Sofia laid the clothes in the suitcase. “He never talked about other women with me. He always made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.”
I thought about things Connor had said about his father—that Anton knew how to make a woman believe that he’d “never felt like this before.”
“Did you love him, Sofia?” I asked. “For real?”
She stuffed some shoes into the corners of the suitcase and packed everything in tight. “Sì. Why else would I be crying?”
I sat back in the chair. “I never met Anton myself, but I keep hearing that he was mean and ornery and a tyrant. And a womanizer.”
She shook her head. “He was never that way with me. He treated me like a princess. He was very good to me.”
Feeling more perplexed than ever, I sat forward again. “Okay . . . I have another question for you. Did he ever mention any letters that might be important concerning his will? Or did he have a secret place where he kept private papers?”
Sofia fought to zip up the overstuffed suitcase. “You’re not the first person to ask me that question today.”
“No? Who else spoke to you?” I could most certainly guess.
“Connor,” Sofia replied. “Anton’s horrible son. And I will tell you the same thing I told him. I don’t know anything about any letters, and I don’t know where Anton kept his private papers, other than the winery office or his studio, which was where he stored things he didn’t want to throw away.”
Sofia seemed preoccupied with packing her bags, so I thought I should leave her alone. “Thank you,” I said, rising to my feet. “I’ll keep looking.”
Deciding that I should hurry and resume my search for the letters before Connor got another lead on me, I turned to go but paused briefly at the door. Watching Sofia lift her heavy suitcase to the floor, I said, “Listen, Sofia . . . how about I give you my cell phone number in case you ever need anything. I know this has been a difficult time for you, but maybe we could get together sometime and chat. I’d like to hear more about my father’s final days, and if you ever want to talk about anything else, or if you need a friend . . .”
She regarded me warily for a few seconds, then pulled out her phone. I walked back into the room, and we exchanged numbers.
“You’re not like Anton’s other children,” Sofia mentioned as she slipped her phone back into her purse. “You’re much kinder. You’re like him. The very best part of him. I can see it in your eyes. I’m glad he left everything to you.”
I felt strangely disoriented, as if I were floating upside down at the bottom of the ocean. What she was saying . . . the way she perceived my biological father . . . it was inconsistent with how others described him and how I’d always imagined him to be.
“Thank you,” I managed to say and headed for the door.
“You could try asking Francesco,” Sofia said at the last second. “He might know something.”
I stopped and turned. “Who’s Francesco?”
“The great-uncle of my friend in Florence. He was Anton’s driver when he first bought the winery and a close friend. He retired many years ago, but they stayed in touch. That’s how I met Anton, when I went with my friend to visit her aunt. Anton was there at dinner. He brought the best wine I’d ever tasted in my life.” Sofia stared at the empty space in front of her, her thoughts filtering back to the day she’d first met Anton, while I stood gazing at her with astonishment. “He hasn’t been well. He couldn’t come to the funeral.”
“Do you have Francesco’s phone number?” I asked.
Wrenched back into the present, Sofia pulled her cell phone out again. “I don’t, but I will ask my friend.” Quickly, she sent a text, and almost immediately, a reply came in. “Here it is. His address and phone number. I forward to you.”
As soon as I received the contact information, I began to feel the first traces of hope—that I would finally learn something about what really happened between Anton and my mother thirty-one years ago.
At the same time, I experienced a tremor of unease as I thought of my own father back home in Tallahassee, innocent of my whereabouts. Whatever truth I was about to uncover, I feared he would be devastated by it.
Francesco Bergamaschi lived with his wife in a stone villa in the coastal town of Piombino. When I spoke to his wife on the phone, I learned that he had just been discharged from the hospital after a serious bout of pneumonia. Marco was kind enough to drive me there the following morning.