Your father knew that. He trusted me with something once, something precious, and I failed him. But you, Nathan, you’re different.
You don’t want anything from me. I never have, grandfather. I know.
That’s why when the time comes you’ll trust me. Even when everyone else thinks you’re a fool. Now, holding that ticket, his words felt less like a memory and more like a message.
I picked up my phone and called my mother. I’m going, I said as soon as she answered. I knew you would, Grace replied without hesitation.
Your grandfather called me last month. He didn’t say much, just that I should support whatever decision you made after the funeral. Mom, this is crazy.
I can’t afford to miss work. I have responsibilities. Nathan, your father once told me that Roland wasn’t always the man we knew.
He said there was a before and after in his father’s life, and we only knew the after. Maybe this is about the before. I spent the next morning at Lincoln High arranging for a substitute teacher.
My principal, Dr. Washington, wasn’t happy about the sudden request, but I’d never taken a sick day in six years, so she grudgingly approved three days off. Three days to fly to Rome and figure out what game my grandfather was playing. Mr. Whitmore, you okay? asked Jasmine, one of my brightest students after my last class.
You seem different today. Just thinking about history, Jasmine. How sometimes the most important moments look like nothing when they’re happening.
I packed light, one carry-on bag with two changes of clothes, and my father’s old leather journal that I’d carried since his funeral. The Uber to Detroit. Metropolitan Airport cost me $32 I couldn’t spare, but I was already committed to this insanity.
At the gate, waiting to board, I pulled out the envelope again. That’s when I noticed something I’d missed before. In the corner, barely visible, was a tiny number written in pencil.
1947. The year Grandfather would have been 22. The year after he’d left the Navy, the flight attendant called my boarding group, and I got in line behind a family arguing about seating arrangements.
The mother was trying to juggle two kids while the father checked his phone obsessively. Normal people with normal problems, not wondering why their dead grandfather had sent them on a mysterious journey across the Atlantic. I found my seat, 32B, middle seat in the back of the plane.
Of course, Preston had been right about it being coach. The man to my left was already asleep and snoring. The woman to my right had claimed both armrests and was watching a movie on her iPad without headphones.
As the plane lifted off, Detroit shrinking below us, I thought about Preston, probably already in Grandfather’s office, sitting in his chair, feeling like a king. Mallory was definitely posting sunset photos from the yacht by now. Vernon and Beatrice were probably meeting with financial advisors about their newfound wealth.
And here I was, cramped in coach, flying toward a mystery with money I didn’t have to spare. But something felt right about it. For the first time since Grandfather died, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The flight attendant came by with drinks. Sir, something to drink? Just water, thanks. She handed me a bottle, and as I twisted it open, I remembered another chess lesson.
Grandfather had sacrificed his queen, the most powerful piece, to win a game. I’d been shocked, unable to understand why he’d give up so much. Power isn’t about what you have, Nathan, he’d explained.
It’s about what you’re willing to lose to gain something better. Most people can’t see past the loss, that’s why they never really win. The plane banked east, heading into the night, toward Rome and whatever Grandfather had hidden there.
My cousins thought they’d won everything that mattered. But as I settled in for the eight-hour flight, I had a feeling that Grandfather’s real game was just beginning, and I was the only piece he’d positioned to play it. The captain announced our cruising altitude, and I closed my eyes, my father’s journal pressed against my chest, trusting a dead man’s plan even though I couldn’t see the board.
The wheels touched down at Rome’s Fiumicino airport at exactly 3.07 p.m. local time. My legs were cramped, my back ached, and I’d barely slept during the eight-hour flight. The Italian announcements mixed with English as we taxied to the gate, and suddenly the reality hit me.
I was in Rome with no hotel reservation, no plan, and no idea what I was supposed to do next. Immigration was a blur of stamps and questions. Purpose of visit? the officer asked in accented English.
I honestly don’t know, I replied, too tired to lie. He looked at me strangely but stamped my passport anyway. Welcome to Italy.
I followed the crowd toward baggage claim, even though I only had my carry-on. The arrivals hall was chaos, families reuniting, drivers holding signs for business people, tourists looking lost. I was about to head for the exit when I saw it, a professionally printed sign reading, Nathan Whitmore, held by a man in an expensive black suit.
My heart stopped. I approached cautiously. I’m Nathan Whitmore.
The driver’s face lit up with relief. Mr. Whitmore, finally. Please, come quickly.
His English was heavily accented but clear. Who sent you? Your grandfather arranged everything months ago. My name is Lorenzo.
Please, we have a long drive. He took my bag before I could protest and led me outside to a black Mercedes sedan that probably cost more than I made in two years. The October air was warm, nothing like Detroit’s autumn chill.
Lorenzo opened the rear door for me and I slid on to leather seats that felt like clouds. Where are we going? I asked as he pulled away from the curb. Montefiore Estate, one hour north in the Sabin Hills.
I don’t understand. My grandfather never mentioned any estate in Italy. Lorenzo met my eyes in the rearview mirror.
Mr. Rowland, he owned the estate for forty-five years. He visit every September one week, always alone. Forty-five years.
That would mean since 1980 when I was negative twelve years old. The math didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.
We left Rome’s sprawl behind, climbing into hills covered with olive groves and vineyards. The landscape was almost painfully beautiful, like something from a movie about finding yourself in Italy. Lorenzo drove with Italian confidence, taking curves at speeds that made me grip the door handle.
How did you know my grandfather? I asked. My father was his driver first. When Papa died I take over.
Twenty years now I drive Mr. Rowland when he come. Twenty years of September visits that none of us knew about. What else had grandfather hidden? The road became narrower, winding through a small village where old men sat outside a cafe, watching us pass.
Then Lorenzo turned on to a private road lined with cypress trees. At the end electronic gates opened automatically, revealing a villa that took my breath away. Three stories of honey-colored stone, terraces overlooking endless vineyards, gardens that looked like they belonged in a Renaissance painting.
Lorenzo parked in front of massive wooden doors that had to be centuries old. Before I could process what I was seeing, the doors opened, and an elderly woman emerged. She was elegant in a way that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with grace, her silver hair pulled back in a simple bun, her eyes the same steel gray as grandfather’s.
She walked toward me slowly, tears streaming, down her face, and I knew before Lorenzo said the words that changed everything. Nathan, Lorenzo said softly, meet your grandmother Sophia Whitmore. The world tilted.
I actually reached for the car to steady myself. That’s impossible. My grandmother died before I was born.
Sophia reached me then, her hands taking mine, her grip surprisingly strong. Your American grandmother did die, Caro, but I am very much alive. Her accent was musical, her English perfect but formal.
She studied my face like she was memorizing it. You have his eyes, she whispered, but your father’s gentle spirit. Come inside, Nathan, there is so much to tell you.
The villa’s interior was understated elegance, nothing like the gaudy mansion Vernon and Beatrice owned. Sophia led me to a sitting room where the walls were covered with photographs. I saw my grandfather, young and laughing, standing in front of a small church.