“No, but the girl at reception said she checked in last night. They put her in room seven. Fourth floor.”
“Did they now?” Sloane draped her blazer over her arm. “What do you think he left to her, anyway? The lawyer said it was a piece of property.”
Connor slowly paced around on the grass. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t even know what else he’s accumulated lately. He was always picking up vineyards here, there, and everywhere in different regions, adding to the brand. Maybe he left her a little patch of something in Chianti territory. A cute little yellow house with green-painted shutters. Or maybe he left her a flat he bought for one of his mistresses. Or it could be one of the London properties.”
Sloane frowned. “No. He wouldn’t have. Do you think?”
Connor shrugged. “I don’t know. He rewrote the will in the UK. Maybe that’s why.”
Sloane’s mouth fell open slightly, and she inclined her head. “Connor. You don’t think he would have left her the Belgravia house, do you? Where would we stay when we went there? Ruth lives all the way out in Richmond. Not with Aunt Mabel, surely. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes. Dad knew that.”
Connor removed his sunglasses and polished the lenses. “Do you know what Aunt Mabel’s house needs?”
“What?”
He put his sunglasses back on and squinted up at the sky. “A wrecking ball.”
Sloane felt a little guilty for chuckling. “I can’t disagree. At least it would get rid of the embarrassing eighties vibe she’s got going on in the kitchen.”
Connor looked down at the grass. “That would be cruel, though. Poor Aunt Mabel loves that moldy old dump.”
“Some people just can’t be helped.”
Chloe laughed out loud and inched closer to her brother to show him something on her phone. Evan glanced at it, was unresponsive, then returned his attention to his own screen.
“Look, how adorable is that?” Connor said. “They’re sharing. See? They’re not complete social misfits.”
“You’re a skunk.”
“No. That would imply that I smell bad, and we both know that I smell great today.”
“Do you?” Sloane replied. “What is that you’re wearing? Eau de Gigantic Inheritance?”
Connor sniffed his wrist and held it out to Sloane, who also sniffed it. “It’s nice, you have to admit.”
“Sure.” Sloane glanced back at the villa, which stood majestically against the blue sky, and stared at it for a long time.
Connor watched her with some concern. He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Earth to Sloane. You’re not going to get all sentimental on me, are you?”
“And change my mind about selling?” she asked. Keenly aware of his scrutiny, she chose not to answer the question.
“Sloane!”
She turned to him. “What?”
“I don’t like the look on your face.”
“Why not?”
He narrowed his eyes, as if warning her, and she surrendered with a sigh of defeat.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. “What if it’s a mistake? Maybe we should think about it before we call the sales agent.”
“No. We’re not doing that. Are you insane?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know . . . we had some good times here, didn’t we? When we were kids? Don’t you remember when Dad used to let you drive the tractor around the vineyards? And Maria . . . she was always so good to us. It was nice to see her after all these years. She looks good, don’t you think? She put on a little weight, but otherwise she’s aging well.”
Connor placed his hand on Sloane’s shoulder and squeezed it, none too gently. “You’re just emotional after the funeral. Trust me, it will pass.”
“Will it?” She raised an eyebrow as she touched the soft leaves of a low-hanging olive branch. “What if we keep the winery and run the business together? Think about it, Connor. It’s a well-oiled machine with all the managers in place. His driver—what’s his name? He said it would be business as usual without Dad here. They have everything under control. If we keep it, we could come here whenever we want, and our kids could get away from LA and learn something about farming and wine making and Italian cooking. It would be so much fun for them.”
“You keep forgetting that I don’t have kids,” Connor said. “And if fun is what you want, you can use the proceeds from the sale to buy Chloe and Evan their very own theme park. It would be a hell of a lot closer to home, and you wouldn’t have to deal with jet lag.”
Sloane gave her brother a brutal stare. “I don’t want to buy them a theme park.”
“No? Then buy them a hobby farm or a petting zoo. Something where we don’t have to work so hard to manage it. Come on, Sloane. Don’t be an idiot. You hate having to work.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It just makes me feel kind of dirty, liquidating our father’s life’s work for cash. Part of me would like for Chloe and Evan to come here for their vacations, like we did when we were their age.”
“Sloane. We hated it here.”
“Only when we were teenagers.”
“Seriously, when was the last time you came here by choice? Right. Never. Dad always said there was an open invitation, but neither of us ever took him up on it.”
“That’s because he was here, and I was still mad at him about the divorce and what he did to Mom. But now he’s not here.”
“Ooh!” Connor laughed. “That was cold. So much for feeling sentimental.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, covering her face with her hands. “What I meant to say is that . . . I regret that we let things fester, and now he’s gone and there’s no way to fix it. But that’s beside the point.” She lowered her hands to her sides.
“What is the point, exactly?”
“That I don’t think we should rush into selling, and if you insist on it”—she paused and folded her arms—“I might have to fight you, because I feel like this winery should stay in the family.”
Connor’s head drew back in surprise. “Wow. I’m impressed. Is this big sister playing hardball?”
“Maybe.”
He inclined his head. “You’re assuming he left us equal portions. Maybe he left the winery to me and the Belgravia house to you. We don’t know.”
His crooked smile aroused in Sloane an irrepressible urge to smack him on the ear and fight like they used to do when they were children, when he’d yank her hair and she would scream at him, and they would end up wrestling on the floor until someone pulled them apart.
Sloane checked her watch. “We should probably go inside.”
“Yep. It’s time to cash in our chips.”
Sloane called her children to follow them back to the house but found herself looking around with wonder at the rolling hills and valleys and the ancient stones on the back terrace as they made their way to the door.
She’d never truly appreciated any of this before. Admittedly, she’d been blind to it in her youth and had taken it for granted. And she had never really considered the yearly income from the wine business. She was aware that some of her father’s bottles sold for $600 in LA restaurants. She was always quite proud of that, and Alan enjoyed mentioning it to his colleagues at business dinners—that Maurizio Wines belonged to his father-in-law.