“This is Hana,” RJ said, and Umberto nodded.

He tucked his hands between his knees. Glanced at the grotto, and his smile fell. He shook his head.

“Bisnonno!”

The shout came from a younger man, mid-thirties, dressed in jeans, work boots and a collared white shirt with the Mattucci Logo on the breast. “Sorry,” he said as he came closer. “My great-grandfather likes to wander off.” He came toward the older man, Italian on his lips, a smile, despite the scolding.

Umberto said something back to him and the man looked at RJ. “Why are you in the grotto?”

“The door was open.”

“Right. That accounts for it. Sometimes he forgets, or rather, remembers.” He reached out and helped the man up. “He thought you were Angelica.”

Really.

“I’m Bert. I’m the vinedresser here.” He held out his hand.

RJ shook it. “RJ. I’m…visiting.”

“Are you with the lunch group? I saw a car drive up.”

She got up, looked toward the house. Ziggy?

Or better, York.

“Pidyom, Hana,” she said and held out her hand.

Hana looked at her, but strangely, obeyed, slipping her hand into RJ’s, the kitty under the other arm.

“Nice to meet you Bert,” she said and turned toward the path.

“Mi dispiace! Mi dispiace.”

She turned, and to her horror, Umberto had his hand over his eyes, tenting them, clearly distraught.

Bert put his arm around the older man, speaking to him softly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. He just keeps saying he’s sorry.” He looked at RJ. “Don’t mind him. He’s caught in the past. I’ll take care of it.”

She paused but hadn’t a clue how to help.

“C’mon, Hana.”

They headed toward the house, but half-way there, the kitty squirmed away, and took off for the garden.

Hana pulled out of her hand.

“Ostaroshna!” RJ called. But really, Hana could hardly hurt herself out here.

She took off running toward the house, up the stairs to the pool area, past the summer kitchen, then out into the driveway.

A man stood with his back to her. Broad shoulders, wearing a hat, his hands in his pocket, talking with Tessa and Santini. Another man had walked away, standing where she had, admiring the postcard. He wore a suit. Dark hair, older. Held himself with a stiffness, as if the travel had taken a toll.

She slowed, her feet scuffing the gravel. Tessa looked up, as did Santini.

And then the man turned.

His face slacked, his mouth opening.

Her too. What—?

Slowly the man smiled, shook his head. And then world-famous action hero, Winchester Marshall said, “Hey Couz. What are you doing here?”

He’d had worse nights, but York had a hard time remembering when.