“I don’t blame her. It makes a woman wonder how she can ever trust a man if he bails when times are tough.”
“How do I prove it if she won’t give me a chance?”
His mother relented. The sharpness left her voice. “I don’t know, love. It looks like you have your work cut out for you.” She patted his shoulder. “You’ve got to get on with your life, Jake. What about your job? You’ve been here since June.”
He looked down at his feet. “I’m not going back to Napa.”
Her heart sank. “Why not?”
“I belong here with Francesca and Nick. If I go away again I’ll never convince Francie to take me back.”
“How will you live?”
“I’ve got some put away. Quite a bit, actually. Don’t worry about that.” He attempted a smile. “If I get desperate, I’ll bribe Francesca.”
“I don’t think that’s the right approach.”
“Have a good time, Mom.”
She studied his face. “Do you really mean that?”
This time the smile made it to his eyes. “It’s strange for me to see you as anything other than my mother and Nick’s grandmother. Give me a little time, okay?”
“Okay. Good luck, Jake, and I’m delighted you’ve come to your senses. A woman like Francesca doesn’t come along every day.”
He nodded. “I know that now.”
* * *
Francesca smelled the hickory smoke of barbecuing meat well before she entered the courtyard. Her mouth watered. She climbed out of the Jeep and walked around the house to the back patio. Nick sat on the porch, swinging his legs, a soft-drink can in his hand. But it was Jake who had her attention. Shirtless, he stood in front of the brick barbecue, wielding tongs and a spray bottle. Strips of aromatic beef sizzled on the grill. The picnic table was set for three.
She walked slowly over to the table. “What are you cooking?” she asked.
“Tri-tip.”
She wasn’t sure of her welcome. “It smells delicious.”
“Wait till you taste it. I’ve perfected a barbecue recipe you’re gonna love.”
She relaxed. “I’ll go upstairs and clean up. How long do I have?”
“Twenty minutes or so.”
“Can I help with anything?”
He grinned and for a minute her breathing altered. She was sure there were better-looking men than Jake Harris, but not for her.
“I’ve got it covered. Salad’s in the fridge and potatoes are in the oven. I’ve uncorked the Cabernet. All you have to do is show up.”
Francesca raced upstairs and turned on the shower, promising herself that she would do justice to the meal. She would wear something flattering. She would not bring up controversial subjects and she would compliment his cooking. She would even wash the dishes. He would have no reason to find fault with her about anything.
The weather was perfect. A slight breeze floated in from the ocean. It was seven o’clock. They would have the sun for another two hours. Francesa, her hair brushed and shining and swinging against her shoulders, descended the stairs dressed in a sleeveless ivory blouse and beige linen walking shorts.
The table was finished and Jake and Nick were already seated. Jake rose when she walked out of the door and handed her a glass of deep red wine.
She tasted it and held up her glass. “Yum. What is it?”
“Cabernet, 1974.”
She looked surprised. “From my dad’s private reserve? Is this a special occasion?”
“It was my dad’s, too. This is one of my inherited bottles. No occasion. Just an evening at home with my son and his mother.” His eyes rested on her hair. “You look beautiful, Francesca.”
“Thank you.” She sat down.
He passed the salad bowl to her and forked a strip of meat. “Can you cut this up yourself, Nick, or shall I do it for you?”
“Can I eat it with my fingers?”
“Absolutely not,” his mother said.
“You can cut it, Dad.”
Francesca chewed her meat slowly. “This is wonderful. Thanks so much, Jake.”
“My pleasure.”
She leaned forward. “I have a favor to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“I think the Pinot Noir grapes are ready for harvesting. I need you to taste them and tell me if you agree,”
“I’ll go out with you in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
“This is a big deal for you, isn’t it?” he asked.
She nodded. “It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time.”
“I never really understood why it’s so important to you. You’ve been growing grapes for years. Why is this variety so special?”
She hesitated. Being vulnerable wasn’t easy for her, especially with Jake. She poured herself another glass of wine. “I’ve been growing my father’s grapes for years. These are mine. If they’re successful, and I can produce a really unique wine, I’ll feel as if I’ve proven myself.”
“You’ve already proven yourself, Francie,” he said gently. “You’ve continued the DeAngelo tradition of producing fine wines. That’s a lot harder today than it was when your father took over.”
Speechless, she stared at him. He looked sincere. Did he really mean it? She hated the suspicion that rose in her chest whenever it came to Jake, but she couldn’t afford to be hurt again. Once it had nearly killed her. Refusing to think about that time after he left, when it had been all she could do to get out of bed, she changed the subject. “You’ve turned into quite a cook.”
He nodded. “Thanks. I guess it’s in the blood.”
“I’m finished,” Nick announced.
Francesca frowned. “Please, eat a little more, sweetheart. You’ll be hungry again in an hour.”
“No, I won’t,” he promised. “I’m full.”
“We’ve got dessert coming,” Jake promised. “Eat the rest of your meat and two bites of salad and I’ll bring on the ice cream.”
Resigned, Nick picked up his fork.
Jake turned his attention back to Francesca. “What do you think of Mitch Gillette?”
This was a subject she could tolerate. “Do you mean as a competitor or as your mother’s new love interest?”
“Both?”
Francesca sipped at her wine. “He’s a workaholic according to Sarah, his daughter, which isn’t a bad quality for a vintner. On the other hand, it isn’t conducive for a comfortable family life. More than likely, he’s a decent enough man. We just happen to be on different sides, that’s all.”
Jake’s eyes were very narrow and blue as they considered her reply. “Do you think he’s serious?”
“About what?”
“About Mom?”
Amused, Francesca stared at him. “They just met, Jake. There’s a long way between meeting someone and settling down with him.”
He relaxed. “What do you say we drive into Santa Ynez for ice cream?”
Nick clapped. “Yes.”
Francesca nodded. The night had been perfect. If only she could capture the glow of it, take it out and feel the warmth all over again, whenever she felt low. Suddenly her eyes filled. Quickly she stood and walked toward the door. “I’ll get my sweater,” she called back.
Jake’s eyes followed her exit. He couldn’t read her anymore. When had that happened? Four years ago? Five? He sighed. Francesca was a complicated woman, a blend of sweet and tart, like the wine she was so set on producing.
Nine
Julianne’s hand was light on the wheel. She drove a midsize Toyota with leather seats, power windows and an excellent stereo system. She could have afforded more but a car was transportation, nothing more. All she required was reliability and some degree of comfort. A Camry was perfect for a small woman.
She eased the car around the curves of the twisting highway. The Vandenburg estate was off the main road by about ten miles, through a lovely stretch of leaning eucalyptus and spreading oak trees. The house had been uninhabited for a
long time. Julianne was curious to see how Mitch had renovated the place.
She pulled into the courtyard and looked around. A surge of pleasure rushed through her. Slate pavers still enclosed the old fountain and lush, red bougainvillea grew in wild abandon over the walls. The house had been improved with a fresh coat of white paint and the windows had been washed, but Mitch had preserved the charm of an old hacienda, complete with outdoor pump, rustic porch furniture and hand-painted tiles. Her estimation of the man, already high, rose.
Slowly, she climbed the porch steps. The door behind the screen was open. She felt awkward, as if she were engaged in something illicit. Her palms felt like ice. Mentally chastising herself for accepting the invitation in the first place, she drew a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. It was too late to back out now.
“I’ll get it,” Sarah called from another room.
Relief swept through her. She’d forgotten the children. They would not be alone.
Sarah opened the door. “Hi, Mrs. Harris. Come in.”
Julianne stepped inside. “Hi, yourself. How are the lessons coming?”
The girl smiled. “Great! As soon as the stable is finished, Dad says I can bring Fairy Light home. I’ll miss Francesca, though. She’s a terrific teacher. She never gets mad, even when I do something dumb.”
Julianne laughed. “That doesn’t sound like Francesca. She must like you very much.”
“Really?” The child’s pleasure was genuine. Julianne resolved to compliment her as often as possible.
“Dad’s in the kitchen. May I take your purse and put it in the closet?”
“Please.” She slipped out of her sweater. “Take this, too. I’ve brought a bottle of wine. If you don’t think he’ll mind, I’ll join him in the kitchen.”
Sarah opened a closet large enough to be a cloakroom and hung up the sweater and purse. “Trust me, he’ll be grateful. Dad’s a good cook, but he isn’t in your league.”
“I’ve had lots of practice. I don’t think I’d be very good at managing a huge company. Thank goodness we all have our talents.”
“I guess so.” She looked thoughtful. “I wish I knew what my talent was.”
“I can tell you one of them if you’d like,” Julianne began conversationally.
“What’s that?”
“You’re very hospitable. I was feeling uncomfortable standing at your door. I don’t know your dad very well and I wondered if maybe he was feeling as if he had to repay me for the times the three of you have stopped in at my house. It wouldn’t have been at all necessary, you know.”
Sarah’s eyebrows rose. “Are you kidding? My dad doesn’t do anything he doesn’t like to do.”
Julianne stared at her. Could she possibly believe that? Mitch Gillette must be very good at hiding his feelings. “Anyway,” she continued, “the point is, you’ve made me feel welcome and wanted. Warmth and hospitality are wonderful gifts. Not everyone has them.”
The girl glowed. “Gosh. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She pointed down a long hall. “The kitchen’s this way.”
Julianne followed her through the hallway and dining room, admiring the place mats, the table runner and the filmy London shades allowing in the last rays of daylight. Either Mitch had very good taste or he’d hired a decorator. The table was set for four.
The kitchen was equally impressive. A design of black, red and white tiles, dark-wood cabinets, clear glass cupboard doors and copper pots hanging from the ceiling made for an interesting Southwestern look, very functional, very masculine. Mitch was leaning over the center island, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows, stirring sauce over a low flame, completely at home. He looked up and grinned at her.
“We’re having spaghetti, by request,” he said. “Meat sauce for the kids, mariscos for us.”
“It sounds wonderful. I love seafood pasta. But I thought you were barbecuing. I brought red wine. I hope it works.”
“If it doesn’t, we’ll dig up something else.”
“May I help you with anything?”
He eyed her dress appreciatively. “I don’t think so, not when you’re wearing white. Why don’t you pour us some wine. The glasses are over there.” He nodded at a wooden rack over a refrigerated wine bar. “I’m working on a cellar but this will have to do for now.” He nodded at his daughter. “Sarah, find the corkscrew for Mrs. Harris and then call your brother. Tell him to come downstairs and say hello to our guest.”
Sarah sighed and walked over to a drawer near the wine bar. “I’ll try.”
“Do better than that,” her father said gently.
She handed Julianne the corkscrew, sighed again and left the room.
Julianne looked after her thoughtfully, uncorked her wine and poured two glasses. “A 1987 Syrah. Not the best for seafood,” she said, handing it to him, “but wonderful for meat sauce.”
He lifted his glass, swirled it slightly and tasted it. Then he picked up the bottle. “Is this one of your estate wines?”
“It is.”
“Your daughter-in-law is very talented.”
“Thank you. She can’t take credit for this wine, however. She was only thirteen years old when it was bottled. This particular blend was one of my husband’s projects.”
“Tell me about him.”
Julianne smiled. “He was a winemaker. We came to the Santa Ynez Valley thirty years ago when Frank DeAngelo hired him. We lived on the estate until he died.”
“When was that?”
“Ten years ago.”
“Why did you leave?”
Julianne shrugged. “I didn’t really, at least not for very long. I had a small house in town until Nick was born and the girls left home. Francesca’s father moved into the guesthouse and gave Francie and Jake the house they live in now. They were working long hours and I couldn’t bear to have the baby go to someone outside the family. I moved in, renovated the kitchen and worked my schedule around Nick.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Three. Two girls and Jake. He’s the oldest.”
Mitch turned off the heat under the sauce and picked up his wineglass. This was nice, the two of them, just talking. He liked her. She was comfortable and lovely and unpretentious. He hadn’t felt so serene and relaxed in a long time. “Were you happily married?” The question came out before he could stop the words. “I beg your pardon,” he said, embarrassed. “Please don’t feel as if you have to answer that. I don’t usually get so personal so quickly.”
“My goodness, Mitch,” she laughed. “You didn’t ask me how much I weigh or if I’ve had a face-lift. It’s a perfectly normal question to ask. Yes, I was happily married, as happy as anyone can be for twenty years.”
“You’re fortunate.”
“Yes, I suppose so, among other things.”
“Such as?”
“Tolerant, compromising and I’ll even admit to a certain degree of stubbornness.”
This time he laughed. “Are you saying those are the qualities necessary for a happy marriage?”
“They’re necessary for a long marriage.”
“Are you stubborn, Julianne?”
“Very.” She set down her glass and changed the subject. “Are you sure I can’t help you with anything?”
He shook his head. “Next time. Tonight, I’m cooking for you.”
“Your children and me,” she corrected him.
“Yes,” he said carefully. “My children.”
It was an implied, but subtle, invitation. She took a chance. “May I ask you a question?”
He turned up the flame under a large pot of boiling water. “Please.”
“How are you getting along with Sarah and Drew?”
He looked surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“All right. I’ll confess. To be completely honest, it’s damn difficult,” he said ruefully. “Half the time I don’t know what I’m d
oing and the other half I’m sure I’m doing it all wrong.”
They’re lovely children. You must be doing something right.”
“If any credit is due, it goes to my late ex-wife. Susan raised them on her own, from the time they were infants. She wanted it that way and I guess I wanted it, too. It was easier for me to see them once in a while than to share custody. I’m not proud of it and I am certainly paying for my lapse now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They don’t really know me,” Mitch admitted. “Sarah is adjusting but Drew is defiant. I don’t know whether to come down hard or ignore him. My instincts aren’t particularly good when it comes to children.”
Julianne was silent, hoping for inspiration. “Give it time,” she said gently, after a minute. “There isn’t an easy solution for losing a parent too soon. Your children are at a difficult age. This is the worst thing that could have happened to them right now.”
“You’re right. I’m trying for patience. Drew’s attitude is wearing me down.”
“How long ago were you divorced?”
“Thirteen years.”
Mentally she did the math. Sarah and Drew were fifteen. “You didn’t give it much of a chance.”
“I didn’t have to,” he said grimly. “It was a terrible mistake. I’d do anything to take it back.”
She unwrapped the pasta, looked at the label and dropped it into the boiling water. “Good choice,” she said approvingly.
“There’s a difference?”
“Look at the ridges in the noodles. These will grab the sauce, which makes for more flavorful spaghetti.”
“Have you always had a knack for cooking?”
“In a manner of speaking. My family is huge. We would get together on Sundays and argue over traditional Basque recipes.”
“Where are you from?”
“South Orange County when it was still ranch land, orange trees and cattle.”
“Do you miss your family?”
“They’re not that far away. I do miss my daughters, though,” she said fervently. “And I miss Jake, although he’s been underfoot lately.”
“I like him,” Mitch said. “And I like Francesca. What happened there?”
She looked pointedly at the pasta. “Be careful. That’s cappelletti. You don’t want it turning to mush.”
A Delicate Finish Page 9
