The Villa

by Nora Roberts

  changed. I can't make the damn computer work, and I don't know the language, even the purpose half the time. Instead of rapping my knuckles over my mistakes as she should, she's patting my head because she doesn't want to upset me. And she's the one who's upset, and I can't help her."

  She pressed her fingers to her temple. "So I run away. I'm so goddamn good at running away. I'm out here right now so that I don't have to face her. She's making herself sick over Tony, trying to stop Rene from claiming his body. She can't grieve, won't let herself. There's no closure, and won't be any until the police… But she needs this rite, this ritual, and Rene won't have it."

  "She needs to deal with it in her own way. You know that. Just as you need to deal with it in yours."

  "I don't know what mine is. I should go in. I have to find the right words."

  Unwilling to leave her alone, David walked with her toward the house. "Pilar, do you think Sophia doesn't know what she means to you?"

  "She knows. Just as she knows what she didn't mean to her father. It's difficult for a child to live with that."

  "I know it. But they do."

  She stopped on the side terrace, turned to him. "Are you ever afraid you're not enough for them?"

  "Every day."

  She let out a half-laugh. "It's terrible of me, but it's a relief to hear you say that." She opened the side door to see Sophia on the sofa, her face stark white, with Linc Moore beside her, gripping her hand.

  "What is it?" Pilar rushed across the room, crouched in front of her daughter. "Oh baby, what is it?"

  "We were too late. Linc tried. He even got a temporary restraining order, but it was too late. She's had him cremated, Mama. She'd already arranged for it before…"

  "I'm sorry." Still holding Sophia's hand, Linc reached out to Pilar. "She had him taken straight to the crematorium. It was already begun before we had the temporary restraining order."

  "He's gone, Mama."

  Chapter Eleven

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  Over the long winter, the vines slept. The fields stretched, acre upon acre, drinking the rains, hardening under frosts, softening again with the quick and teasing warm snaps.

  For a farmer, for a crop, the year was a circle to be repeated over and over, with the variations and surprises, the pleasures and the tragedies absorbed into the whole.

  Life was a continuing spiral running round.

  Toward February, heavy rains delayed the pruning cycle and brought both frustration and that wet winter promise of a good harvest. The fields and mountains smoked with mists.

  February was for waiting. For some, it seemed the waiting had already lasted forever.

  On the third floor of Villa Giambelli, Tereza kept her office. She preferred the third floor, away from the hive of the house. And she loved her lofty view from the windows of all that was hers.

  Every day she climbed the steps, a good discipline for the body, and worked there for three hours. Never less, and rarely these days, more. The room was comfortable. She believed comfortable surroundings increased productivity. She also believed in indulging herself where it mattered to her.

  The desk had been her father's. It was old, the oak dark and the drawers deep. That was tradition. On it sat a two-line phone and a high-powered computer. That was progress.

  Beneath it, old Sally snored quietly. That was home.

  She believed, absolutely, in all three.

  Because she did, her office was now occupied by her husband and his grandson, her daughter and granddaughter and David Cutter and Paulo Borelli.

  The old and the new, she thought.

  She waited while coffee was served and the rain beat like soft fists on the roof and windows.

  "Thank you, Maria." That signaled the end of the social interlude and the beginning of business. Tereza folded her hands as the housekeeper slipped out, shutting the door.

  "I'm sorry," she began, "we've been unable to meet in total before this. The loss of Sophia's father, and the circumstances of his death, postponed certain areas of business. And Eli's recent illness prevented holding this meeting."

  She glanced toward him now. He still looked a bit frail to her. The cold had turned so quickly into fever and chills, she'd been frightened.

  "I'm fine," he said, more to reassure her than the rest. "A little shaky on my pins yet, but coming 'round. A man doesn't have any choice but to come around when he's got so many nurses pecking at him."

  She smiled, because he wanted her to, but she heard the faint wheeze in his chest. "While Eli was recuperating, I've kept him as current as possible on the movements of business. Sophia, I have your report, and your projections regarding the centennial campaign. While we'll also discuss this individually, I'd like you to bring everyone up to date."

  "Of course." Sophia got to her feet, opened a portfolio that contained mock-ups of the ads, along with full target reports on message, consumer statistics and the venues selected.

  "Phase one of the campaign will begin in June with advertising placed as indicated in your packets," she began as she passed the packets around. "We've created a three-pronged campaign, targeting our high-end consumer, our middle line and the most elusive, the young, casual wine drinker on a limited budget."

  While she spoke, Tyler tuned her out. He'd heard the pitch before. Had, God help him, been in on various stages of its development. The exposure had taught him the value of what she did, but he couldn't drum up any real interest in it.

  Long-range weather reports forecasted a warming trend. Too much, too soon would tease some of the grape varieties out of dormancy. He needed to keep a keen eye out for that, for the telltale signs of that slight movement in the buds, for the soft bleeding at the pruning cuts.

  An early break meant the danger of frost damage.

  He was prepared to deal with that, when the time came, but…

  "I see we're keeping Tyler awake," Sophia said sweetly, and snapped him back.

  "No, you're not. But since you interrupted my nap, the second phase deals with public participation. Wine tastings, vineyard tours, social events, auctions, galas—both here and in Italy—which generate publicity."

  He rose to get more coffee from the cart. "Sophia knows what she's doing. I don't think anyone here's going to argue that."

  "And in the fields?" Tereza asked. "Does Sophia know what she's doing?"

  He took his time, sipped his coffee. "She's all right, for an apprentice field hand."

  "Please, Ty, you'll embarrass me with all those fulsome compliments."

  "Very well," Tereza murmured. "David? Comments on the campaign?"

  "Clever, classy, thorough. My only concern, as a father of teenagers, is that the ads targeting the twenty-one to thirty market make wine look like a hell of a good time."

  "Which it is," Sophia pointed out.

  "And which we want to project it to be," he agreed. "But I'm wary about making the ads so slick and appealing to a young audience that those still too young will be influenced. That's the father talking," he admitted. "But I was also a boy who if and when I wanted to drink myself sick, did so without any marketing influence whatsoever."

  Pilar made a little sound, then subsided. But as David sat beside her, had made certain he sat beside her, he heard it. "Pilar? Thoughts?"

  "No, I was just… well, actually, I think the campaign's wonderful, and I know how hard Sophie's worked on it—and Ty, of course, and her team. But I think David has a valid point about this, well, third prong. It's difficult to market something that appeals to the young market group without luring the inappropriate ages in. If we could do some sort of disclaimer…"

  "Disclaimers are boring and dilute the message," Sophia began, but she pursed her lips as she sat again. "Unless we make it fun, witty, responsible and something that blends with the message. Let me think about it."

  "Good. Now, Paulie."

  Now it was Sophia who tuned out while the foreman spoke of the vines, of various vintages being t
ested in the casks and tanks.

  Age, she thought. Age. Vintage. Ripeness. Perfection. She needed the hook. Patience. Good wine takes patience to make. Rewards. Age, rewards, patience. She'd find it.

  Her fingers itched to get out her pen and scribble. She worked better if she set words down, saw them on paper. She got up for more coffee and, with her back to the room, scrawled quickly on a napkin.

  Paulie was excused and David called up. Instead of the marketing projections, the cost analyses, the forecasts and numbers Sophia had expected, her grandmother set his written report aside.

  "We'll deal with this later. At the moment I'd like your evaluation of our key people here."

  "You have my written reports on that as well, La Signora."

  "I do," she agreed, and simply lifted her eyebrows.

  "All right. Tyler doesn't need me in the vineyards, and he knows it. The fact that it's my job to oversee them and I'm another competent pair of hands hasn't yet taken the edge off his resistance. A resistance I can't blame him for, but that does get in the way of efficiency. Other than that, the MacMillan vineyards are as well run as any I've ever been associated with. As are Giambelli's. Adjustments are still being made, but his work on merging the operations, coordinating crews is excellent.

  "Sophia does well enough in the vineyard, though it's not her strength. Just as the marketing and promotion isn't Tyler's. The fact that she carries the weight there, as he does in the field, results in a reasonably good and surprisingly interesting blend. However, there are some difficulties in the offices in San Francisco."

  "I'm aware of the difficulties," Sophia said. "I'm handling them."

  "Her," David corrected. "Sophia, you have a difficult, angry, uncooperative employee who's been trying for several weeks to undermine your authority."

  "I have a meeting set up with her tomorrow afternoon. I know my people, David. I know how to deal with this."

  "Are you interested in how I know just how difficult, angry and uncooperative Kristin Drake's been?" He waited a beat. "She's been talking to other companies. Her résumé’s landed on half a dozen desks in the last two weeks. One of my sources at La Coeur tells me she's making a number of claims and accusations, with you her favorite target, when she thinks she has the right ear."

  Sophia absorbed the betrayal, the disappointment, and nodded. "I'll deal with her."

  "See that you do," Tereza advised. "If an employee can't be loyal, at least she must be dignified. We won't tolerate a staff member using gossip or innuendo as a bargaining chip for a position with another company. And Pilar?"

  "She's learning," David said. "Business isn't her strong suit. I think you misuse her, La Signora."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "In my opinion, your daughter would be more suited as a spokesperson, a liaison for the company where her charm and her elegance wouldn't be wasted as they are working at a keyboard. I wonder that you don't ask Pilar to help with the tours and the tastings, where visitors could be treated to her company and have the extra benefit of personal contact with a member of the family. She's an excellent hostess, La Signora. She is not an excellent clerk."

  "You're saying I've made a mistake expecting my daughter to learn the business of the Company?"

  "Yes," David said easily and made Eli fall into a fit of coughing.

  "Sorry, sorry." He waved a hand as Tyler leaped up to pour him a glass of water. "Tried to suck down that laugh. Shouldn't. Christ, Tereza, he's right and you know it." He took the glass from Tyler, sipped carefully until the pressure in his chest eased. "Hates to be wrong, and hardly ever is. Sophia? How's your mama working out as your assistant here?"

  "She's hardly had time to… She's terrible," Sophia admitted and burst out laughing. "Oh, Mama, I'm so sorry, but you're just the worst office assistant ever created. I couldn't send you into the city to work with my team in a million years. You have ideas," she added, concerned when her mother said nothing. "Just like today, about the disclaimer. But you won't mention them unless you're pinned, and even then you don't know how to implement. More than all of that, you hate every minute you're stuck in my office."

  "I'm trying. And obviously failing," she said as she got to her feet.

  "Mama—"

  "No, that's all right. I'd rather you be honest than patronize me. Let me make this easier on everyone involved. I quit. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go find something to do that I'm good at. Like, sit somewhere looking elegant and charming."

  "I'll go talk to her," Sophia began.

  "You won't." Tereza lifted a hand. "She's a grown woman, not a child to be placated. Sit. We'll finish the meeting."

  It was, Tereza thought as she lifted her coffee, encouraging to see her daughter show a snap of temper and a hint of spine.

  Finally.

  He didn't have time to smooth ruffled feathers, but since he felt he'd had some part in the ruffling, David sought Pilar out. Over the past weeks, Maria had become one of his conduits of news and family dynamics. With her help, he tracked Pilar down in the greenhouse.

  He found her there wearing gardening gloves and an apron, repotting seedlings she'd started from cuttings.

  "Got a minute?"

  "I have all the time in the world," she said without sparing him a glance or an ounce of warmth. "I don't do anything."

  "You don't do anything in an office that satisfies you or accomplishes a goal. That's different. I'm sorry my evaluation hurt your feelings, but—"

  "But it's business." She looked at him now, dead on.

  "Yeah. It's business. You want to type and file, Pilar? To sit in on meetings about publicity campaigns and marketing strategies?"

  "I want to feel useful." She tossed down her little spade. Did they think she was like the flowers she tended here? she wondered. Did she? Something that required a controlled climate and careful handling to do nothing but look attractive in a nice setting?

  "I'm tired. Sick and tired of being made to feel as if I have nothing to offer. No skills, no talents, no brains."

  "Then you weren't listening."

  "Oh, I heard you." She yanked off her gloves, tossed them down as well. "I'm to be charming and elegant. Like some well-tailored doll that can be plunked down at the right time and the right place, and tucked away in the closet the rest of the time. Well, no thanks. I've been tucked away quite long enough."

  She started to push by him, yanked her arm when he closed his hand over it. Then stared in shock as he simply took her other arm and held her in place.

  No one handled her. It simply wasn't done.

  "Just hold on."

  "Take your hands off me."

  "In a minute. First, charm is a talent. Elegance is a skill. And it takes brains to know the right thing to say at the right time, and to make people feel welcome. You're good at those things, so why not use them? Second, if you think handling tourists and accounts at tastings and tours is fluff work, you'll find out different if you work up the guts to try it."

  "I don't need you to tell me—"

  "Apparently you do."

  She nearly gaped when he cut her off. It was something else rarely done. And she remembered just how he'd dealt with Tony the night of the party. He was using that same cold, clean slice with her now.

  "I'll remind you, I don't work for you."

  "I'll remind you," he countered, "essentially you do. Unless you're going to stalk off like a spoiled child, you'll continue to work for me."

  "Va' al diavolo."

  "I don't have time for a trip to hell just now," he said equably. "I'm suggesting you put your talents in the proper arena. You need to know the business to handle the winery tours, have the patience to answer questions you'll hear over and over again. To push the product without appearing to push it. To be gracious,