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 their inheritance. 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 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.”