are, Fiona. Those letters belong to you. Do whatever you wish with them, but may I suggest you use them to secure your inheritance? It’s what Anton wanted. He knew how much your mother loved Tuscany and the winery. He always believed that her love for the place would be in your blood.”
I closed the lid and hugged the shoebox to my chest. “Thank you, Francesco.” I rose from the table, kissed him on both cheeks, and walked out.
CHAPTER 25
FIONA
The drive back to Montepulciano passed in silence while I read my mother’s letters to Anton. Each one described my development and accomplishments since the previous year and included four or five photographs. Altogether, it was a detailed chronicle of the first eighteen years of my life, written with pride, love, and optimism.
But with each letter, what began in joy soon descended into sorrow when my mother surrendered to a candid, honest unloading of her burdens and hardships while caring for my father. She described nerve-racking trips to the hospital, frustrations with incompetent or uncaring home care workers, and a constant feeling of pressure to bolster my father’s spirits whenever he grew maudlin, which was more often than I had ever realized. My mother wrote pages and pages of personal confessions that did not shy away from her loneliness, resentments, and regrets.
Sometimes I think he enjoys seeing me suffer, but I suppose he has a right to take some pleasure in it ... I would never complain to him. I confess these feelings only to you, Anton. You’re the only one I cantell ... Yesterday, I stayed home from work because the nurse canceled at the last minute. He didn’t thank me. He never thanks me for anything ... He knows I’ll never leave him ...
On numerous occasions, she apologized for complaining and assured Anton that she was at peace with her decision to remain at her post.
I couldn’t live with myself if I left him. I could never be truly happy, not even with you, my darling, in our beautiful Tuscan countryside. But the memory of it makes me happy in my dreams ... It keeps me going ...
She begged him, in every letter, not to come to her rescue, and she thanked him for the money he sent.
It’s just enough not to raise questions.
She ended every letter withYours, forever ...
I finished reading the last one, which my mother must have written shortly before her death. With tears in my eyes, I set it back in the box and turned to Marco, behind the wheel. “They really did love each other,” I said. “I can’t believe I thought the worst about him. I wish I had known.”
“It’s not your fault,” Marco replied, reaching across the console to take hold of my hand. “Your mother didn’t tell you everything.”
“But why didn’t she?” I asked, wiping at my cheek. “It would have made such a difference if I had known. I wouldn’t have spent the past twelve years of my life hating a man who didn’t deserve to be hated.” Feeling torn—because I was still intensely loyal to my dad—I shut myeyes. “Or maybe he did deserve it, because he was the reason my mom was unfaithful in the first place. If not for him and his good looks and his delicious wine, my father probably wouldn’t have spent most of his life confined to a wheelchair.”
Marco squeezed my hand again. “I think all you can do is accept the past for what it was and be thankful for where you are today. Think of it, Fiona—if your mother hadn’t fallen in love with Anton, you wouldn’t be here right now.”
I gazed out the car window. “That’s true.”
Two letters remained in the box, these not addressed in my mother’s hand. I dug one of them out, bracing myself for the words it probably contained: news of my mother’s passing. It was a business-size envelope with a typed address label. The return address was our home in Tallahassee.
I opened the envelope and unfolded the page. Before I began to read, I glanced at the salutation at the bottom and felt a shiver of apprehension at the sight of my father’s typed signature.
Dear Mr.Clark,
