The Director of Social Media had turned out to be a godsend, and Gregory had more than earned a promotion. There was little left for Meredith to do for the party than show up. And show up she would, with a handsome Scotsman on her arm. God, she missed Elliott.
The text message she’d just received said he’d be in an emergency board of directors meeting when she arrived later that night. He didn’t like the idea, but several owners of the horses who were killed were saber rattling, and the board needed to calm the owners’ nerves before they ran off to the courthouse to file lawsuits.
She hated to see the farm go bankrupt, but it wasn’t his farm, and he wasn’t liable for the debt. Her ancestor’s ghost concerned her, though. Would he stick around the farm? Maybe she could talk him into coming to California where he belonged. She laughed. Cullen Montgomery, ghost of MacKlenna Farm. Boy-oh-boy, she’d love to know how that came about. Since ghosts couldn’t talk, she was unlikely to find out.
Meredith strolled around the tent. The workers had just completed the construction of the dance floor on the north end facing the stage and were now working on the bar. For past events, the bar had been located at the opposite end from the dance floor. This year, Meredith had a circular bar designed for the center of the tent. The focal point was a twenty-foot tall bottle of Cailean rising from a platform built into the interior of the bar. Very impressive. The concealed wiring made it look suspended in thin air. She rubbed the chill bumps on her arms.
“What do you think, Ms. Montgomery?” the construction foreman asked as the final support went into place.
She took a deep breath. “It won’t fall down, will it?”
“No, ma’am. It’s in there pretty tight,” he said.
She kept on walking without fretting over a possible disaster in the making. The event’s hundred-pound-weight-of-worry was now on Gregory’s shoulders instead of hers. She had a different hundred-pound-weight that couldn’t be turned over to anyone else. Several extra pounds had been added to the weight a few minutes earlier when her OB/GYN called. One of the doctors treating her called once a day. She suspected they had set up a tag team.
Her OB/GYN had broken the news that the breast center had used radioactive dye during the sentinel lymph node biopsy after her pregnancy test came back negative, explaining that it was too soon after conception to give a positive reading.
“So what does that mean?” she had asked him.
“It may affect the fetus,” he had said. “We’ll be able to tell more in a few weeks.”
The news had left her stunned and shaking. Tears rolled down her cheeks now as she recalled the words: May affect the fetus.
Her legs moved faster. Fear crawled up her spine, scratching and gouging. At the entrance, she burst through the canvas door and followed the well-tended brick path lined with daffodils. The path snaked around the outside of the tent toward the blacktop road. The road led through miles of vineyards now alive with growing cover crops. She ran past the pruning crews, methodically cutting away. Some nodded. Some waved. They were used to seeing her run.
As her feet pounded the pavement, a thought repeatedly pounded her brain. May affect the fetus. One mile turned into four, then into six. And still she ran. May affect the fetus. Ten miles became twelve. In the warmer temperature, sweat poured off her body. When the Italian-style villa came into view, she slowed down and ran the final half mile at a comfortable pace. The vibrant wild mustard flowers bloomed, growing in rows between bare grape vines. Soon her vines would bloom, and another growing season would be upon them. This year, along with her grapes, her baby would grow, too.
When she hit the driveway, she slowed to a walk. The grounds crew was busy grooming her yard. In a few days, a thousand visitors would stream onto the property. A thousand people would taste her wine. A thousand people whose opinion mattered. Had she done all she could do? Probably not. But today she could live with that.
She entered the kitchen through the back door, grabbed a banana and bottle of chocolate milk—carbs and protein—then plopped down on the floor in her home office to stretch. She loved the joke: How do you tell you’re a runner? Answer: Because you know you should stretch, but don’t. As part of her new regime to reduce her stress, she stretched.
Now, sitting on the floor sipping milk, she rubbed her hand over her belly, something she found herself doing often. There was no baby bump, of course. Not yet. But she knew the little guy was there, depending on her to keep him healthy. She had to do all she could for him. She wouldn’t be bullied into treatment because it was good for her. Whatever she did had to be good for both of them.
“I don’t care what they say. You’ll be born healthy. You’ll survive.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Montgomery Winery – February 13
THE EXUBERANCE MEREDITH experienced following her run went to hell in a Gucci bag when the caterer had an attack during a telephone conference with her and had to be rushed to the hospital with nausea, vomiting, and pain radiating to the back.
Meredith paced in her office waiting for the caterer’s wife to call with a report, which she did three hours later.
“It’s pancreatitis caused by gallstones. He’ll be in the hospital for a week.”
Meredith broke down and cried. Not only was he the best caterer in the area, he was also an old friend.
Cate rushed into Meredith’s office after getting the news second hand. “He’ll be all right, and you have a Plan B caterer. You insisted I line one up. Cost a fortune, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Meredith nodded between sobs. “Get him on the phone.”
Cate handed Meredith a tissue. “I can’t right now. He’s on a flight from Mexico.”
“How do you know?”
“I called him yesterday to check on his schedule in case we needed him.”
Meredith wiped her eyes, but a fresh supply of tears took their place. “The contract said he had to stay in town.”
Cate turned to the catering tab in Meredith’s event notebook. She thumbed through the contract, then pointed to a paragraph on page two. “Only two days before the event.”
Meredith read the paragraph. “Did he negotiate that? I would have required a week.”
“You did, and he negotiated.”
Meredith finger-combed her hair, pulled it into a ponytail, twisted the tail into a bun, and secured it with a clip. “Get him here as soon as he lands.”
“I’ll send a car for him. And speaking of airports, it’s time for you to get out of here. Elliott’s waiting for you.”
Meredith scanned the contract to make sure there weren’t any surprises. “I need to talk to the caterer as soon as he arrives. Have him call me.”
Cate tugged on Meredith’s arm to get her up out of the chair, but Meredith wasn’t ready to leave. Cate tugged harder.
“Okay. I’m out of here,” Meredith said, “but only if you promise—”
Cate threw up her hands, shooing Meredith. “Go. I’ve got this under control.”
Meredith gave her assistant a long hug. They held on to each other. Cate wasn’t a runner. In fact, she hated all forms of exercise. In the past two years, the pounds had accumulated. Now as Meredith hugged her friend, Cate’s soft, full body wrapped Meredith in a warm embrace. She started crying again.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Meredith said. She had an ache in her chest from carrying such a huge secret. One of the hardest things she’d ever done, other than talk to Elliott about the cancer and pregnancy, was to not tell Cate. Although Meredith second guessed her decision, she knew it was the right thing to do. Putting up with Elliott’s pressure would probably become a full-time job. Adding Cate’s to the mix, well, that would be more than Meredith could handle.
On her way out the door, Cate handed her a file.
“Is this something I have to do, or can it wait?” Meredith asked.
“It’s the Montgomery family history that Gregory wrote from your notes
and the report from the genealogist. It’s very interesting.” Cate smiled. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Meredith put the file in her briefcase and noticed there was already a folder in the pocket. “What’s this?”
“Notes and copies you made in Edinburgh,” Cate said. “Knowing you, you’ll want to double check your notes while you’re reading.”
Meredith rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m so predictable.”
The intercom buzzed, and the receptionist said, “The car service just arrived.”
“Tell the driver I’m on my way out.”
“I could have driven you,” Cate said.
“Someone needs to stay here and get the work done.” Meredith hugged her assistant again. “If you need anything, call.”
Cate all but shoved Meredith out the front door. “Go. Enjoy your weekend. Get some rest.”
“Call me—”
“Go.” Cate closed the door, leaving Meredith on the porch alone.
“Oh, well,” she said, walking toward the limo. Two days of relaxing in Elliott’s arms. No talk of hospitals or serious discussions or life-altering decisions.
The driver held the door open, and she scooted into the backseat.
For two days, no stress, no worries.
Chapter Seventy
Montgomery Corporate Jet – February 13
WITHIN MOMENTS OF wheels up, Meredith opened her briefcase and pulled out the file Cate had given her.
Montgomery Winery has a rich heritage. It was the first premium winery and has become the most successful of all California wineries. The founder, lawyer and state senator Cullen Montgomery, was an early pioneer with an unquestionable love and commitment to California wine.
Senator Montgomery emigrated in the 1840s from Scotland and attended Harvard Law School. Following graduation, he pursued an opportunity to practice law in San Francisco. Leading a wagon train west in 1852, he met his wife, Kitherina MacKlenna from Lexington, Kentucky . . .
“What?” Meredith threw up her arms, and the papers scattered around the plane. “Kitherina MacKlenna? You’ve got to be kidding.” Meredith unbuckled her seatbelt, bent over, and collected the papers, which were now out of order. “Not that one.” She tossed pages aside. “Not that one. Not that one. Where the hell is page one?”
She glanced around the floor and spotted the edge of a piece of paper under the sofa. Hands shaking with anticipation, she snatched it off the floor and continued reading, her heart thumping in her chest.
After arriving in San Francisco, Montgomery hired John Barrett, a farmer who had traveled west with Montgomery. He also hired vintner Giuseppe Raimondo from Italy, who had come west following the forty-niners in search of gold in the hills of Northern California. Montgomery ultimately settled in Sonoma, where he founded Montgomery Winery in 1854. The winery is California’s oldest commercial winery and the oldest continuously run family winery.
Montgomery sent Raimondo on several trips to Europe to import cuttings from the greatest European vineyards, which were then planted all over Northern California. At his wife’s behest, Montgomery had extensive caves dug out for cellaring, which are still used today. He also promoted hillside planting. The rocky soils of Montgomery Winery currently produce some of the best California grapes on the market. The winemakers draw a rich palette of aromas to create wines of exceptional complexity.
It was rumored that Mrs. Montgomery had unusual gifts and was able to predict the phenomenal growth of the wine industry. The winery currently has 10,545 acres throughout the cool California coastal regions.
The Montgomerys had four children. Their only son, Thomas, continued the family business. The winery not only endured but prospered, and now celebrates 160 years of continuous wine making in the valley.
Meredith fanned herself with the papers. “Were there other MacKlennas in Lexington? Or was Kitherina James MacKlenna’s daughter or granddaughter?” If she was from that branch of the family, then the ghost mystery was solved.
Meredith leaned back against the head rest, closed her eyes, and tried to put the dots together, but gaps existed. Why would a young, single woman travel west in the mid-eighteen hundreds?
Who at MacKlenna Farm would know the family history? Maybe the old journals in the library that Elliott mentioned would have information. Now that she knew what she was looking for, the search might be easier.
She put the file back into her briefcase and pulled out the other file. Several pages were paper-clipped together. The copies she had made for Elliott at the Registry House were placed on top. Gregory had read those, too, and highlighted paragraphs. One paragraph in particular had red and yellow underlining. She read the paragraph, then read it again. Stunned and speechless.
If MacKlenna Farm files for bankruptcy, this will make a difference.
After a long moment, she had to laugh. Surely Elliott would see the humor. “Who’s the last MacKlenna now?” She put the file away, closed her eyes, and quickly fell asleep, dreaming of Kitherina MacKlenna Montgomery and a little boy from the Highlands born on the wrong side of the sheets.
Chapter Seventy-One
MacKlenna Farm – February 13
MEREDITH’S PLANE LANDED at Bluegrass Airport at ten o’clock that evening. The cabin door swung open, and she found David waiting at the bottom of the steps. Her body slumped with disappointment. Although Elliott had sent a text at eight saying he was still in a meeting, she held out hope that it would adjourn in time for him to meet her plane. She had amazing news to tell him.
A brisk wind whipped around her, and she shivered. “It’s cold.” She crossed her arms and held them close to her body. Thank goodness Napa wasn’t like this. No one would come to the launch. “Any idea how much longer the meeting will last?” she asked David.
He shook his head. “Could be over by the time we get back or it could last ‘til midnight.”
“No hand signals among the participants,” Meredith asked, teasingly.
“I wasn’t asked to sit in.”
“I can’t tell whether you’re relieved or disappointed.”
“It makes me less effective when I’m out of the loop.”
David had left the engine running, and the car’s interior was toasty warm. “Doesn’t he tell you everything that happens in meetings?” Meredith asked.
“I miss the innuendo and body language. That’s often more telling than words.” David closed her door and went back to the plane for her luggage.
Five minutes later, they were off the airport property and on their way back to the farm. “Do you need to stop for anything?” he asked.
“Oh, thanks for reminding me. I need a drug store, Walmart, or Target. I went off without shampoo.”
“There’re several bottles in Kit’s bathroom,” David said.
“Good. I’m sure whatever’s there will work. She won’t mind, will she?”
“Not even a wee bit.”
In the last few weeks, she’d seen a side of David she would never have thought possible. The man she met the first night she went to dinner with Elliott seemed entirely too serious, almost dangerous. But the man she now knew was both devoted and loving, and she trusted him explicitly.
Thirty minutes later, they pulled into the triple garage at MacKlenna Mansion. She climbed out of the car. David reached for her computer bag. “Let me carry that,” he said.
“I’m not an invalid.”
David gazed at her with his Superman stare. She assumed his eyes could see straight through her. A few weeks ago, she’d have stepped back out of his way. Now, she knew that underneath his special agent facade, he was nothing more than a pussycat.
“If I’m around, ye’ carry nothing.”
She didn’t hesitate letting go of the straps.
“I’ll take yer bags to Kit’s room.”
When she entered the house, she was met with an eerie silence. Her hands instinctively cradled her belly. The welcome home feeling, as if she’d stepped into a tub of
warm water, had disappeared. The mansion seemed scrubbed clean of all that had defined it, leaving it cold and musty and just plain old.
Feeling out of sorts, confused, she dropped into a chair in the hallway and glanced around the foyer. The room, decorated in vivid greens and golds with polished antiques in pristine condition, was as beautiful as ever, but the house no longer breathed with life and certainty. Someone had sucked out its soul, or the house had given up, believing there was nothing in the future that held the splendor of the past.
Tears slid down Meredith’s cheeks. You’re dying. Whoever had killed the horses had killed the mansion, too. The tall windows and Doric columns—the venerable old soldiers standing guard on the portico—had opened the door to the enemy.
“Meow.”
“Hi, Tabor.” The cat jumped into her lap. “You feel it, too, don’t you?” Meredith rubbed her fingers through his thick fur.
“Meow.”
“Where’s Tate?”
“That spoiled dog is probably at the stallion complex. That’s where they’re meeting,” David said.
The smell of lemon polish made her stomach queasy. It rumbled with an embarrassing roar. Tabor jumped off her lap, and Meredith ran for the steps, gagging.
David ran after her. “What’s wrong?”
Kit’s bathroom was the closest. She dashed into the room. David switched on the light in time for her to throw up in the toilet. He wet a washcloth in the sink. “Here.”
She lowered the lid and sat, leaning forward between her legs with her elbows on her knees and her hands pressing the cloth against her forehead. “I’m so frigging tired of being sick.”
“Morning sickness passes after a few weeks,” he said.
“If I have chemo, I’ll be just as sick or sicker.”
David took the washcloth and freshened it. “Do ye’ want a 7-Up? That helps settle the stomach.”
The Last MacKlenna Page 38
