A Delicate Finish

by Jeanette Baker

  A wave of red spread across the boy’s face. Embarrassment or pleasure? Mitch didn’t know. “Are you looking forward to the new job?”

  “Actually, I am,” Drew said, surprising him. “I think I’ll like it.”

  “Well, then, shall we say goodbye to Sarah and go?”

  “She’s sleeping. If I were you, I’d let her. She doesn’t get much time to relax.”

  Mitch bit back a comment. In his opinion, teenagers had too much time to relax. “All right,” he said instead. “I’ll take your advice.”

  Drew climbed into the car beside his father. “So, Dad. Where are you off to on a Saturday morning?”

  “I have to meet with a real estate broker. GGI is buying two local vineyards with water rights. I have to sign some papers.”

  “I heard that you don’t have permission to build yet.”

  Mitch looked sideways at his son. “I didn’t know you were paying attention. Who told you that?”

  “It’s big news at school.”

  Mitch turned back to the road. “It’s true. We don’t have the results of the traffic and pollution report yet.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “No. We’ll get it. If not, we’ll have a general election. The town will benefit from this winery. The opposition is mostly local vintners. There aren’t many of those, not enough to make a difference if it comes to a vote.”

  Drew looked out the window. “It’s a little tough for Sarah and me.”

  Mitch frowned. “How?”

  “Popular opinion is with the local growers. Everyone knows we’re on the other side. This place—” he waved his arm “—is the back of beyond. It doesn’t even have a Starbucks. They have a different mentality here. I feel like I’m in Montana.”

  “They’ll adjust,” Mitch said grimly.

  “I hope it’s worth it,” Drew replied under his breath.

  Mitch pulled into the DeAngelo courtyard. “I could use a cup of coffee. Do you mind if I come in with you?”

  Drew shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  The camaraderie of the morning was gone. Mitch wanted nothing more than to be rid of his sullen teenager and move into areas where he was confident of success. Mustering his resolve once again to involve himself in the lives of his children, he followed Drew up to the house.

  Julianne opened the door. “Hi. Come in. Mitch, how about a cup of coffee?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “Drew, would you like anything before we start?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “All right.” She picked up a card from the counter. “You’ll be working on cream puffs. Study the recipe for a minute and then assemble the ingredients. You’ll find everything in the pantry and the refrigerator.”

  “Are you using whipped cream or custard?” Drew asked.

  “Whipped cream.”

  Drew grinned. “My favorite.”

  Julianne laughed. “I’m glad you approve. Maybe, if you’re very good, I’ll let you sample a few.”

  Mitch listened to their banter in disbelief. A hot pool of jealousy rose in his chest. His son was practically comatose around him. All Julianne did was point him in the direction of the refrigerator, bribe him with cream puffs, and the boy was actually smiling. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen Drew’s teeth. “Maybe I should be going,” he said. “I’m in your way.”

  “Nonsense.” Julianne was already pouring the coffee. “I’ve been up for quite a while and could use a break. I’ll meet you in the breakfast nook.”

  Gratefully, he walked into the other room. She joined him in a matter of minutes.

  “Thanks for taking him on,” he said, accepting the cup she held out to him.

  “I can use the help and Drew has some talent when it comes to food.”

  “How did that come about? I wonder.”

  Julianne smiled. “Don’t ask. Just appreciate it.”

  Mitch’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “You’re very good at assessing my mood.”

  “Am I prying?”

  He shook his head. “Actually, your interest is flattering and—” he grinned “—to a small degree, comforting.”

  She sipped her coffee. Her eyes were an exotic Siamese blue above the rim of her cup. They distracted him. “Susan’s eyes were dark brown,” he said. “It’s odd that her children have such blue eyes.”

  “Not really. Yours are very light and she obviously carried a recessive gene. Biology 1-A.”

  “Sometimes I forget that you were a teacher.”

  “Those were good years, but I’m glad they’re over. Working for myself suits me better.”

  “I imagine it would suit anyone better.”

  “Why not try it?” she suggested.

  “And do what?”

  “Do what you know. Be a vintner. Your background in business is strong enough to allow you to manage your own vineyard. You could hire a winemaker and learn the specifics. It might be rough for a few years, but starting out usually is. We’ve all been there. You’d have help when you needed it.”

  It was the edge of an idea, a dream, that would semiform in his consciousness only to be promptly shut out. “It’s tempting.”

  “Think about it.”

  “It’s a risk.”

  “Yes, but if it worked...” She let the sentence hang.

  He stood. “I should go. I have a meeting.”

  “I’ll drive Drew home. There’s no need for you to come out of your way.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Is six all right?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The Old Stagecoach Inn. Do you approve?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I love it.”

  Julianne watched him drive away from the kitchen window. Drew, his cheeks flushed, his forehead wrinkled, was bent over a saucepan gradually adding flour to a butter and sugar mixture. She liked his intensity and the fact that he didn’t try to make conversation. All his attention was focused on his task.

  “I’m not sure this is working,” he said. “Can you come and look?”

  Julianne peeked over his shoulder. “It’s perfect,” she pronounced. “The batter is supposed to seize up just like that. The secret to perfect cream puffs is temperature control. At the exact moment they puff and set, they should be removed from the oven. The recipe has been perfected. As long as you follow it, you’ll be safe.”

  He nodded.

  Her carrot cake, due at the Santa Ynez Inn late in the morning, needed icing. She unwrapped two packages of cream cheese, measured sugar, vanilla and a drop of kirsch into a bowl and plugged in her mixer. The whir of the appliance and the faintly sweet smell of vanilla and sugar that permeated her kitchen during baking soothed her, lifted her spirits.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Drew drop spoonfuls of dough on a cookie sheet. She smiled. At the same age, Jake wouldn’t have been caught dead in a kitchen baking cream puffs. Either Drew was very secure and didn’t care what other people thought, or cooking was no longer perceived as a solely feminine accomplishment.

  “How are you coming over there?” she asked.

  Drew slid two pans of cream-puff dough into the preheated convection oven. His clothes were dusted with white flour and the satisfied expression on his face was an answer in itself.

  He nodded. “I like this.”

  “Good. Keep an eye on those puffs. A minute or two can ruin a whole batch.”

  “That cake looks great.”

  “Thanks. It’s a cake day today. I have to make a mocha-chocolate for a birthday party. I’ll start the layers. While they’re cooling, I’ll deliver this one. Then I’ll make us lunch. Now that you’re an expert on cream puffs, do you think you can handle éclairs?”

  Drew grinned. “I’ll try.”

  “They’re almost the same as cream puffs, but they have chocolate drizzled across the top. The chocolate requires a thermometer.
Otherwise it won’t have that nice glossy look that good bittersweet chocolate is supposed to have.”

  “Where did you learn to do all this?” Drew asked, waving his hand to encompass the kitchen.

  “I’ve always loved to read recipes.” Julianne began assembling the ingredients for her mocha-chocolate cake, pulling eggs and butter from the refrigerator, and chocolate, flour and baking powder from the pantry. “First, I started experimenting. Finally, one day, my husband asked me why I hadn’t served the same meal to my family twice in the last year.”

  “Was he complaining?” Drew asked incredulously.

  Julianne tilted her head, trying to remember. “I think so,” she said at last. “Carl was a creature of habit. He didn’t like anything to upset his routine. You can imagine what it must have been like for him to have a different meal every night, especially something he’d never heard of.”

  “I think it sounds great. My mom was a health nut. She made soy burgers and tofu scrambled eggs.” He blinked, passed his hand over his eyes and bent down to check the cream puffs through the oven window.

  “And your dad?” Julianne asked gently.

  “He’s limited to steak, salmon and spaghetti. Otherwise, we order in. We do eat together, though,” he said after a pause.

  The oven timer beeped. Drew pulled the cookie sheets out of the oven and set them on the counter. The cream puffs were a delicate golden brown.

  Julianne’s eyes widened. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed. “These are truly culinary masterpieces.”

  Drew reddened. “They did turn out all right, didn’t they?”

  “All right?” She took him by the shoulders and looked up at him. “That’s the understatement of the year. Drew, you really have talent. Have you thought of culinary school?”

  “Not until I met you.”

  “I think you’re a natural.”

  “Tell that to my dad.”

  Julianne returned to her cake. “I intend to do just that.”

  Mitch ordered a glass of iced tea and a sandwich. He sat at a well-lit corner table at Andersen’s Pea Soup Restaurant. It was far enough away from Santa Ynez to guarantee him enough anonymity to meet with the broker and finalize the closing documents for the two vineyards he’d purchased for GGI.

  The broker was late. Mitch pulled out the pollution report he’d picked up this morning and began reading it carefully line by line. The first paragraph, highlighted in bold print, was impossible to misinterpret. GGI had been denied permission to build its winery. The negative effects of increased tourism, the additional strain of providing utilities, parking and shelter for those employed by and visiting a vineyard and winery the size of the one GGI proposed had been weighed against the benefits of future employment opportunities in the community. The committee had arrived at the resulting decision only after careful consideration. GGI could appeal this decision by providing new information.

  Mitch’s disappointment was fleeting. He’d expected and planned for just such a contingency. GGI would appeal, of course. But he wouldn’t leave it at that. The next step was to override the committee with an emergency general election, one that could be organized with voting taking place as early as six weeks from now. People needed jobs. The economy wasn’t good. He had every confidence that in a general election, GGI would prevail. He would pick up the paperwork after lunch and see about renting an office in Santa Ynez. There were petitions to print, signatures to collect and an advertising campaign to organize. It would be best to hire a local person, someone who could command support from the community. He pulled out a pen and began making notes on the back of the report.

  Rick Lane, the commercial-property broker, sat down across from Mitch and apologized profusely. “I came from Santa Barbara. The traffic was a bear.”

  “No problem,” Mitch said coolly. “I’ve already ordered.”

  “Is the deal still on?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard about the pollution report.”

  “The deal is still on.”

  Lane frowned. “As much as I want this sale, it’s my professional responsibility to warn you that GGI’s winery has a very good chance of not being built.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  Lane shook his head. “I’m going to say this one more time. I might even write it into the contract. Then you can’t complain that I didn’t warn you. Santa Barbara County is a world apart. People who have power are old and they have money. They won’t widen freeways or approve of new construction. They live behind the walls of their Montecito estates and work very hard to keep everything the way it is. Change isn’t in their vocabulary. They don’t think anything new is an improvement.”

  “I appreciate your honesty. But Santa Barbara County also has a large and resentful minority population. The public schools are largely second- and third-generation Hispanic. These people deserve jobs, housing and opportunities. Their votes will outnumber the wealthy. They’re the ones this winery will appeal to.”

  The broker lifted one hand to signal the waitress. “You’re the boss.”

  Twenty-Three

  Julianne opened the door and Mitch’s eyes widened with pleasure. “You look beautiful.”

  She smiled. Compliments were difficult for her but he sounded so genuine she believed him. Besides, she knew she looked good. She’d gone to considerable effort to look exactly right this evening, sophisticated enough, but not too dressy, for the old roadhouse-turned-restaurant located on a remote back road east of Santa Barbara. Her skirt, fitted at the waist and hips and cut in the new flirty style around the hem, hit the top of her knee. A clingy, scoop-necked sweater with three-quarter sleeves in the same raspberry color complemented her hair and skin. She felt attractive and feminine and more nervous than a fifty-year-old widow with three grown children and one grandchild had a right to be.

  In the car the silence between them was distracting. She waited for Mitch to turn on the radio. When he didn’t, she searched her mind for a topic of conversation. The children. That was it. Children were always safe. “How is Sarah?” she asked politely.

  “Sarah’s doing well. By the way, I really appreciate the time Francesca took with her the other day. Sarah hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

  “I’ll tell Francie you said that. She’ll be pleased.”

  Silence again.

  “I think Drew is happy working with me. Has he said anything to you?”

  “Drew rarely says anything to me. But it’s obvious that he adores you. I’m pleased that he has a healthy interest, thanks to you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Mitch looked at her. “I have a great deal to thank your family for. You’ve been kind to us.”

  “It’s nothing, really. People here help each other. When does Drew have to appear in court?”

  “Next Thursday.”

  “I can be there, if you’d like,” she offered. “It might help if I showed up as a character witness.”

  “Would you do that?”

  “Of course, but you should ask Drew if it’s all right with him. We haven’t talked about what happened. He might be embarrassed.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  The conversation died again. Julianne’s heart raced. They were still twenty miles away from the restaurant. What was the matter with him? Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she spoke up. “You’re quiet tonight.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. In fact, I’m wondering if you wouldn’t rather be somewhere else. You’re awfully preoccupied.”

  Unbelievably, his cheek, the one visible to her, darkened. Could he be embarrassed?

  “I’m sorry, Julianne. I’ll try to be better company. I’ve hit a glitch in the construction of the winery and a million thoughts are racing through my head.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to bounce off me?”

  “That question is almost risqué.”

  She laughed the first genuine la
ugh of the night. “I didn’t mean it that way at all.”

  He turned the wheel to the right suddenly and the car swerved. Before she had time to ask what he was doing, he’d set the brake and released his seat belt. Then he lifted her chin and kissed her.

  For Julianne, everything stopped, her senses aware of nothing but the kiss. She hadn’t been kissed by a man in ten years. No, that wasn’t completely true. She hadn’t welcomed a kiss by a man in ten years. And before that there was only Carl. The sensation of firm lips on her mouth, warm hands stroking her throat and the steady beat of a heart that wasn’t hers was soothing, exhilarating and deliciously forbidden at the same time. She leaned into the kiss for what seemed like a long time.

  Finally he pulled away.

  “My goodness,” she breathed, her voice shaky, air-filled. “Why now?”

  “I wanted it out of the way. The tension was thick.”

  “For you, too?”

  He nodded. “For me, too.”

  “That’s a relief.” Julianne leaned back in her seat. “I thought I was boring you.”

  “Never that.”

  “Are we finished?”

  He laughed. “For now.”

  She leaned back against the headrest, her confidence restored. “Are you going to tell me what’s causing you to be so preoccupied, other than my presence?”

  He pulled out into the flow of traffic. “The pollution report came back. GGI doesn’t have approval to build.”

  Julianne stared at him. “What does that mean for you?”

  “I have to find an alternative to approval by the county board of supervisors.”

  “What kind of alternative?”

  “Popular vote. I think there are enough people in this valley who need jobs and would like to see a large winery built.”

  Julianne didn’t think so at all, but she wanted to hear him out. “Are you thinking of putting some kind of initiative on the ballot for the next election?”

  “I can’t wait that long. I’m thinking of holding a special election.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “It’s been done before. I have no choice. The company has gone out on a limb for this property. The loss would be significant. It wouldn’t look good for me.”