I’d kept my old cell phone, even though I removed the SIM card, only for the messages on it that I’d saved as voice memos. One was from a woman I’d once considered my best friend.
On the days I felt homesick, I’d pull out the handful of things I’d held onto to remind me of my once-charmed life, turn on the phone, and listen. It always did the trick. Not only couldn’t I go back to the place I’d once considered home, but right now, I didn’t want to.
Tonight was one of the times when I found myself hovering on the edge of missing maybe not my home, but the four friends who had been closer to me than anyone in my family.
The pensione in Sienna, where I was spending the night, was empty but for me, so I went ahead and got my phone out, and hit play on the last message I got from Pen before disconnecting my cell service.
“Listen, Tara,” it began. “As much as we love you, none of us appreciate that instead of asking for help we would have gladly given, you chose to steal from us. The money isn’t important, but the bracelet you took from Aine is a family heirloom, and she’s devastated to have lost something so precious. Maybe you could just make sure she gets that back.”
I hadn’t taken anything from them, except for the money Quinn put in my bag and insisted I keep. I certainly wouldn’t have taken jewelry. That they’d so easily accused me, though, shattered my heart.
Any hope I’d held out that it was my imagination that we’d grown apart, dissipated in one voicemail. What stunned me almost more than anything else, was that Quinn had gone along with the accusations. She’d seen firsthand how upset and humiliated I was about my dad. How could she not have told Pen, Aine, and Ava that they had to be wrong?
Whether Aine found the bracelet, or they discovered someone else took it and the cash, or even if they’d called to apologize, I didn’t know and might not for quite some time.
I cried myself to sleep like I seemed to be doing more and more lately. When I woke the next morning, I decided to do something nice for myself and go wine tasting.
There hadn’t been time for me to visit wineries the last time I was in Italy. Actually, there had been, but my four travel companions hadn’t been interested, so I was outvoted. There were several I’d longed to see along the ancient consular route, Via Cassia, that passed through Val d’Orcia.
A tour company went to three that were in close proximity. Two, I’d never heard of, but the third was a place I’d always wanted to see—the Antica Cascina dei Conti di Valentini—which translated to the Ancient Farmhouse of the Counts of Valentini. From what I’d read, it was one of the few wineries remaining on the Via Cassia route that continued to produce wine the way it had been for hundreds of years. Many of the others had modernized, but they hadn’t.
The group I went with was small, made up mainly of older Americans. Since I spoke fluent Italian, I simply apologized for my limited understanding of English and they left me alone.
I sighed and looked out the window of the bus. Just being in Val d’Orcia, in the Central Italian region of Tuscany, was enough to soothe my soul. The rich green valley, which encompassed the Orcia River, was the perfect place for me to escape my dark thoughts.
This area was said to be the jewel of Tuscany, with medieval castles, ancient villages, gorgeous farmhouses, isolated homesteads, roads lined with cypress trees, fabulous vineyards and olive groves, and golden fields of grain and sunflowers.
I’d traveled many places, all over the world, but none compared to this.
When we drove through the gates of Valentini, I put my hand on my heart. It was so beautiful, it nearly brought me to tears. It was everything I’d imagined it to be and so much more.
I lingered behind, letting the rest of the group make their way into the winery and get settled before I followed.
“Buongiorno, welcome to Valentini,” said a woman, who looked to be about my age.
“It’s so beautiful,” I murmured, as much to myself as to her.
She came and stood beside me, taking in the same views I was. “It never fails to take my breath away, and I grew up here. I’m Pia Deltetto.”
I studied her instead of the view. “It’s so nice to meet you, Tara…err…Catarina Benedetto.”
“Are you with the group?” She motioned to the tasting room.
I sighed. “Yes, I suppose I should go in.” I realized she might think I wasn’t interested in tasting their wine. “I mean, I’ve wanted to visit Valentini for years…just not necessarily with a group.”
Pia smiled and looped her arm through mine. “For years? You look very young for your age, then. How about if we do a taste without the group?”
She led me into a small room off the main tasting area. “This is for our VIP customers,” she said, winking. “At Valentini, we limit our production to—”
“Brunello di Montalcino and Rosso di Montalcino.”
She raised a brow.
“I’m sorry I interrupted. Go ahead.”
Pia poured two glasses from an unmarked Jeroboam.
“This is our latest vintage of Brunello di Montalcino,” she said as we both swirled and sniffed.