A Delicate Finish

by Jeanette Baker

  Julianne’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m sorry, Mitch. I don’t know what to say, other than I hope you have an alternate plan if it doesn’t work. The people here are set in their ways.”

  “Unemployment is a powerful factor, Julianne. The timing is good for another winery.”

  The turnoff leading to the restaurant loomed ahead. Thankful to be changing the subject, Julianne pointed it out.

  “It’s crowded for such an out-of-the-way place,” he observed.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “No. I chose it based on a recommendation.”

  “It’s a good choice. The menu is unique. They serve ostrich, buffalo and venison.”

  “Good Lord! I hope they offer something else as well.” He pulled into an empty parking space.

  “Not feeling adventurous?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I’m sure they’ll have something you’ll like.”

  To Julianne’s surprise and pleasure, the old inn hadn’t changed much since she’d seen it last. Smoke-stained beams and white-stuccoed walls decorated with branding irons and horseshoes gave the rooms a warm, Old West feel. Jam jars served as vases for Mexican sage and California poppies, centerpieces for the scrubbed oak tables and spindle-backed chairs. Baskets of wild mustard, sorrel and rosemary brought color to the white walls, dark wood and rag throw rugs scattered across the floors. Gleaming copper bowls heaped with wood, dry twigs and lavender sat near each of the glowing fireplaces.

  A young woman in a long black skirt and tailored white blouse seated them in a cozy corner near the fire. There were four other tables in the small room, all of them filled, all of them lit by the soft glow of slender wax candles.

  “This is incredible,” Mitch said after she’d left them with menus and a wine list. “Who would have thought a place like this existed way out here?”

  “Wait until you taste the food.”

  “That’s definitely a recommendation coming from you.”

  “I appreciate a good restaurant as much as anyone else,” she said. “I don’t go out as much as I’d like.”

  He looked up from the wine list. “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure.” She frowned. “Maybe people think that because of what I do, I’ll be critical. Actually, I’m rather easy to please.”

  “Does that apply to everything, or just food?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I’d say everything. Life is too short to be terribly particular.”

  “I agree. Would you like a drink before dinner?”

  She shook her head. “Wine with dinner is all I need.”

  He set the list aside. “Tell me you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Very much.”

  “I wondered for a minute there in the car.”

  “I was nervous.”

  “Me, too. It’s odd.”

  “What is?”

  “This feeling I have when I’m with you. It’s different somehow. New. Comfortable and yet exciting. It’s odd, but I can’t remember what I felt for Susan, my ex-wife. I must have felt something or I wouldn’t have asked her to marry me.” He signaled the waiter. “I don’t know why I brought that up. I’m not making sense. Let’s order our wine and then I’ll have an excuse. Is the Pinot Noir all right with you? It’s a Sterling label and a year I’ve wanted to taste.”

  “Yes. I’d like that, too.

  “I don’t think what you’re feeling is odd at all,” she said, continuing the conversation. “People’s feelings change and fade daily. If not, we’d all be miserable about something that happened years after it was over. It’s a defense mechanism programmed into all of us. I know that I loved my husband. I know that I was grief-stricken when he died. But I no longer cry myself to sleep at night because he’s gone. Thank goodness. Otherwise, how could anyone continue living?”

  His gaze was steady, unblinking. She blushed. “What are you thinking?”

  “That I’m going to order the venison after all.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “This is a night of firsts and I’ve never had venison before.”

  Francesca twisted her hair into a knot at the back of her head, retied the sash of her sarong skirt and slipped her feet into sandals. Julianne was out and the kitchen was hers. She couldn’t compete with her mother-in-law when it came to cooking, but she still enjoyed the process and ritual of preparing a meal for her family, even more so when Julianne wasn’t there to oversee her mistakes.

  Tonight she was trying a bread-salad recipe from the culinary school in Napa. She’d picked up fresh shrimp, French bread and sweet corn at the grocery store. Jake had been recruited to choose the wine and later, to do the dishes. Nick would shuck corm and set the table. A delicious shiver of contentment radiated from her center. They would be alone, the three of them. The occasion was something to celebrate. Glowing, she ran downstairs.

  There was no worry about ingredients. Julianne’s spice and condiment cupboard was a virtual library of both the exotic and mundane, from imported cooking oils to the rarest of spices, all arranged in alphabetical order. She found the avocado oil immediately, then the cumin, red pepper and oregano. The shrimp was already peeled and deveined. After patting them dry, she sprinkled sugar and salt over the entire batch, filled a pot of salted water to boil for the corn and pressed the speaker button to activate the intercom. “Nick, Wherever you are. It’s time to shuck.”

  “Can I finish my computer game?” he asked.

  “How long will it take?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Set the timer and be down here in exactly ten minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  She chose a serrated knife and began dicing the French bread. It was toasting on a cooking sheet in the oven when Jake walked through the door carrying a bottle of wine.

  “Need any help?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I have everything under control.”

  He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and watched her, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  After a minute or so, she began to feel self-conscious. “Did you want something?” she asked pointedly.

  “No. Just enjoying the view.”

  She rubbed her arms. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Sorry.” He didn’t move.

  “What’s going on, Jake?”

  “You’re good at this.”

  “So?”

  “You don’t get to do it often, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But I can’t do everything, can I?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “I guess not. But, maybe—” He stopped.

  She waited.

  “Maybe we could arrange things differently.”

  Francesca chose four tomatoes, two red, one orange and one yellow and began dicing. “I don’t understand.”

  Jake found a corkscrew, opened a bottle of Chardonnay and poured it into two glasses. He handed one to Francesca. “What if we ask my mother to move back to the small house?”

  She gasped and set down the glass. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jake, you can’t mean it. Can you imagine how your mother would feel if, after all she’s done for us, we threw her out of her home?”

  “We’re not throwing her out, Francie. We’re suggesting that she might like some privacy by offering an alternative. The house isn’t more than a quarter of a mile away.”

  “What about Nick? Who will he come home to? Who will cook if I’m away until ten or eleven at night?”

  “I will,” he said evenly.

  She closed her eyes. He was going to ruin their evening. He was going to bring up a subject they couldn’t finish before Nick interrupted them, one that would hang over them through the entire meal. The enjoyment would be ruined for her. “Don’t do this now, Jake. Please. Can’t we just enjoy the evening?”

  “I want to enjoy this evening. I want to enjoy every evening with you and my son.”

  “Do we have to
discuss this now?”

  “Damn it, Francie. When do we discuss it? How long are you going to run away from me?”

  Her hands shook. “I’m not running away. I’m just not ready. I don’t want to commit to something I’m not sure of. On the other hand, I don’t want to say there’s no chance when there might be. Please understand. Give me some time.”

  “Two years is a long time.”

  “That’s right. But it wasn’t until two weeks ago that I had any idea you’d considered coming back. Maybe we could take one step at a time. You’re living here. We could—” She looked down at her hands.

  “What? Just say it.”

  “You could share my room.”

  “I want to marry you, Francie, not just sleep with you. I want to start over. This is more than sex. I want a marriage and all that it means.”

  “That didn’t work out very well the first time.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t help.”

  “All right. Exactly what does marriage mean to you, Jake? Maybe we should clear that up first. Obviously we have different definitions.”

  A thin white line appeared around his lips and his eyes blazed. “You don’t want this to work.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “I don’t know what else to do to show you that I’m serious. I work until I’m so tired I can’t even stand and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not on the payroll. I try to lighten your load every way I can. I’ve listened to you, made suggestions, offered to do the grunt work and I’ve yet to hear a thank-you. I love you. For some strange, and I’m beginning to think tragic, reason I’ve been programmed to have that feeling for one woman and she’s you. For some people there’s only one person, Francie. Maybe it’s that way for you, too. It’s been two years and you haven’t even gone out on a date. For someone else, that might not be so unusual, but you’re drop-dead beautiful. So, if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life alone, maybe we should give this another shot.”

  “Have you gone out on a date, Jake?”

  “I might have known you would bring it back to that.”

  A small voice piped up from behind them. “Are you fighting?”

  Francesca froze.

  Jake walked to where his son balanced first on one foot and then the other. He lifted him into his arms as if he were no more than a toddler. “We’re discussing, Nick. That’s all. Sometimes people need to discuss.”

  Nick’s lower lip quivered. “You were yelling.”

  “I suppose we were.” Jake offered no apology. “Sometimes people yell. It means they care.”

  “I came down to do the corn.”

  “Where is that corn? I’ll help you.”

  Nick pointed to a basket on the counter.

  “C’mon, buddy. I can eat two pieces. How about you?”

  “That depends on dessert.”

  Jake laughed. It irritated Francesca that his mood could change so easily, or even that he could pretend so easily. If in this, why not in other things?

  “What’s for dessert, Francie?”

  “Ice-cream sundaes,” she said defiantly. “I’m not Julianne.”

  Both blond heads turned to look at her. “No one expects you to be,” Jake said gently.

  “Gosh, Mom. What would we do with two grans and no mom?”

  Francesca’s eyes filled. “I love you, Nick.”

  “Dad, too. Say you love Dad, too.”

  She was crying in earnest now, fat salty tears that found their way into the corners of her mouth. “He already knows that.”

  “Say it anyway,” Nick insisted. “He likes it.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “C’mon, Mom.”

  “Stop it!” She threw up her hands. “All right, Nick. Give me a break. I love Dad, too.”

  Jake smiled broadly. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  In spite of herself, Francesca laughed, tore off a paper towel from the roll, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Please, finish the corn, or we won’t eat until midnight.”

  Jake crossed the space between them and, with Nick still in his arms, kissed her soundly. “You have only to ask and all will be yours.”

  “I’m asking now and all I want is the corn shucked and boiling in ten minutes.”

  Jake bent his forehead to Nick’s. “She means us.”

  Nick nodded. “I guess we’ll have to do it.”

  Francesca turned away, hiding a smile. She picked up the knife to resume her dicing. Ten minutes ago she didn’t think it was possible to redeem the evening. Now— Well, maybe things weren’t as black and white as she thought.

  Twenty-Four

  An older-model Lincoln rolled slowly into the DeAngelo driveway and stopped in front of the porch. A woman stepped out and looked at the house. She didn’t bother to close the car door. A full minute passed before she turned a quarter turn to the right and looked out over the hills. She turned again to look, for the same amount of time, over the dormant fields and then back again at the house, a three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep.

  Jake, on his way from the winery to the house to grab a late lunch, sat in his Jeep jotting down notes when her car pulled in. He was sure he’d seen her somewhere before and equally as sure that if he had he wouldn’t have forgotten. She wasn’t the kind of woman a man forgot. Coffee-dark hair was pulled back into a casual bun under a wide-brimmed straw hat. She had the kind of willowy, magazine-cover body that most women wanted and few had. Her white dress was sleeveless and slit to midthigh, high enough to show her legs. They were spectacular. Her features were exotic and her skin was good, although at second glance she was older than she first appeared, somewhere in her late forties, maybe even older.

  He knew she’d seen him but she didn’t react. He climbed out of the Jeep and met her on the porch. She removed her sunglasses. Under the brim of her hat, bottle-green eyes surveyed him coolly. He caught his breath. Suddenly he knew who she was. The resemblance was undeniable. He held out his hand. “Hello, Mrs. DeAngelo. I’m Jake Harris.”

  Her carmine lips parted, and her words, whiskey-soft, rolled off her tongue. “Well, well, well. Little Jake Harris.” She took his hand while her eyes flickered across his face. “You certainly turned out to be a gorgeous man.”

  He nodded, barely acknowledging the compliment. “What brings you to Santa Ynez?”

  She shrugged and dropped her hand to her side. “Curiosity and motherly instinct. Apparently I have a grandson, although I wouldn’t admit it to any passing stranger. What do you think, Jake? Do I look like a grandma?”

  He ignored the question. “You’re a little late. He was born eight years ago.”

  “I’m not going to apologize.”

  “Even if you were, it’s not me you owe.”

  She smiled seductively. “No? Maybe not. I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  Jake opened the door and waited for her to pass in front of him. “Francie is working at the winery,” he said pointedly.

  “I guess that’s supposed to remind me that I haven’t asked about her.”

  “Take it any way you like.”

  Lisa DeAngelo tilted her head back to look up at him. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “I don’t know you, Mrs. DeAngelo. The last time I saw you I was in first grade.”

  “I must have made quite an impression. You remember me.”

  He shook his head. “Not really. You resemble Francie. That’s how I knew you.”

  “Really?” She looked surprised as if the thought that she could have a daughter with similar features had never occurred to her. “I’m almost curious.”

  “My mother lives here now. She runs a catering business from the kitchen.”

  “How quaint.”

  Jake’s mouth twitched. The kitchen door was closed, a sure sign that his mother was cooking. He opened it, blocking the entrance and Lisa from view.

  His mother was pul
ling puff pastries from the oven.

  “Any chance I can get a quick bite to eat before going back out?”

  She blew a wisp of hair from her forehead. “I can’t stop to make anything now. But help yourself. There are plenty of leftovers in the refrigerator.”

  “We have a visitor.”

  Julianne straightened. “How nice. Who is it?”

  Lisa slipped out from behind Jake and stood in front of him. “It’s me, Julianne. The prodigal daughter returned to the fold.”

  For a long minute the two women, of similar age and yet so different, stared at each other. Lisa looked like a naughty child caught in the middle of a prank. But it was his mother’s reaction that worried Jake. Julianne’s hands shook. Her cheeks were very pale and the puff pastries were definitely in danger of sliding off the tray.

  Jake grabbed a towel and reached for them, taking the tray from his mother’s hands and setting it on the counter. “Are you all right?” he asked his mother.

  “Yes.”

  “Of course she’s all right,” Lisa purred. “We’re old friends, aren’t we, Julianne?”

  Julianne recovered. “I don’t remember. Did it seem that way to you?”

  “You haven’t carried a grudge all this time, have you? I certainly haven’t.”

  Julianne’s eyes flashed blue fire. “I’m sure you’re a true role model, Lisa. To answer your question, I put you out of my mind completely. As for your being the prodigal daughter, aren’t you a bit long in the tooth for that?”

  “I believe we’re the same age,” said Lisa.

  “Only if you had Chris when you were fifteen. You remember him, don’t you? Chris, your thirty-five-year-old son?”

  Jake stared at his mother. He couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t warm and gracious, a soft touch for every child selling cookies and magazine subscriptions, every Salvation Army Santa Claus with a bell, every homeless man or woman in need of a day’s work, a shower or a decent meal.

  “Never mind.” Lisa said quickly, turning to look at the kitchen. “My goodness, what have you done to this place? It doesn’t look anything like it used to.”

  “How would you know?” replied Julianne. “You never cooked a meal in your life.”

  Jake couldn’t help himself. “Jesus, Mom, c’mon. She’s Francie’s mother.”