“My, my.” Lisa’s eyes widened. “I think I’ve just found your Achilles’ heel. Be careful. I might use it against you.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.” Julianne folded her arms. “Have you considered how your daughter would feel if you attempted to work your wiles on my son?”
“Jake and Francesca are divorced. What difference would it make to her?”
“You really are an idiot, Lisa. You never could see beyond yourself.” Julianne turned to leave. “I don’t want to deal with you anymore.”
“See you in the morning, Julianne,” the woman called after her.
The heat woke her, that and the sensation of another body occupying well over half the bed. Francesca lay still for a minute, orienting herself to the darkness and the unfamiliar arrangement of furniture and windows. For an instant she was confused. This wasn’t her room. Then she remembered. It was Jake’s room and something had awakened her. She turned over and looked at the clock. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Jake was deep in sleep, his breathing even and slow. He’d put in a long day at the winery and, later at the restaurant where they’d taken her mother, he’d played the perfect host, unfailingly polite, slightly reserved.
Francesca was pleased with her mother. Lisa DeAngelo had exhibited just the right amount of interest and humility for a woman who’d voluntarily been out of touch with her family for twenty-four years. She hadn’t pretended that her behavior was normal or even acceptable and she hadn’t avoided the questions, not Francesca’s unspoken queries nor Nick’s blunt demands. She wouldn’t mind if Lisa stayed longer. If only Julianne wasn’t so adamant about having her gone. Francesca would talk to her in the morning. Maybe she would change her mind.
Silvery fingers of moonlight parted the drapes, illuminating the bedposts and half the bed. Jake’s twisting had pulled the sheet loose from the end of the mattress, leaving Francesca without enough to cover herself. She gripped a corner and gave it a gentle tug. It was firmly wedged under Jake’s body. Rising on one elbow, she pushed him from his side to his stomach, pulling free the sheet as he rolled. She attempted to turn over, only to find that her hair was caught under his chest.
Frustrated, she lay on her side, mustering the energy to free her hair. Jake’s back shook. He was laughing. “Slide over,” she hissed. “When did you get to be such a bed hog?”
He lifted his head. There was enough moonlight to see his eyes twinkle. “Since I’ve been sleeping alone.”
“You’re pulling my hair.”
He sat up and she moved her head, smoothing her hair behind her back.
“How long have you been awake?” he asked.
“Not very long. I thought I heard voices. Maybe it was a dream.”
“It wasn’t a dream. I was on my way to the kitchen when my mother came home. Yours was in the kitchen and I don’t think it was coincidental. I considered eavesdropping but my better instincts prevailed.”
“I wish you had,” Francesca said bluntly.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I haven’t had a mother in more than two decades. I’d like to get to know her.”
“Ask her to stay.”
“Julianne would have a fit. She told me Lisa could stay for the night and that was it.”
Jake frowned. “It’s good of you to be so considerate of my mother, Francie, but you have some say in this, too. If you want Lisa to stay, then say so.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do.”
Francesca smiled into the darkness. “All right. I will.”
Jake reached out to stroke her arm. She shivered.
He leaned over her, his head silhouetted by the bright moon. “Maybe I’ve had a memory lapse, but I don’t remember doing anything more than falling into bed tonight. Am I right?”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly breathless.
“I could remedy that, if you’re agreeable.”
“Why do you think I woke you?”
The chuckle came from deep in his throat.
Filling her hands with his hair, she pulled his head down and offered up her lips to his kiss.
Twenty-Seven
Julianne was in the middle of dusting a cinnamon-sugar mixture over her apple pastries. “Life has a way of reminding us that we shouldn’t get too comfortable,” was all she said when Francesca told her she’d like to extend her mother’s visit by a few more days.
Francesca pulled at a corner of the dough and nibbled it absentmindedly. “She’s my mother and I don’t even know her,” she explained. “You wouldn’t want me to lose this chance, would you?”
Julianne’s chin-length hair was tied back with a hot-pink bandanna knotted on top of her head. Her flushed cheeks were almost the same color and her eyes glittered with an emotion that Francesca was sure she had never seen before.
“The very idea that you have only one chance to know your mother says a great deal about your mother,” Julianne answered. “I don’t want her here. I’ve made that clear. But, this house is, for the most part, yours. My only request is that I have nothing to do with her. I can’t imagine her voluntarily seeking me out, so that shouldn’t be much of a problem. But I do work here.”
“You really hate her, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Julianne. She patted down her phyllo dough without looking up.
“What has she done to you?”
Julianne slid the tarts into the oven. “I don’t want to discuss it.”
Francesca picked off more dough. “Have you heard that Mitch Gillette is forcing a general election?”
“He mentioned it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I should think that would be obvious. The ecological survey came back negative. He wants to build a winery.”
“Is that okay with you?”
“Of course not.”
“You could use your influence, Julianne. He listens to what you say.”
“That’s because I don’t try to tell him what to do. Mitch is my friend. I like him. I’m not going to hold that friendship over his head. It isn’t fair. If a giant winery isn’t what people here want, they won’t vote for it.”
“And if they do?”
Julianne’s gaze was level, unwavering. “Then you’ll have to figure something out, won’t you?”
Francesca bit her lip. “It won’t be easy for a new winery to compete.”
“If you’re referring to Soledad, I know that. I want the very best for Jake and for Soledad, but not at the expense of the people of this community, and I mean all the people, not just the fifteen families whose incomes allow them to shelter most of their profits.”
“It sounds to me as if you’re going to vote for GGI’s winery.”
Julianne sighed. “No, Frances. I’m not going to vote for the winery. But my decision is based on the county report’s statistics regarding traffic and pollution and the destruction of a way of life that is specific to this valley. In the long run, I believe protecting our environment is more important than the short-term gains of minimum-wage unemployment.” She washed her hands and pulled a towel off the rack to dry them. “I suggest you figure out some way of entertaining your mother while she’s here. I’ve never known Lisa to get out of bed before noon, so your workday won’t be affected all that much.”
Francesca gasped. It was difficult to believe it was Julianne talking. For as long as she could remember, her mother-in-law’s sweetness had soothed the tempers of all who moved within her sphere.
She decided not to respond. Grabbing her gloves, she walked out of the kitchen and nearly ran into Nick on his way to the kitchen. “Hi,” she said, grabbing his shoulders to steady him. “What are you doing up so early?”
“It isn’t early,” he replied. “It’s Tuesday and I’m late for school. How come nobody woke me up?”
Francesca’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no. I didn’t think—Gran always—” She stopped. Why did she always assume that it would be Julianne who woke Nick
and fed him breakfast? “I’m sorry, Nick. I’ll take you to school. We’ll grab something to eat on the way.”
In the kitchen, Julianne sat at the table, her hands pressed against her cheeks, listening to the conversation between Francesca and Nick. How could she have forgotten to wake her grandson? She’d done it every school day of his life. Lisa’s coming had rattled her more than she cared to admit. She had to get back on track no matter where Lisa DeAngelo decided to spend her time.
Change was difficult for Julianne. She wasn’t afraid of it, but she didn’t welcome it either. The emotion she felt when her world tipped was somewhere between acceptance and fear. Tolerance was the right word. She’d learned to tolerate.
Long ago, after Carl died, after the Rosary, when the mourners had gone and she was alone in the dark church, she’d come to realize that change and life were synonymous. She couldn’t have one without the other and she very much wanted to hold on to life. From that moment she resolved to tolerate the unexpected as graciously as possible. And, for the most part, she had. But gracious tolerance and a passionate lust for the unusual were two very different reactions.
Much as Julianne would have liked to be the kind of woman who pulled her blouse off her shoulders and danced to Gypsy music on tabletops in a skirt slit to her hips, a woman whose chunky, silver bracelets jingled while her hands moved in symbiotic harmony with her mouth and whose hair fell to her waist in long spiral curls, she simply wasn’t. Her tastes ran to pearls and fine gold chains and cashmere sweaters. Her neat, bobbed hair and petite figure inspired words like tailored and classic and trim. She was Melanie Wilkes to Lisa’s Scarlett O’Hara and, if she were completely honest with herself, she was more than a little jealous of the Scarletts of the world.
Mitch turned down Sagunto Street and pulled into the only available parking space along the boardwalk. Santa Ynez was crowded for a Tuesday morning. The office space he’d rented for the election-campaign headquarters hummed with activity. Every desk, with the exception of his own, was occupied, mostly with professionals from out of town, flown in by the company. He hadn’t had much luck recruiting the locals, but he refused to admit defeat. People who were reluctant to take a public stand still voted. Mitch was counting on those votes. His future depended on it.
He greeted the woman at the front desk, nodded at someone whose name he couldn’t remember and sat down in the cubicle he’d designated for himself. His cell phone rang. He looked at the number in the window identifying the caller, spent exactly three seconds debating whether to answer it and pressed the call button.
“Hello,” he said tersely. Then, “Yes, the meeting is on my calendar, but as I explained in my memo, I’m not able to attend.” Another minute passed. “I’m sorry, but it’s a personal issue.” His jaw tensed. “I’m aware of that. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t hesitate to change the appointment, but this time it isn’t possible. No. I don’t believe so. Of course, I’ll try,” he said impatiently, “but it’s highly unlikely. Please convey my apologies to the board.”
Pressing the call button, he cut off the chairman of GGI’s board of directors, turned off the power on the cell phone and stared, unseeing, at the portable wall in front of him. Drew’s court date and GGI’s board meeting conflicted and he wasn’t about to send his son to appear before a judge with only his lawyer in attendance. He swore under his breath. In every aspect of his life the deck appeared to be stacked against him. Never had he wanted out of the corporate world more than he did right now.
Mitch was feeling very unlike himself. Normally, he welcomed a challenge, and constructing a new winery in the Santa Ynez Valley was definitely that. Maybe he should take Julianne’s advice and give self-employment a shot. Get out while he was still on top. Soon, he might not have a choice.
“Mitch?” Leanne Houston, a staff worker from northern California, peered over the wall. “I think we have our first recruit,” she whispered. “Do you want to meet her?”
“Why not?” He rose and walked around the cubicle partition. The woman stood silhouetted in front of the window with the morning sun behind her. He couldn’t see her face, but the body and stance he recognized immediately. Francesca DeAngelo was no recruit.
It took no more than an instant and a few more steps in the woman’s direction for him to realize that she wasn’t Francesca. She was older by twenty years, leaner and harder, with skin more olive than gold and very dark hair. Still, the resemblance was remarkable. He would have known Lisa DeAngelo without the introduction.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Mitch Gillette. How can I help you?”
She looked around. “I want to volunteer. Tell me what to do.”
His eyes flickered over her short khaki skirt and crocheted vest. She wore high-heeled sandals and silver earrings that swept her shoulders when she moved. Her hair was pulled away from her face and held back with a banana clip. But whatever she wore wouldn’t have mattered. She was a woman worth a second look.
Mitch cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re up for this, Mrs. DeAngelo?”
She turned the full effect of her moss-green eyes on his face. “How do you know my name?”
“You look like your daughter.”
The corners of her mouth turned up. “I’d rather not admit to that. I don’t feel nearly that old.”
“You do know that Francesca is against us.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Mitch studied her for a minute. “I’m sure we can figure out something for you to do. There’s a chair in my office. Will you join me?”
“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” she purred, preceding him down the aisle to his cubicle.
Leanne Houston, typing away on her computer, raised her eyebrows. Mitch struggled to control his laughter. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of such blatant flirtation in years.
Lisa sat down opposite his desk and crossed her legs. Mitch leaned against his desk, arms folded, and tried, unsuccessfully, not to notice. “What are you doing here?” he asked bluntly.
“I told you. I came to volunteer.”
“Surely you know that Francesca and every other vintner in the valley are opposed to this election. She won’t be pleased.”
“I gathered that.”
“And you still want to volunteer?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
He considered her question. “I think so.”
Beneath the khaki skirt, one leg swung back and forth. “Let’s just say I’d like to repay old debts.”
“How will your presence here do that?”
She shrugged. “The DeAngelo name stands for something in this valley. A DeAngelo campaigning for the winery wields some influence. You won’t be sorry.”
“Is this a vendetta for past slights?”
She laughed. “Where would you get an idea like that?”
“I imagine you already have the answer to that question.”
“Ah.” The syllable came from deep down in her throat. “The estimable Julianne Changala Harris.”
“Well?” Mitch asked.
“I’m trying to follow my daughter’s advice and make myself useful away from the house. Julianne and I don’t see eye to eye. The more I’m out from under her feet, the better it will be for the entire family.”
“Why did you come back?”
She arched one eyebrow. “Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
Her smile faded and all traces of the coquette disappeared. “I had nowhere left to go,” she said softly. “This is my last shot.”
He frowned. “Are you saying you’re destitute?”
She lifted her chin. “Hardly that, but I’m out of choices.”
He held her gaze until she looked away. Finally, he nodded. “All right. I’ll put you on the phones two afternoons a week.”
“Is that all?”
He stood. The interview was over. “If you really wan
t to make yourself useful, Mrs. DeAngelo, you might help Jake and Francesca in the vineyard. They have their plates full right now. An extra pair of hands would be appreciated.”
“I doubt that Julianne would approve.”
“You’ll have to change her mind, won’t you?”
Lisa tilted her head. “May I ask you a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How well do you know Julianne Harris?”
He grinned. “Not nearly as well as I’d like to.”
“So, that’s the way it is.”
“Yes.”
“Too bad.” Lisa stood and walked toward him. She trailed a finger down his arm. “Is she playing hard to get?”
He backed away. “She thinks highly of herself. I think she’s worth the wait.”
“Maybe I could fill in while you’re waiting.”
Mitch laughed. “You’re an interesting woman, Lisa DeAngelo, but I don’t think so.”
Her cheeks flamed. “Why not?”
“You’re not my type.”
Her facade vanished. “I’m not asking you to marry me, for God’s sake. I could use a friend around here, that’s all.”
“I’ve found people here to be quite friendly.”
“Present company excepted,” she muttered.
He laughed. “I know your number and I’m not biting. If you really intend to fit in, you’ll have to go about it a different way. Try making yourself useful.”
Lisa stared at him. “She told you, didn’t she?”
Mitch ignored her question and stepped aside. “You can start tomorrow if you’re still willing to help out. Leanne will show you the ropes. Do you mind knocking on doors or would you rather make phone calls?”
“I’m definitely more of an answering phones kind of person.”
“Really?” His eyebrows lifted. “I would have thought you’d prefer a more public presence.”
“Screw you!” she said sweetly and walked past him out the door.
A Delicate Finish Page 25
