“What did she want?” I asked, wondering why she had called the villa when she usually called my cell phone directly. I suspected it had something to do with the fact that it was on this day, exactly one year ago, that Anton had passed.
“She wanted to surprise you,” Maria replied, “but I told her I was terrible at keeping secrets.”
I laughed as my cell phone rang in my pocket, causing me to jump. Quickly I retrieved it and answered. “Hello?”
“Hi,” Sloane said. “It’s me. Let me guess. Maria is standing right next to you. She couldn’t resist, could she?”
I laughed. “You know her too well.” I moved around the easel and winked at Maria.
“Did she spoil it?” Sloane asked. “The surprise, I mean?”
“Well . . . kind of . . . yes.”
I heard the sound of Evan’s voice in the background asking Chloe if she had any more bubble gum.
Sloane paused before she spoke again. “Okay. So here’s the deal. I’m at LAX with the kids, and we’re at the gate, waiting to board an overnight flight. We arrive in Florence tomorrow.”
I pressed my hand to my heart. “That’s wonderful. I can’t wait to see you.”
“Me neither.”
She broke away from our conversation to ask Evan and Chloe to watch the suitcases for a few minutes. Then she continued. “We’ll be there by late morning. We want to visit the cemetery and look at some old pictures I asked Maria to dig out. Maybe we can all do that together.”
“I’d love that.”
“And it’ll be a nice visit for the kids before they start school in London,” Sloane added.
“Are they excited?”
“I think so. Nervous, too, but I’m sure they’ll love it. They already have friends in the neighborhood. I’m just glad to be moving into the house, finally. Our stuff arrives next Tuesday.”
“What about Alan?” I asked. “How’s he taking it, now that you’re actually leaving for good?”
Sloane was quiet for a moment. “He’s still trying to talk me into staying in LA. He even offered to give me the house—as if it was a huge concession and I should bow down and be grateful for it. Meanwhile, he’s on Tinder. Imagine that. Oh, Fiona, I’m so over him, and I don’t care about his house or anything else he’s had his dirty hands on. I’m looking forward to telling you everything over a bottle of wine and a gigantic plate of pasta tomorrow night. Can we do that?”
“Of course.” I paused. “What about Connor? Have you heard from him lately?”
“No, but Mom says he’s dating the producer of a cooking show. Good luck to her.”
I chuckled.
“I’m sure I’ll hear from him when they break up. That’s usually how it goes.”
I nodded. “How about a pickup at the airport tomorrow? Should I send Marco?”
“Don’t worry about that. Maria already asked him to fetch us. Wait a second . . .” She paused. “It sounds like they’re calling our zone for boarding. I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”
“All right. Safe travels.”
Later that night, after dinner, I returned to the studio, switched on the chandelier, and wandered leisurely to one of the large wooden crates that held Anton’s canvases. Carefully, I pulled one out, unrolled it, and found myself staring with contentment at the exquisite artistry before me. In simple terms, it was a landscape, but what I saw with my heart was Anton’s appreciation for the beauty in our world and for the extraordinary love he had known.
As I admired his graceful brushstrokes and his brilliant mix of color, I felt a connection to him like never before. My father. Winemaker and artist. I also understood my mother’s love for him and her love for this place, her passion for the vineyards and the people of Tuscany. In the painting, I saw my future, years from now, working with the crews to prune the grapevines and study the soil, to plan the harvests. I knew in that moment that I would spend my life preserving something beloved and valuable.
At the same time, I would build something new, looking forward, not back. I was already working on a special blend of wine to commemorate Anton’s love for my mother, which had never been celebrated before. I would paint the label myself.
And though I tried to let go of certain things and live without regret, I was beginning to accept that regret would always be a part of my life. I was only human, after all, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t escape it. What I decided was that I would not let it consume or define me. For the most part, I was at peace with how my life had unfolded, and I would embrace my regret—and my ability to work at forgiveness—as evidence of my humanity. I would wake up each morning and count my blessings.