Jamie had wanted us to save for a down payment on a house and buy a nicer car, but I had to share my income with Dad, so I never had any extra savings. In the end, it seemed as if Jamie and I were always arguing about how we spent money, and he finally gave me an ultimatum. It was him or Dad. I didn’t appreciate that, so I made my choice. It was Dad.
And now . . . Italy.
I had to go. I had to find out what I had inherited from the father no one knew about. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but what if the value of the property was substantial? It could make such a difference in our lives.
“Jamie was handsome, though,” Dottie added. “I can’t blame you for falling for him. He had those gorgeous blue bedroom eyes.”
I chuckled again as I ate my toast. “Yes, he did. But charm like that . . . it can only go so far.”
I finished my breakfast and rose from the stool to put my plate in the dishwasher. “I should go look at flights.” Dottie stood up, and we hugged each other. “What would I do without you?” I asked.
She drew back and held my face in her hands. “Your father’s a lucky man to have a daughter like you. You’re his whole world, Fiona.”
Dottie’s words caused an unexpected tightening in my chest. It had been happening a lot lately, ever since I broke up with Jamie and moved back home. Of course, I wanted nothing more than for Dad to be happy and well cared for, but it wasn’t always easy. On the bad days, it was imperative that everyone around him remain positive. We worked hard to bolster his spirits. There was a lot of pressure that came with that, so I couldn’t deny that I was looking forward to getting away for a while, having a little time to myself.
“If I don’t see you before I leave for the airport,” I said to Dottie, “have a great week, and take good care of Dad, will you?”
“I always do. Say hello to the queen for me when you get to London.”
“I will.” Doing my utmost to conceal my readiness to get away, I went to my room to open my laptop.
After a thorough search on Expedia, I chose a connecting flight through Frankfurt because it was cheapest. As soon as I received the confirmation from the airline, I sent the information to Ms. Moretti, who responded immediately with detailed instructions about what to expect upon my arrival in Tuscany.
CHAPTER 2
FIONA
The journey from Florida to Florence was an ordeal that I had not anticipated. I had no one to blame but myself for the horrors of my itinerary, because I was not a seasoned traveler and had selected two long layovers in New York and Frankfurt, which resulted in twenty-six hours of travel time.
Foolishly, I’d imagined I would sleep on the plane as it flew over the Atlantic, but I was seated in economy, at the back of the aircraft, in the second-to-last row on the aisle, next to the lavatories. The noise was a constant disturbance during the night. I envied the woman beside me, who had nodded off as soon as the meal trays were collected, but she had taken a sleeping pill. Smart woman. I wished I’d thought of that, because the woman snored the entire time and I only managed to doze in brief spurts. By the time the aircraft touched down in Frankfurt, I understood why those flights were called red-eyes. I felt like a member of the zombie apocalypse.
Next, I was faced with another exhausting eight hours of layover in Frankfurt before I flew to Florence, where I arrived after dark and had to wait yet another hour in a slow-moving lineup at passport control. By this time, I truly was a member of the walking dead. All I wanted to do was brush my teeth and find a soft place to collapse for the next ten to twelve hours.
When the Italian officer stamped my passport and waved me through, I wheeled my carry-on suitcase past the baggage carousel, keeping my eye out for a driver holding up a sign with my name on it, but there was no such person at arrivals. My heart sank because I didn’t have the mental or emotional stamina to determine how to get from Florence to Montepulciano in the darkness when I didn’t even speak the language.
With a sigh, I dug into my purse for my phone and searched for Ms. Moretti’s email, hoping she had provided a number to call. All I remembered was that she’d told me I would be staying at Anton Clark’s place of business, a winery that included an inn on the premises, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the name of the winery.
I was scrolling through the messages in my inbox when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Scusa . Ms. Bell?”
I swung around to find myself facing a weathered-looking fortysomething Italian man in loose-fitting jeans and a plaid shirt.