“Did you know that some poor chump shoveled thirty-five tons of coal in three weeks to run the fog whistle here.” He ran the telephoto out and searched the beach. Not a single woman walked on the beach.
No point in even looking; Cassidy was at thirty-five thousand feet zooming from California to Italy. The wineries were really courting her hard. She’d had a half dozen offers in the last fifteen days, sight unseen. They both knew that she was going to end up in California; the Italy trip was only because she’d committed to go in the initial flush of excitement.
Angelo steered up into the wind a bit making him reset the sails. “Why are you changing the subject?”
“What subject?” Russell didn’t want to talk about this with Angelo.
“Why didn’t you ask her to marry you?”
He really, really didn’t want to talk about this.
Cassidy held the letter in her lap.
She’d promised Russell that she wouldn’t read it without him, but it was the first of the month and here it was in her lap. He’d insisted that she wait a week. He would come over after her interviews were done and they’d go and play along the Amalfi coast for a week. He’d bring photos of the lighthouse and be there while she read the letter.
She knew he wanted to protect her from whatever the next letter held. And he’d been kind enough to insist without throwing her last debacle in her face—forty-three bottles, almost six thousand dollars in wine, some of it irreplaceable. Worst of all, it had been days before she could face drinking any wine at all. By the time she could, everything she’d opened that night had gone bad.
No, she was strong enough to do this on her own. She didn’t need to depend on Mr. Russell Morgan for strength, no matter how sweet he was about it.
She checked her watch—ten a.m. west coast time. Just about right for Russell to be sailing by the lighthouse.
She tore open the letter. The scrawled hand was weaker and her heart twisted to imagine her father’s efforts to scribe even these few words. It was shorter than any prior letter. Even the sentences were shorter. As if he had to rest between each thought.
Dearest Ice Sweet,
There is a truth that I have learned. Be true to your passion. Your mother was true to her great love for family. I loved the vines. Each of us had full, complete lives. We were true to our passion, in whatever form it took.
Your passion isn’t the vine, it’s the wine. And the writing. Look at why you like it. That is the passion. I thought my passion was Knowles Valley. But it wasn’t. It was the vines. I was never happier than when I was walking the rows. California or Bainbridge. For me, it was the vines and you.
Love you Ice Sweet,
Vic
“I know what’s important, Daddy. Truly I do.” She would listen to what the Italians had to say, but she knew what was important.
Russell took his bottle of Coke and rolled it slowly back and forth between his palms. The cool glass felt good despite the fall day.
“She’s over the Atlantic somewhere right now. That’s a bit out of reach. I’ll ask her when I see her next week.”
“You know where you’re going yet?”
She was going to meet his plane at Sienna airport with a rental car. They’d poke along the Amalfi coast, or slide over to Monaco and the French Riviera. A whole week, just the two of them and Italy—that’s all he cared about.
“I’ll know when the time is right. When the mood is right.”
Angelo swore loudly, waved for him to take the tiller, and went below. The Lady slipped along the shore and Russell fell back to watching the lighthouse slip slowly by. It was a sweet one—all alone at the foot of the hill, guarding the far end of a long, lonely beach road.
Angelo came back on deck after several minutes and shoved a cell phone into his hand.
It was active. He put it to his ear and it was ringing. He looked to his friend, but Angelo just took the tiller and focused on the way ahead.
“Uh, hello?”
“Hi, who is this?”
“You called me.” The voice was crackly and there was a funny lag.
“Cassidy?”
“How did you call me?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. I was just sitting here and the phone that’s mounted on the headrest in front of me rang.”
“Uh,” Angelo was one sneaky, really good friend. “I miss you. Guess I just wanted to hear your voice. Ange...” Angelo kicked his shin. “Uh, I figured if you could call out from a plane, you could probably call back the other way.”
“It’s nice to hear your voice, too. I’ll be on the ground pretty soon, we’re over Sardinia now.”
“Cassidy, I was wondering…” He wanted to do this when she was sitting across from him, holding his hand or playing footsie under the tablecloth. Something.
“What?”
“If, ah…”
“You’re still coming next week?” The worry in her voice gave him confidence.
“Of course. Can’t wait.”
“I’ve picked some great places to go.”
“Wonderful.” Come on, Russell. Get your act together. This was probably costing dollars per second. Of course it was Angelo’s phone, so why should he care.
“I—”
“We’ll be landing shortly,” a heavily-accented voice cut across the airwaves. “Please shut down all electronic devices and return your seat backs and tray tables to the upright position.”
He could just hear her as they repeated the instructions in Italian. “Thanks for the call. I’ll talk to you as soon as I’m settled. Bye.”
She was gone before he could respond.
“Wimp.”
“We were cut off. They’re landing. Thanks, Buddy. Thanks for the try.” He went to toss the phone back to Angelo, then noticed it was his, as were any call charges.
He grabbed his soda and twisted the cap. It exploded in his hands spraying foam and sugar all down his shorts and legs, dribbling into his shoes. Nutcase scrambled for cover, splashes of sticky foam all over her coat.
Angelo pulled his own bottle from the cup holder and, with an over-pleased grin, opened it with a small “phsst.”
The Porsche roared up to the airport terminal. Angelo had promised to treat it nicely while he was gone. Angelo hadn’t even bothered to buy a car and Russell sure wasn’t going to travel with a bunch of smelly fish in the restaurant van right before climbing on a plane for fifteen hours. Perry was going to take care of his boat and Nutcase. He really had nothing to worry about, so why was he such a nervous wreck?
Angelo whipped up to the curb missing an old lady by inches; probably scared a decade off her life.
Russell started to climb out, but Angelo grabbed his arm.
“You gonna ask her?”
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay, because if you come back from the most romantic country in the world, and you haven’t, I’m a-gonna whip your behind.”
“You and what army?” Russell went for the sneer, but couldn’t find it anywhere handy.
“Me and Cassidy, that’s who. You ain’t gonna mess with her, are you?”
Russell shook him off, climbed out of the car, and signaled for Angelo to pop the trunk lid. He grabbed the duffle and his camera bag, then slammed the lid back into place.
Angelo pushed up in his seat and looked at him over the windshield.
“And you remember what I told you.”
“Cinque Terre. Get idea photos for your next restaurant, ‘Angelo’s Home Hearth.’ It ain’t your home, buddy. I keep telling you, ‘Umbrian Hearth,’ but hey, why listen to me.”
“It was home for a thousand years before Mama and Papa came to America.”
“They were sixteen and ran away from poverty to the land of opportunity. Even though he didn’t live to see you born, your home is Brooklyn, New York, America, the United States of.”
“Fine. That’ll be my t
hird restaurant. Just get me some good photos. Hokay?”
Russell slung the bags over his shoulder.
Some romantic getaway. Now he was supposed to work, too?
Angelo dropped the Porsche into gear and would have removed Russell’s kneecap if he hadn’t dodged quickly. His car and his best friend roared off into the distance.
Now this was class. Russell punched the accelerator and the car leapt ahead on the Autostrade.
What woman would have thought to rent a Ferrari Spider rather than a lousy sedan? Cassidy would. He could kiss her, had kissed her. And it had been even more incredible than the first time. She was more confident and more sure of herself than ever before and that was the greatest thing he’d ever seen. She’d even rented them a hotel room at the airport so they didn’t have to wait more than the time it took to cross the terminal and go up two stories in the elevator. They’d almost done it in the elevator like a couple of teens—might have if there’d been a third floor instead of the second.
She now lay back in her seat, a kerchief over her hair and large Italian sunglasses hiding those luscious hazel eyes. Her hand rested on his thigh as he ripped along, heading north out of Sienna. He was on top of the world, it just couldn’t get any better than this.
At Lucca she aimed him south toward Pisa. It was the wrong direction for Cinque Terre but—Angelo could go jump—Russell just didn’t care.
That’s when it hit him: he really didn’t care. For a month he’d been worrying himself sick about the Seattle City Trade Association contract and then the new offer from the Pioneer Square Association. He just didn’t care. That was the old him.
It was Russell Morgan the studio photographer who worried about contracts and sweated over jobs until they were perfect and then some. The new Russell didn’t give a fig about Pioneer Square or Seattle City. And he sure didn’t need the money, so from now on he’d only do what was fun.
If he took a big contract, it would be the next step on the road to personal oblivion. He knew the old networking routine, had turned it into a highly-profitable, multi-million-dollar business with dozens of employees once already. Hell, he’d had three people whose sole job was to hunt weird props that no one had ever used before: from trained tree frogs to the Smithsonian’s collection of every Medal of Honor left at the Wall of the Vietnam Memorial. Then he’d had: office manager, accountant, lighting grip, camera assistant, makeup artist…the list went on and on.
Done and done—never again would he go there. If it wasn’t something he could do himself, in his leisure time, then from now on his automatic answer would be “no.”
Cassidy pointed for him to exit at Livorno.
He’d had fun doing the ads for Angelo, but that was for his best friend. The ones for Perrin were a blast, but that had far more to do with the three women than the work itself. Perrin had a sharp intelligence hidden behind her frivolous façade. And Jo had a wicked sense of wry humor masked with reserve and sophistication. Cassidy was just plain lovable.
There it was. She was just plain lovable.
He raised her hand from his thigh to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. When he released it to shift, she stroked his cheek just as he had hers. The tingle made him settle deeper into the seat, more aware than ever of the precious cargo he carried.
More directions now, Cassidy led him down smaller streets. Italian drivers really were crazy, but they made some extra space for the slick, black Ferrari. Italians respected sports cars the way the French respected bicycles. He used the extra space to slip through the knotted midday traffic.
She led him past the scenic old city and past rows of businesses. They ran out to the beach, turned left…and there it was.
“Oh. My.” He pulled the car to the side of the road and shut off the engine.
“Hey, you’re only supposed to say that about me.”
He leaned over and kissed her until his lips felt bruised and the catcalls of passing drivers made his ears ring. But he had to look back.
“This is incredible! It must be ten stories high.”
“Eleven. The Germans blasted the old lighthouse to smithereens when they were retreating, but the Italians rebuilt it to the original plan using all the original stone they could salvage.”
The Livorno lighthouse rose from the edge of the busy shipyard. Cargo ships, loading cranes, and railcars scuttled about its base, but the stepped cylinder soared above them all.
“Boy, these Italians really know how to build a lighthouse.”
“Isn’t it great? And the best part…”
He turned to her. She’d pushed her sunglasses up on her forehead, just as his mother had worn them. In that moment he could see the woman who would make Julia Morgan a grandmother. Cassidy Knowles-Morgan sitting on their own child’s sailboat. She was the woman he wanted in his life more than was possible.
The woman he loved.
He’d never said that before. Not to her and not to himself. Not to anyone, ever. Yes, he’d talk to Angelo about how to propose to Cassidy, but the L-word was completely unexplored territory—that had remained impossibly foreign until he’d arrived in it. Now that he was here, it made perfect sense.
He loved Cassidy Knowles.
“The best part,” she bubbled on, “is that it was built in 1304, almost two hundred years before Columbus. The oldest we’ve visited was 1857, Cape Flattery and New Dungeness.”
“I’m sorry, Cassidy. I know you’re incredible and I love you, but that rates an ‘Oh. My.’ There’s just no way around it.”
He watched her closely, it took a moment for it to register. Then he saw it hit, like someone had thumped her in the solar plexus. Her jaw dropped and he heard a gasp. The next moment she swarmed into his lap despite the cramped cockpit and steering wheel. If he thought he’d been soundly kissed ever before, he was happily mistaken.
Being kissed by Cassidy was better than bedding most women.
Finally she whispered in his ear, “I love you, too.”
He held her even tighter.
They drove up to Monterosso along narrow twisty roads that tunneled through mountains, often only a lane wide. In any lesser car than the Ferrari, it would have been a scary ride rather than scenic and fun. They laughed most of the way.
She told him about California and Montalcino. She’d already written a column about the food and wine at each, as well as several more about winemaking to intersperse over the next year.
“I don’t give away any company secrets, but it is amazing how similar and how different the processes are. It’s like the lighthouses. California is so new and slick. They have their gravity feeds between stainless-steel tanks, and everything is temperature controlled to the degree and staged to the hour—so long in steel then so long in oak. All scientific and you could eat off the floor in any of the mechanical rooms.”
“Exactly what I’d want to do.”
She thumped his arm playfully and he laughed for the sheer joy of teasing her. He downshifted for another hairpin turn as they climbed then descended then climbed again through the coastal range. The jagged hills broke the vistas into sharp chunks of sky, hill, and tree. Far lower than the mountains of the Cascade Range, but more dramatic in their own way.
“In California they’re actually boring caves—carving vast cavities into the mountainsides that don’t belong there geologically—just for show. The “caves” come complete with: carpeting, furniture, a wine bar, huge casks that aren’t really used. All for show because caves are the ‘in’ thing now.”
To Russell’s way of thinking it meant too many New York advertising agencies had opened branches in Napa.
“The Montalcino wineries are done with casks that are older than the vintner’s great-grandparents. Wine is processed, tanked, purified through the same steps, but nature has a bigger part in it. The same care, less technologic frenzy. And instead of fabricated caves they have real ones that have been there forever. Some of them date back to the Etruscans—they’re the
ones who helped the Romans get started.”
Her excitement was so high—she was so thrilled by what she’d seen—that he couldn’t ask her now. At first he hadn’t because he didn’t want to spoil her wonderful welcome, then because the drive was so fun. And he was still trying to process that she loved him.
And that he loved her. Had he said it to anyone other than his mother? Ever? And even that had become dutiful, until their last visit. Until he’d realized that she had put up with, for the last fifteen years, his jumping to wrong conclusions about her. And Cassidy had dispelled them all with a few casual questions. Their last visit had been the best ever and it was all Cassidy’s doing. How could he spoil this for her?
He’d wait just a little longer.
It was all too perfect to be true. Cassidy had been transported by the magic of her father’s letters and the man beside her into a new world, and it was a world of possibilities. She’d aspired to be the next Robert Parker—the first female megastar of the wine-tasting firmament. To become the top of a very small world.
But the vineyards were breathtaking; that’s where it all happened. On their third day in Cinque Terre they found the winery in the small village of Corniglia where the Sciacchetrà was made—the wine that had fooled her at their disastrous first date. It was made underneath Carla Parrano’s home, a distant cousin of Angelo’s. They entered the winery itself through a narrow oak door at street level that had long since grown dark with age and been polished smooth by human hands.
They descended into the mountainside: to an Italian cave turned into a wine cellar over six hundred years before. The air was cool, the floor and walls stone. The casks were packed so tightly together that there was barely room to get around them. And the wine tasted so sweet and light with a gentleness from the vat that didn’t, couldn’t survive the ten-thousand-mile journey by boat and rail in bottles. This wine wasn’t intended for export. To make this wine work, you had to bring the wine tasters to the wine and she could think of a dozen different ways to do that—just a part of her newly expanded view of the big picture.
The Complete Where Dreams Page 28
