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 with Yours, 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 my eyes. “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,
I am writing to inform you that my wife Lillian passed away yesterday from a brain aneurysm. It happened unexpectedly when she was at home in the kitchen and she died a few hours after reaching the hospital.
I am writing now to ask that you respect the promise you made to her and that you do not contact Fiona for any reason. We are both very distraught, and because she is not aware that I am not her real father, I believe it would cause her undue pain and dishonor her mother’s memory if Fiona ever found out, because it’s not what Lillian wanted. Most importantly, I need Fiona here with me. She is all I have left, and she lifts my spirits on the bad days. I couldn’t possibly go on without her. If you have any feelings left for my wife, and if you have any compassion for me, given that you are responsible for what happened to me, you will continue to honor Lillian’s wishes until I am gone.
Sincerely,
Fred Bell
My blood ran cold. “Oh my God.”
“What is it?” Marco asked.
“This letter . . . it’s from my dad. He’s telling Anton about my mother’s death, but he knew . . .”
“He knew what?”
I couldn’t breathe. I could barely think straight. “That I wasn’t his daughter. That I was Anton’s.” I glanced up and frowned with shock and bewilderment. “If he knew about that, he never let on to my mom. She thought it was her secret. All her life, she was trying to protect him from the truth, but he knew . . . he always knew . . . and he pretended to believe that I was his.”
“But how could he have known,” Marco asked, “if your mother didn’t tell him?”
“Maybe because everyone says I look so much like Anton,” I replied. “It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out, given that he knew they’d had an affair and he was away in Paris. But why would he pretend not to know? Why would he never confront my mom about it?”
I read the letter a second time, which caused a fresh flood of anger to surge through my body. “And then he kept the truth from me because he wanted me to stay at home and look after him. He says it right here in black and white.” Lowering the letter, I turned to Marco. “I always felt so guilty about keeping that secret from him. I did it because I was protective of him, just like Mom was, and I didn’t want him to be hurt, but he knew the truth all along. And he didn’t care that I might want to know I had another father. That I might want to meet him.”
Marco shifted into a lower gear as he slowed down at a sharp turn. “We’re about five minutes away from Montepulciano. What are you going to do?”