caught you off guard. And I wish I could tell you more about your inheritance, but I don’t know anything beyond what I’ve already said. It’s a bit complicated. Your father was a British national, so he had a British will. There’s a lawyer coming tomorrow with the actual documents. I’m just the messenger, trying to get everyone gathered here locally to hammer out the details.”
He was British? I’d always imagined him to be Italian.
Pressing my fist to my forehead, I tried to think this through. I had just been told that I was inheriting property in Italy from a virtual stranger. I had no idea how much it was worth, but I’d be a fool to turn it down. Heaven knew we needed the money. It wasn’t cheap, taking care of Dad.
So there it was. I had to accept the fact that I would need to book a flight to Italy straightaway, get time off work, and figure out how to explain all of this to Dad.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try and get on a flight today. Where am I going, exactly? What city?”
I heard papers shuffling on the other end of the line. “You should fly into Florence. I’ll arrange for a driver to pick you up and bring you to Montepulciano. Do you have an email address where I can send you some information and contact numbers? And do you have a cell phone number I can put in the file?”
“Yes.” I relayed all my contact information, and Ms. Moretti promised to send me a message in the next few minutes.
I ended the call and set the phone down in the cradle. For a moment, I sat on the bed, staring wide eyed at one of my paintings on the wall—the one that made me feel as if I were standing on the edge of a high, rocky coastline, staring out at the vast, stormy sea. I had painted it a year ago, shortly before Jamie and I split up. A chill seeped into my bones, and I shivered.
My biological father was dead, and for some reason, he had remembered me in his will.
I turned my face away from the painting and tossed the covers aside. Then I rose from bed, deciding that I would need coffee before I opened my laptop and started searching for flights. As I donned my bathrobe, the wind howled like a beast through the eaves, and I felt a dark cloud of sorrow settle over me.
He wasn’t really my father, I tried to tell myself, because what did blood tests and DNA results have to do with parenthood? I’d had no personal connection to the man, no love or loyalty, which were the benchmarks of a normal family. Ms. Moretti had used that word on the phone. She said, “There will be an official reading of the will with family members on Tuesday.” This included me.
I didn’t even know who these people were. His other children? My siblings, possibly? A wife? His brothers? Sisters? Cousins? I had no place among them, unless there might be other illegitimate children in attendance, like me. Perhaps then we might have something in common. But I had no idea. I knew nothing.
“You’re up early for a Sunday,” Dottie said when I entered the kitchen.
Dottie was our night shift nurse. She had been with Dad and me for many years, and I adored her because she was always cheerful. She sang show tunes while she worked, dyed her hair pink and purple, and flirted playfully with Dad, which always made him smile, even on the worst days. All our caregivers had been wonderful, but none, other than Dottie, ever lasted more than a year or two at most. They came and they went, which wasn’t entirely surprising. It was a tough gig, looking after a quadriplegic.
“Yes. Did you hear the phone ring?” I asked.
“I did, but you picked it up before I could get to it. Who in the world was calling at seven a.m. on a Sunday?”
Somehow, I managed to think on my feet. “My boss. But before I tell you about that, how’s Dad doing? Did he sleep okay last night?”
The last few nights had been rough, as he had a mild chest infection.
“Like a baby.”
“That’s good,” I replied, “because today’s movie day.”
Dad loved movies and live theater, and it was important for him to get out of the house now and again. Once a week, Jerry, our weekend caregiver, took him to a