Drew couldn’t think about tomorrow. It was enough just to make it through the present. When the sun set, signaling the end of another day, he sighed with relief, another one down. Night meant nothing more was expected of him. He could disappear into his room, turn on the television or his CD player and bury himself in a world that required no response.
He found the stream behind a tangle of wild vines, thick with cane and buzzing with insects. Collapsing on the bank, he pulled off his shoes and stuck his feet in the water all the way to his shins, careless of the dragging cuffs of his jeans. Pulling a pack of cigarettes and matches from one pocket, and a cell phone from the other, he lit up, inhaled and looked at the face of the phone. No reception. Frustrated, he jammed the phone back into his pocket, leaned his head against the trunk of a three-hundred-year-old oak and closed his eyes.
Drew didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone as much as he hated his father. Three months ago his world had irrevocably changed. Until then he could pretend his mother would get better. Her days spent in bed, the radiation treatments, her loss of hair and weight, the color of her skin, a frightening gray-green, he ignored. It wasn’t until she actually stopped breathing that reality struck. She was dead and, except for Sarah, he was alone in the world. Drew didn’t really consider his father. He was an absorbed stranger, decent enough, but involved in other things. Drew couldn’t remember the last time he and Sarah had spent the night with him before their mother died. He hadn’t thought beyond the funeral and making it through the end of the semester. Even the presence of his father in the house that breathed and smelled of his mother didn’t faze him. It wasn’t until the school semester ended and Mitch said the house had been sold and Drew and Sarah would be moving with him to Tiburon did he realize what losing his mother really meant. Because she had died, he’d lost it all, his home, his friends, his world as he knew it, all the comfortable routines cultivated over the span of his lifetime. He hated Tiburon. He hated his father and he hated this nowhere place Mitch was probably planning to buy without even asking what he and Sarah thought about it.
Drew buried the butt of his cigarette, unwrapped a stick of gum, stuck it in his mouth and stood. His feet were numb. Where was Mitch anyway? How long did it take to look at a house? Just then he heard his name. His father was calling him. Slowly, taking his time, Drew pulled on his shoes, climbed up the embankment and walked back toward the house.
Mitch leaned against the car and frowned. The euphoria of finding the house was fading, replaced first by annoyance and then worry. Where was Drew? He checked his watch. Sarah’s lesson would be over in ten minutes. There was no way he could make it back in time and his cell phone had no reception to warn Francesca that he would be running late. Then he saw him. Relief, so strong the words stuck in his throat, flooded through him.
Drew spoke first. “Are we done here?”
Mitch nodded. “I think so. What do you think of the place?”
Drew shrugged and opened the car door. “It doesn’t matter what I think as long as you like it.”
Mitch climbed in beside his son and backed out of the courtyard. “Is that the way it seems to you?”
Again Drew shrugged.
“It matters very much to me what you and Sarah think.”
Drew didn’t answer.
“I’m being transferred down here to oversee this project. It’s my job. You do see that, don’t you?”
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
“You could try to be agreeable.”
Drew stared out the window. If only he could just make this all go away.
“Drew? Are you listening?”
He nodded.
Mitch gritted his teeth and drove on, hoping Francesca wouldn’t be too angry over the time.
Francesca ran her hand over Fairy Light’s flanks, replaced the brush she used for rubbing her down and locked the door of the paddock. She smiled at Sarah. “I’m impressed. You really don’t need riding lessons.”
“Don’t tell that to my dad,” Sarah warned her.
“Why not?”
“He won’t let me ride alone.”
Francesca laughed. “You can’t take lessons forever.”
“If he thinks I’ve learned a lot, he’ll change his mind.”
Francesca looked beyond Sarah to the swirl of dust on the road. “I wonder where he is.”
Sarah glanced at her watch anxiously. “He’s never late. Something must have happened.”
“Maybe I’ll have to adopt you,” Francesca teased her.
Sarah grinned. “That wouldn’t be so bad.” She looked around. “I like it here.”
The dust cleared and they watched the sleek, silver-gray Infiniti pull up beside them.
Mitch stepped out of the car. “I’m sorry about the delay.” He smiled at Sarah. “We found a house.”
Sarah swallowed. “Where?”
“Up in the hills. It needs work, but it’s big enough and it has a winery.”
Francesca’s eyes widened. “Are you planning to grow grapes?”
Mitch’s smile faded. “I’m going to try.”
She folded her arms and leaned against the rail fence, one hip jutting out aggressively. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest on your part?”
“In what way?”
“You work for GGI. Isn’t your job description to buy up all the choice vineyards in the area for the purpose of creating an all-purpose coastal winery?”
“GGI is buying land for a winery,” he agreed. “However, we aren’t in the business of bankrupting small vineyards. We offer market-value price and we buy only when the seller is completely satisfied.”
Francesca’s lovely mouth turned down. “How noble of you. Do you honestly think the rest of us can make a living when GGI comes in and offers nonunion wages to employees and rock-bottom prices to customers who don’t know a good wine from a bad?”
“That isn’t my problem.”
Francesca’s hands clenched and a thin white line appeared around her lips. “If you intend to live in this community, Mr. Gillette, it had better become your problem. Your children will be attending school here. You’ll need to shop in our stores. The fire department relies on volunteers. Since I’ve never heard of you before, I assume you’re a novice at growing grapes and producing wine. Where will you go when you need advice or, God forbid, help if the weather isn’t right or a virus takes most of your vines? We work together here, and unless you want to isolate yourself completely, you’ll have to fit in.”
Her words were delivered calmly, with only the slightest hint of passion. Because of her logic and lack of temper, Mitch was impressed. Francesca was intelligent. He wanted to appease her. “I’m interested in experimental enology,” he explained. “I won’t be marketing wine commercially. My job is to establish a winery here, not put people out of business. Whatever GGI does, it will be with that in mind.”
“Do you think I don’t read, Mr. Gillette? Do you think people don’t talk to each other? Your company has a reputation. I don’t see that your behavior here has been any different than in Paso Robles or Sonoma.”
That stung. He had not been in charge of those operations. “You didn’t mention Napa,” he said softly. He was proud of Napa.
“Napa has been established for a hundred years,” she said contemptuously. “You can’t hurt the connoisseurs who produce hundred-dollar bottles of wine. As for the others, Mondavi and Gallo already have a monopoly on cheap wine. You’re just one more winery in Napa. Here, it’s different. We’re struggling to be taken seriously. For the first time our wines have world markets. You’ll offer wine at half the price. It won’t be as good, but most of our clientele don’t know that. We’ll be obsolete in five years.”
“You’re painting a dire picture.”
“I’m a realist.”
Something didn’t fit. “I’m curious, Ms. DeAngelo. If this is a done deal, why aren’t you selling out? GGI has made you a generous offer.”
Frances
ca shook her head. “You’ve misunderstood. I didn’t say it was a done deal. You can tear up the ground and plant your vines and build your monster vineyard, but unless you have water, that’s as far as you’ll go.”
“What makes you think GGI won’t get water rights?”
“Because I’m on the council.”
Mitch recognized when he was bested. But it was by no means a permanent dilemma. He held out his hand. “What do I owe you for the lesson, Ms. DeAngelo, and when can we schedule another one?”
“Touché,” she said softly, tilting her head to one side. She did not take his hand. “Under different circumstances, I might have liked you.”
“I’ll have to work on that, won’t I?”
She shook her head. “My price is too high.”
He grinned. “Sometimes it’s not about money.”
“Who said money had anything to do with it?”
His grin faded. “I don’t want to make enemies among the vintners. I could use your help. Is it possible for us to compromise?”
“I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “Everything you stand for, I’m against. But, if you’d like me to explain why, I’ll be happy to do so.”
“When?”
She nodded at Sarah and then at the car. “You’re tied up right now. Tell me when you’re down here again, and we’ll work something out.”
“It’s a deal.” He held out his hand again and this time she took it. “I’m afraid you’re not to be rid of us so quickly,” he said. “Julianne invited us for dinner. I’ve accepted, but if you’d rather have us leave, we will.”
There was nothing else Francesca wanted more, and if Mitch Gillette had been alone she would have told him so. But he wasn’t alone. She smiled brilliantly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’ll stay.”
Six
Jake Harris was attempting to walk the rows of DeAngelo Vineyards’s award-winning Syrah grapes by positioning one crutch in front of him, balancing on his good leg, then stabilizing the other crutch and swinging the bad leg over. It was an arduous task. Sweat rolled off his forehead. Fifteen minutes had passed and he hadn’t covered more than a few yards. At this rate he’d be here until midnight. He stopped, wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and cursed. Breaking a leg at twelve meant three weeks of misery. Breaking one at thirty was another story altogether.
A stone’s throw ahead, eight-year-old Nick waited patiently. He refrained from reminding his father that Francesca had banned four-letter words from the fields and the winery. Pitching his voice after the optimistic boom of his soccer coach, he spoke encouragingly. “You can make it, Dad. You’re doing a good job. It isn’t too much farther.”
In spite of his discomfort, Jake laughed. “I’m done, kiddo. Sorry to disappoint you, but walking in the dirt is a lot harder than crossing a parking lot on these things.” He waved one crutch in the air.
Nick walked back to where his father stood, sat down between the vines and crossed his brown, spider-thin legs. “You’re gonna get better, right?”
Jake nodded. “No doubt about it.”
“I wanted to show you the section that Mom gave me. I’ve done it all myself, even the grafting. She showed me how.”
“I know, Nick. I’m sorry, but all isn’t lost. We’ll take the four-wheel in tomorrow as far as we can. I’ll be able to make it from there.”
Nick nodded, satisfied. “It’s nice having you here again.”
Jake ruffled his son’s hair. “It’s good to be with you wherever you are.”
“How long will you stay?”
“Just a few weeks more, until the cast comes off my leg.”
“Why don’t you ask Mom if you can stay longer?”
There was a great deal he wanted to say, but Jake didn’t know how honest to be with an eight-year-old. He hesitated, starting slowly. “I know you were still a little guy when I left, but do you remember the way it was when I lived here?”
Nick nodded.
“Your mom and I didn’t get along all that well. We argued all the time.”
Nick’s brown eyes, so like Francesca’s, were wide and curious. “What did you argue about?”
Jake laughed bitterly. “Everything from how to run the vineyard to what to have for dinner.” There was more, but the subject was hardly one for a child’s ears. “It wasn’t what we said that was important, Nick. It was why we said it.”
“Why did you say it?”
Jake thought a minute. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I guess I didn’t feel very important. Nothing I said or did was right.”
Nick was fidgeting, sweeping the dirt around him into little mounds. “Are you happier now?”
Jake was about to say he was. He opened his mouth to speak and made the mistake of meeting his son’s pure, unflinching gaze. The boy deserved the truth, no matter how difficult it was to admit. “The thing is, Nick, I’m not really very happy at all. I miss you. I miss your grandmother and I miss your mom. I love it here. It’s home.”
“Why don’t you come back?”
Jake stretched out his good leg and massaged the knee of his other one above the cast. “Some things,” he said, “can’t be taken back. When I left, it made your mom mad. She’s not so mad anymore, but she doesn’t want me to come back. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The word was definite, spoken with surety. Nick had always been like that, even as a baby. No halfhearted yeah or I think so, always a distinct yes. He was like Francesca. She answered questions without disclaimers, leaving no one guessing where she stood on a matter. Opinionated wasn’t a strong enough word to describe her. At first Jake had approved of and even admired her decisiveness, until he realized that it came with an inflexibility so rigid and controlling that he couldn’t breathe. At DeAngelo Vineyards, her way was the right way. And it wasn’t only the vineyard. She’d dominated every aspect of their lives, from the grocery store to the checkbook to their bedroom. Jake had felt strangled. It was either leave or give up every part of himself and suffocate. He chose to leave.
But lately he’d questioned his decision. After his initial relief, he realized he wasn’t any happier than before. Apparently, according to Julianne, neither was Francesca. Happiness was important to Jake, unlike Francesca who believed it was enough to be reasonably content. Jake wanted no part of reasonable or content. He wanted bells and whistles. He wanted spontaneity and delirious hilarity. He wanted fun and giddiness and the shortness of breath that came with watching his wife come out of the bathroom after she’d dried her hair and it floated down her back and across her shoulders like a curtain of dark amber. He wanted to appreciate her and be appreciated in return. He wanted it the way it was before Frank DeAngelo died and his daughter thought she had to prove to everyone in the valley that she was every bit the vintner he was.
Jake thought the situation was worth exploring. But, so far, Francesca had made it very clear that she wasn’t interested in rehashing what might have been. He was determined to respect her wishes. Jake knew he’d hurt her badly. When she was full of questions, he wasn’t willing to talk. Now he was ready and she wanted no part of him. It was a frustrating situation, but turnabout was fair play. The thing was, he didn’t believe he’d ever meet anyone he could love half as much as he’d loved Francesca DeAngelo before it all went sour. It was a lowering thought to realize that the best he would ever have, the most he would ever feel, was all behind him.
Nick’s penetrating stare leveled him. He shouldn’t be having this conversation with an eight-year-old, even a very special eight-year-old. He pulled himself together. “We should probably get back. Your grandma puts a lot of effort into her meals. She wouldn’t want us to be late.”
“I think we’re having company,” Nick pronounced. He stood and dusted off the back of his shorts.
“Who is it?”
“Some girl who bought Fairy Light. Mom is giving her riding lessons. Gran invited her dad, too.”
“All the more reason not to
be late.”
They walked back to the house. Nick danced around his father, first in front and then behind him, bending to pick up bugs and inspect pebbles, which he either tossed aside or stuffed into his pocket. It was pure pleasure to have Nick beside him, comfortable, chattering about whatever was on his mind. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined having his son grow up without him.
A silver-gray Infiniti was parked in front of the house. Jake nodded approvingly. “The guy’s got great taste in cars.”
“I like yours,” Nick said loyally.
“Thanks, pal, but I wouldn’t mind trading up. Who is this guy that Gran invited?”
“He’s Sarah’s dad. I think they’re moving here, but I wasn’t really listening.” He brightened. “I’ll race you to the porch. If I win we’ll rent a movie tonight.”
“It’s hardly a fair competition,” Jake protested.
Nick thought a minute. “I’ll give you a head start.”
“How much of a head start?”
“I’ll go all the way back to the end of the grass.”
Jake considered it. “Which movie?”
“Nemo.”
“You’ve seen it a dozen times.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“I liked it the first three times I saw it with you. Let’s try something else,” Jake suggested.
“If I win, it’s Nemo. If you win, it’s something else.”
“Why don’t we do something else?”
“Like what?”
“We can play chess or Scrabble, or we can read a book.”
Nick’s forehead wrinkled. He was thinking seriously. “Okay,” he said. “If I win, we do what I want. If you win, we do what you want.”
“It’s a deal.” He held out his hand. Nick shook it before heading back to where the lawn started.
“Ready, Dad?” he shouted.
A Delicate Finish Page 6
