Page 8 of The Fall Affair

I have a lot to tell you, but first off, I’ve left you everything—the antique shop, some land, my hunk of junk car, and probably some risqué pictures of your grandfather when he was in the military. I should’ve gotten rid of those years ago, but the ladder to the attic broke and, well, you know me. I hate asking people for help. There might be some treasures in the antique shop. There might be a tax audit, too. Either way, you’re gonna be busy for a while. But it’ll be a good busy, not the kind you’ve been living up there in the big city the last few years. Which brings me to my next line of business—a little caveat to your inheritance…

Life’s too short to work all the time. Unless you work at the male strip club and you’re paid in gelato. But that’s not what you’ve been doing. So, in order for you to receive your inheritance, you’re going to have to slow down for a bit, come to Tuscany for a while. Three months, to be exact. You can stay forever if you want, but after three months, everything is yours.

And as long as I’m giving advice, I have some more. This has nothing to do with your inheritance, just good wisdom that deserves to be shared.

–Always wear lipstick to the grocery store. You never know when you will run into your past or your future.

–Don’t trust people who don’t consume wine or carbs. Both are red flags.

–Pick a man who can unclog a sink, change a tire, and make you laugh when you’re furious.

–Always keep ten bucks in your bra. You never know when you’ll need a bribe or a cannoli.

And lastly, wear the dress, eat the dessert, and kiss a few frogs. All three will help you find Mr. Right.

All my love,

Nonna

I sat back and let her words sink in before reading the letter a second time. They didn’t make women like my grandmother anymore. Even in her mid-seventies—which was sadly the last time I’d seen her—she’d been a force to be reckoned with. Red lipstick, waist-cinching dress, and silver hair styled like an old-time movie star. And that was just for weeding the vegetable garden. A collection of silver bangles on her wrists left a soft jingle in her wake wherever she went, along with the scent of her gardenia perfume.

She didn’t believe in Wi-Fi, therapy, or going out after five p.m. in flat shoes. But most of all, she didn’t believe in shortcuts. She sewed her own dresses, baked from scratch, and balanced her checkbook by hand. If she got stuck on the side of the road, she could’ve changed her own tire in heels, but she didn’t have to, because men fell over themselves to do things for her. Once, when I was visiting, I watched her easily pick up a lemon tree growing in a terra-cotta planter and move it into the sun. A few hours later, a handsome man in his late sixties came over and moved it again. When I’d asked her why she didn’t ask me to help if it was too heavy, she’d flashed her sly smile and said, “I could do it myself, but sometimes you have to let men feel useful.”

She was a walking contradiction—white gloves in church covering callused hands, rosary beads in her purse next to a flask, and the manners of a refined lady with the sharp tongue of a truck driver. My nonna was magic. She left a little sparkle wherever she went.

I let myself bask in the memories for a while. The inside of my chest felt warm and heavy as I read the letter a third time. After, I went through the translated will. It pretty much said what the attorney had written in his note. I give, devise, and bequeath all of my estate, both real and personal, of whatsoever kind and wheresoever situated, to my granddaughter, Allegra Bianchi, absolutely and in fee simple once the conditions precedent outlined below are met.

There weren’t any more details about the property mentioned in the attorney’s letter, so I’d have to give him a call. It was almost six o’clock in Rome, but I had nothing better to do, so I dialed the number at the top of the letterhead. I’d at least leave a message. I was surprised when a woman answered.

“Buonasera, Fanelli, Otoni e Armonk, sono la Signora Antonucci, come posso aiutarla?”

I hesitated. My Italian had never been that great. “Buonasera. Parli Inglese?”

“Sì,” the woman said. “Hello. How may I help?”

“Oh, great. Thank you. My name is Allegra Bianchi. I’d like to speak to Antonio Fanelli. I’m calling regarding a letter I received about an inheritance from my grandmother, Sophia Bianchi.”

“Ah, yes. Mrs. Bianchi. The best torta di ricotta e spinaci in the world.”

I smiled. My grandmother always brought a homemade ricotta and spinach pie with her whenever she was going anywhere. I guess law firms were no exception. “Yes, she was an amazing cook.”

“Let me get Mr. Fanelli for you. He’s on the other line, but he can hang up.”

“Oh, uh, that’s not necessary. I can wait or he can call me back.”

“You’re calling from America, yes?”

“I am, but—”

“Then he can hang up. His wife, she calls too much anyway. Hang on.”

She put me on hold, and I thought about how different things were at my firm—or my ex-firm, I should say. No one came to visit with homemade baked goods, and the receptionist would never interrupt a partner on a call with his wife to speak to a random client.

A minute later, a deep voice came on the line. “Ms. Bianchi?”

“Yes, hello.”

“I take it you received my letter.”