For a minute she said nothing, mentally wishing for Jake Harris a long and uncomfortable recovery. Then she shook her head. “It isn’t going to be like it was, Nick. I’m so sorry.”
“Dad still likes you. He asked if you wanted to come.”
“Maybe some other time,” she said, forcing a smile. “Today, I really have to get to the bank.” She touched his cheek with her finger. “Kiss me goodbye and catch lots of fish.”
Obediently he pecked her cheek.
“See you later.” She watched him skim down the stairs and disappear around the landing.
Her smile faded. She closed the door and with shaking hands locked it again. Damn Jake Harris. How dare he make it seem as if she was the uncooperative one, the one who didn’t want to be a family. She’d handpick every grape herself before she’d go anywhere with him again.
She was angry. According to the therapist and support group she’d joined after Jake left, anger was good. Hurt was the first stage. Anger was the second. Healing didn’t happen until all stages were experienced. She didn’t remember how many there were or even what they were, but Francesca certainly hoped it didn’t take two years per stage. If so, she could kiss goodbye the idea of finding happiness with anyone else, unless it was all right to meet someone before finishing all the stages. She would ask the group the next time they met.
Francesca pulled a comb absently through her hair. It was thick and roan-colored and in the sunlight it glowed like a nimbus around her head. But it was absolutely straight and nothing would bring out even a hint of curl. In high school she’d tried everything, from damaging perms to heat rollers, all without success. Finally, Julianne, who was as handy with a pair of scissors as she’d been with a spatula, threw up her hands. “Your hair is your hair, Francie. Texture is one of the few things that can’t be changed. Live with it or buy a wig.”
So, Francesca lived with it and in the process, found that she didn’t mind it as much as she thought she did. It was the perfect hair for a low-maintenance woman. During the day she would pull it back into a ponytail or braid. On special occasions she would twist it into a knot at the back of her head. Hair was a lot like the passing of seasons. After a while, you simply adjusted to whatever the day or the weather brought.
The warmth of the hair dryer soothed her. She looked longingly at the bed. It was after one and she’d been up since before dawn. Mustering her willpower, she pulled her shiny-smooth hair into a barrette, applied a light dusting of powder, enough to cover the freckles on her nose, eye shadow, mascara and her favorite lipstick, tea coral. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and smiled. Not bad. Surely Marvin Roach, the bank manager, would be impressed. She didn’t primp for just anyone. Pulling a beige linen wrap skirt and sleeveless white blouse from the closet, she dug through the shoe rack for her strappy, low-heeled sandals and dressed quickly.
Quietly, she opened the door and listened. Silence from the kitchen. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she still heard nothing. Relieved that she’d escaped another encounter with Jake, she eased open the door, just in case, and peaked outside.
“They’re gone,” Julianne said from behind her.
Francesca jumped guiltily.
“You know, Francesca, you don’t have to walk around here like a scared rabbit when Jake comes for Nick. He won’t bite, you know,” the older woman said. “He’s really a very nice guy. Just because the two of you didn’t make it as a married couple doesn’t mean you can’t be civil to each other. The two of you share a child, after all.”
“We are civil to each other.” She ignored the part about Jake’s being a nice guy. Julianne was his mother. What else would she think?
Julianne crossed her arms, every muscle in her petite form stiff with the toll of her words. “You can’t exchange more than two sentences before you’re running away to wherever else you say you need to go.”
The unfairness of the accusation lit a fuse that had long been simmering. Rage surged through Francesca, bringing on a display of temper. Her words were bitter, chosen to wound. “Please, remember, Julianne,” she said icily, “that I’m not the one who did the running away. You’re not my mother. Maybe you should have this discussion with your son.”
The older woman’s cheeks flamed. Her mouth opened. “No, I’m not your mother, Frances, but if I were—” She stopped abruptly, thought a minute and then turned on her heel and walked quickly back into the house.
Francesca climbed blindly into the nearest vehicle, her foreman’s Jeep, turned the keys that were already in the ignition and sped east on Highway 154 toward the town of Santa Ynez.
Two
Julianne Harris moved mechanically through her state-of-the-art kitchen, gathering cake pans, spatulas, wooden spoons and ingredients, eggs and cream from the refrigerator, cake flour and sugar from the bins, baking powder and salt from the cupboards, lemons and sweet potatoes from the large, overflowing bowls on the center island, a grater, two stainless-steel bowls, her mixer and the double boiler from the cabinets. She was contracted for a fiftieth birthday party for a dozen guests. The theme was an English tea. Pasties, delicate meat pies, were already simmering in the standard ovens. The cakes could be made ahead as well as some of the sandwich fillings. She would bake the scones and assemble the perishables, cream cheese and cucumbers, chicken salads, lettuce roll-ups, salmon and shrimp wheels, lemon curd, cream-cheese frosting and raspberry sauce tomorrow morning. Now she would concentrate on her lemon, apple and chocolate-espresso cakes. She would not think about Francesca or Jake and the mess they had made of their personal lives, even if that mess included her beloved Nicholas, the love of her life, her pride and joy, her only grandchild.
Julianne loved children. She had three of her own, a son and two daughters. The regret of her life was the wide geographical spread of her offspring. The girls, Maggie and Kinley Rose, had high-powered careers that led them to childless lives in New York and London, respectively. Only Jake, her oldest, remained nearby to carry on the family tradition of working the vines. With his degree in enology and his choice of bride, lovely, long-limbed Francesca DeAngelo, a woman who not only shared his Basque ethnicity, hers on her father’s side, Jake’s on his mother’s, but also his passion for producing wine and his desire for a large family, Julianne believed her son and daughter-in-law would give her grandchildren to indulge.
To her delight, Francesca was pregnant almost immediately. A year after the wedding she gave birth to Nick, a bright-eyed happy baby, the image of Jake except for his brown eyes. Julianne adored him. She was widowed by then, an empty nester struggling to establish her catering business in town. It didn’t take much to convince her to move her business back to the big DeAngelo house and help out with Nick while Jake and Francesca worked the vineyard. The arrangement suited everyone for a while.
Normally Julianne would have cautioned against an early marriage. Jake and Francesca were barely twenty when they announced their engagement and plans to marry six months later. But there was something about the way they interacted that stopped her words. They were so in love, they had so much in common and they’d known each other since kindergarten. A marriage with that much going for it had to work, Julianne had rationalized.
It had worked, for a while, until Francesca’s father succumbed to pancreatic cancer. He went quickly. Her older brother had long since disappeared into the alternative lifestyle San Francisco offered. He was never spoken of, disowned, gone the way of Francesca’s mother who had left the family shortly after her daughter’s sixth birthday. Julianne had been Francie’s role model and confidante since before the child could walk steadily.
Julianne saw the Santa Ynez Valley for the first time thirty years ago in early October, after the harvest. Rows and rows of bare splintery grapevines stood in stark relief against a backdrop of golden hills covered in wild mustard and bathed by afternoon sunlight. Carl, her husband and childhood sweetheart, had been hired on as manager of the DeAngelo Vineyards. Julianne and Carl were Orange County bred, the
children of farmers, born and raised in the rural shrub lands of the Irvine Ranch.
It was love at first sight for the young woman who carried the Mediterranean genes of her pastoral ancestors. But it was Carl who knew the land. It was Carl who’d predicted that the odd arrangement of east and west mountains standing perpendicular to the ocean would bring hot days and cold nights and a long growing season, perfect for lushly flavored grapes and unique wines. It was Carl who’d instilled a passion for the vines in his son as well as in Frank DeAngelo’s daughter, a child well aware that she could never become what her own father valued most of all, a son to raise up in the family tradition.
Julianne felt sorry for the little girl, all big eyes and long legs with hair and skin the color of aged oak. Whether Frank DeAngelo liked it or not, Francesca would take over the vineyard. She should know the sacrifices needed to keep it running properly.
Something happened to the girl after her father’s death. Julianne couldn’t explain it, but it seemed that Francesca lost her softness. Determined to succeed in a man’s world, she worked relentlessly to stand out as a vintner. Her wines were good. Julianne wouldn’t argue that. But her methods were brutal.
At first, Jake tried reasoning with her. When that didn’t work, he simply disagreed and made decisions on his own, both of which incited Francesca into a fury never before seen in the sweet-tempered child and young bride, a fury of such intensity it could only have been inherited from the long-lost Lisa DeAngelo. Thank God that was all Francesca had of her mother.
Julianne rubbed her arms. Thoughts of Lisa never failed to raise the goose bumps on her flesh. The pain of all that had passed between the two of them in those early years had faded to a dull ache, whitewashed, but not forgotten, certainly not forgiven. Never forgiven. Lisa was evil, without conscience. But she was gone and Francesca, hard-edged, softhearted Francesca, was her father’s daughter, even down to her brown eyes.
Jake, too, was like his father, a man with a slow smile, an easy touch and a stubborn streak so unparalleled it was legendary. But he was smarter than Carl and he refused to play second fiddle to Francesca.
Julianne wouldn’t allow a word to be said against Carl Harris, but the truth was, she hadn’t married her intellectual equal. To keep the marriage intact, she’d had to assuage Carl’s ego. She often wondered what was wrong with her that she couldn’t manage her husband the way other women did, women who scrimped and saved their “egg money” for a rainy day, little by little amassing a small fortune and investing wisely so that when they were alone, they had a comfortable nest egg. She was a straightforward kind of woman, the kind who stood up and told the truth and took her lumps. But with Carl, she caved in, handing over her paycheck, allowing him to pay the bills and make the investments. They never did own their share of the valley, never managed to save enough for their own vineyard. Carl was always an employee and, until he died, so was Julianne. He was gone less than three months when she made her move, giving up her secure teaching job and striking out on her own. Not for one minute had she regretted it.
Julianne didn’t realize how serious her son’s rift with his wife was until it was too late. She remembered it as if it were yesterday. It was early evening and a rare summer rain had flooded the driveway. Without a single word of warning, Jake had knocked on her bedroom door to tell her he was leaving. “Where’s Frances?” she had asked.
“Picking up takeout for dinner.”
“Surely you’ll wait until she gets back?” said his mother, aghast at the callous behavior of her only son. “You can’t just leave without saying goodbye.”
“If I wait, I won’t leave,” he explained tersely, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to fight in front of Nick.”
Nick. She’d nearly forgotten Nick. “Where is Nick?”
“With Francie.”
“You can’t do this, Jake,” Julianne had begged. “You can’t simply take off when your wife isn’t home. You have to talk this through, come to an understanding.”
He’d laughed bitterly. “An understanding? With Francesca? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“Don’t you be ridiculous. You’ve heard us. You know what she’s like.”
“Her father died, Jake. She’s having a hard time.”
“Frank died a year ago, Ma. If anything, she’s getting worse.”
Julianne drew herself up to her full height of five foot three inches. “This is a coward’s action, son. I didn’t raise you to run away from conflict. I’ll take Nicholas out while you talk to Frances. At least tell her you’re leaving. Don’t run off into the night. She’s your wife. She deserves more from you than that.”
“You have no idea what she deserves and, because of the way you raised me, I’m not going to give you the specifics. Besides, she’ll know why I’ve gone.” He turned to leave.
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Jake.” Her voice cracked.
He looked back at her.
Julianne held out her arms.
He hesitated briefly, then pulled her close, kissed her fiercely and disappeared down the stairs. Francesca and Nick pulled up in the car just as Jake was leaving. Julianne hadn’t witnessed their final scene. She’d rushed out to rescue Nick, leading him to her bedroom at the back of the house using a fabricated excuse she could no longer remember.
That was two years ago. It wasn’t always easy living with Francesca, but Nick needed his grandmother and Julianne swore she would crawl the distance between Sacramento and San Diego on her bare knees rather than cause him any more pain. Besides, with Jake gone, Francesca’s temper had cooled. She didn’t smile as much as she had before, but she was rarely angry and Julianne had to admit that she was a marvelous mother. She sighed. Perhaps certain people really did bring out the worst in each other. Still, two years had gone by and neither Jake nor Francesca had shown the slightest interest in anyone else.
Turning the electric mixer to the medium setting, Julianne cracked four eggs, separated the whites and dropped the yolks into the bowl, added sugar and waited until the mix was thick and yellow. Then she sifted in flour, baking powder, a pinch of salt and the squeezed juice and zest of three lemons. She stirred until the batter was barely moistened and then folded in a bowl of stiffly beaten egg whites.
Humming to herself, she spooned the lemon batter into a bundt pan, slid it into a preheated convection oven and reached for the grater and a bar of bittersweet chocolate. Cooking soothed her. Here, in the kitchen she’d designed, Julianne had created her own niche. Most of her family and many of her friends thought she was crazy to give up the security of her job and pension. But after twenty years, teaching elementary school was no longer a challenge. It seemed to Julianne that she was reporting to parents, filling out forms and handling discipline problems more than she was teaching. It was time to move on, time to start something of her own. She had always loved to bake, not so much after a long day in the classroom, but on weekends and vacations. She’d gained a reputation for her cakes and cookies. Her children bragged about her quick, delicious meals. But would she enjoy it as much when the food went out the door to be enjoyed by someone else’s family? There was only one way to find out.
Julianne cashed out her pension, sold her home, paid down the second mortgage on the old Victorian manor house Frank DeAngelo had willed his daughter when she married and moved in with Jake and Francesca. She started out slowly, biding her time. Gradually the orders grew. Julianne knew her limits. At first, serving was not part of her contract. Sometimes she would deliver, but usually every order was picked up on location with complete instructions for reheating and assembling.
Two years later, she’d put away enough to streamline and remodel the DeAngelo kitchen, and when Frank died she’d paid off a few of the vineyard’s bills, a thank-you for the years she’d lived with her son and daughter-in-law, both of whom believed in her and required
nothing back. She’d helped with Nicholas but she would have done that anyway. She thought of relocating when Jake left, but Francesca wouldn’t hear of it. The arrangement was uncomfortable for a bit, but that was over now, with the exception of when Jake came for an extended visit.
She surveyed her work. Something was missing, something that would soothe her spirits and bring her a sense of true accomplishment, something the ladies at the tea party would drool over and make them forget their high-protein diets. Julianne could never quite warm up to a woman who ate only protein. No one ever expanded from indulging in a slice of cake or a cookie now and then.
She thought for several minutes and then smiled. Inspiration hit. Chocolate-toffee cookies! That was it. As she worked the chocolate over the teeth of the grater and pounded the toffee bars into casual chunks, the tension in her shoulders eased. No one tasted her chocolate-toffee cookies without moaning in delight. They were rich and gooey with just the right blend of sweet chocolate, buttery toffee and walnuts. As she worked, her priorities settled into place. Nick was with his father and Francesca could be dealt with later. Julianne would brew a pot of her naturally sweetened cinnamon tea, the kind Frances liked, and the two would curl up on the old couch in the sitting room and clear the air. Jake needed a few weeks of well-deserved rest, and with a broken bone and an arm and leg out of commission, he needed tender loving care. Who else was going to give it to him but his mother? Like it or not, Francie would have to accept it.
Francesca blinked back tears and rubbed the corner of each eye with tissue. And still they came, welling up until she could barely see, spilling over and down her cheeks, leaving a salty taste on her lips. Furious at her loss of control, she gave up, reached into her purse for her sunglasses, pushed them up over her nose and ignored the tracks forming on her cheeks. Normally, she wasn’t at all emotional. Jake brought this on. Just when she thought she was managing, he would show up and tear her apart all over again. What hurt the most, other than his completely unforeseen defection, was the way Julianne stuck up for him, as if Francesca had left him instead of the other way around.
A Delicate Finish Page 2
