"No, Madame. Not yet."
"Merci, Hannah. Let me know when she arrives."
"Oh, Madame, I believe she's just come in the front door."
"Merci, encore." She drops the phone in its cradle, turns back to the credenza, and returns the file to its drawer. She turns the key in the drawer, then takes the key and places it in the small safe under her desk. She stands and brushes a piece of lint from her wool slacks. Eh bien, no time like the present.
She leaves the office connected to her bedroom suite and heads down the stairs. On the landing above the entry, she pauses, listening, discerning Jenna's whereabouts. She hears the murmur of voices beneath her—Jenna and Hannah—then footsteps, indicating they head in separate directions.
Brigitte comes down the stairs from the landing. "Jenna?"
"Yes." Jenna stops in the hallway and turns toward her.
"Ma chérie, you're back. I was beginning to wonder . . . Let's take tea in the solarium." Brigitte reaches Jenna, places one hand on her cheek, and leans in and kisses her other cheek. "I want to hear all about your appointment. I'll advise Hannah. Take a few moments to freshen up and I'll meet you there."
"But . . ."
Brigitte's eyebrows lift. "But what, darling? Surely you have nothing else to do? Take a few minutes to yourself and then we'll catch up. It's been too long, amour, since we've had time together. I want to hear what the doctor said. I need to know that you're well. That's all that matters, yes?"
Jenna nods. "I'll be right there."
Brigitte turns, hiding her smile. Bien sûr, she would be right there.
Anything less would be unacceptable.
How happy you will be when you no longer live by your own strength but by God's.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FIVE
Andee
LOOKING BACK IS a waste of time, and time is too precious to waste. So I have no use for my past, except when recalling it propels me into the future I've designed for myself. Then I discipline myself to remember.
I divide my history by sounds.
Michael Jacobs, my first crush, on his skateboard, wheels bumping across asphalt in front of our house. The lyrics of "We Are the World" coming from Stephanie Hall's open bedroom window next door. The annoying electronic rhythm of my little brothers' Mario Brothers Nintendo game that not even my closed bedroom door could block.
The before sounds.
My father, Charles Bell, puking in the shared bathroom of the apartment house. Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" coming through the floor from the apartment of the prostitute who lived below us. Our neighbors arguing and slamming doors as I tried to sleep each night.
The after sounds.
Before: the brown-shingled, craftsman-style, two-story house with the wrap-around porch, just a block from the water. An Alameda neighborhood of doctors, attorneys, businessmen, and their families. The security of my early childhood.
After: the peeling white exterior of a Victorian-style mansion turned low-rent apartment house. A neighborhood of sailors, prostitutes, and pathetic idiots. The bane of my adolescence.
The two addresses were just a few city blocks apart. Which meant that even after the move, I got to stay in the same school as the kids I'd known since kindergarten. Great. My mother, who fought for so little, did fight for that sense of stability for my brothers and me. Gee, thanks Mom. But the sounds . . . she couldn't stop those. Evidence of a permanent break between past and present. I'd prayed the move would take me to a new school, where I was unknown. But my prayers went unanswered.
Shocking.
It was during those formative years that I learned financial security is something to be grabbed by the throat and wrestled into submission. Security isn't determined by fate. It's determined by drive.
From those lessons came the mantra I'm known for: Drive determines destiny.
Jack Welch, CEO of General Electric between 1981 and 2001, estimated net worth $720 million said, "Control your own destiny or someone else will." $720 million speaks. So I tweaked Jack's quote and made it my life philosophy.
Fate has no place in my life or in the lives of those who follow me and seek real security. If you want something, you focus on the goal and knockout anything or anyone that gets in the way. The premise is that you must be willing to let go of anything or anyone holding you back. The discipline of your drive determines whether you'll attain the goal.
Simple.
I reach behind me and pull my hair off my neck, twist the length of it into a loose bun, and grab a pencil from my drawer and stick it in the bun to hold the hair in place. I refocus on the project in front of me—the next book I'm contracted to write. I type in the title of the first chapter: The God of Your Finances: You! I shake my head and think back to my childhood prayers. Why pray when you can act and determine your own outcomes? Faith is fantastical thinking.
I deal in reality.
I scan the detailed outline I work from and begin the process of putting the outline into chapters—expanding ideas into a step-by-step format that will lead the reader, should they choose to follow the wisdom of my advice, to financial security.
My cell phone rings, disrupting my thoughts. Few people have this number—Cassidy, for work emergencies. My editor. And a new member of Andee's Cell Phone Club: Jason. I smile when I see his name on the screen. I pick up the phone. "Hey, what's up?"
"I have business to attend to in the valley this afternoon and wondered if you'd like to join me? I won't be long and we can have dinner at the winery. I thought . . . maybe you'd like to meet my dad."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
Meeting Bill before my meeting with Brigitte and Gerard is opportune. Though I hate disrupting my work schedule, this seems like a smart change of plans. "I'd love to."
"Really? I thought you'd say no."
"Well, that's part of the mystique," I purr into the phone. "I'm unpredictable."
Jason chuckles. "I'll pick you up at 4:00."
"Great. See you then." I hang up the phone and glance at my watch. I look down at the Ralph Lauren chocolate wool slacks and matching silk blouse I dressed in this morning—perfect for business, dinner, or both, which is often my prerequisite for clothing. I pull the pencil out of my hair, shake my head, and calculate how much time I'll need to freshen up. I set the alarm on my phone for 3:45 and return my focus to the chapter I'm writing.
But my mind wanders to Jason. I need to check my feelings for him. Feelings—not a realm I deal in much. But there's a softening, of sorts, when it comes to him.
Jason was—is—a purposeful choice in a companion. His connection to Brigitte and Gerard proves handy. He's stable. Good-looking. Pleasant. And he's easy-going, which gives me control of the relationship. Drive is essential in all people, except, perhaps, in those I need under my influence. Jason's a sure bet. And that's the only kind I make.
I know he's ready for more intimacy in our relationship. Not physically. The man is a gentleman in that respect. But he says he wants emotional intimacy.
My response? "What you see is what you get, babe." Emotional intimacy? I shake my head and laugh. "Whatever . . ." Maybe my meeting Bill will quell some need in him. Taking me home to daddy, and all that. It benefits me and that's what matters.
I look back to the chapter outline and rein in my thoughts. I only have another hour to work.
JASON OPENS THE DOOR of his BMW 650i Coupe and I slide into the supple leather passenger seat. As I reach for my seatbelt, he leans down and kisses me. His kiss is gentle and something stirs inside. Not passion. Passion, I understand. Instead, this . . . this is tenderness. And I find it unnerving.
I pull away. "We'd better go."
"We're fine. We have the whole evening ahead of us."
I shift in my seat. "I don't w
ant to keep your father waiting."
"Dad?" Jason chuckles. "He'd work straight through dinner and never miss us."
"Really?" I say. "My kind of guy."
Jason bends toward me again. "Careful. I might get jealous."
I reach my hand behind his neck and pull him toward me and place a placating peck on his lips. "Mmm, no need to worry."
"Well, that's good news." He stands. "He'd never miss us because he doesn't know we're coming. I'll call on the way. We spoke yesterday and he said he's working every evening this week but he'll stop for dinner. It's fall—the crush—remember? He'll grab a quick dinner with us and then get back to work."
He shuts the door and I watch him walk around the front of the car to the driver's side. His stride, like him, is relaxed. His casual attitude and boyish good looks are a definite draw. He opens the door and gets settled in the driver's seat. Once his belt is buckled he turns and smiles. "Thanks for coming . . ."
"Sure." I wink at him. "It isn't everyday that a girl gets an invitation to go home and meet the parents. Or"—I catch my mistake—"parent, I should say." I glance at Jason's profile to see if my gaffe troubles him. But he seems unfazed.
"So, what does your dad know about me? Does he know who I am?"
"Who you are?"
"Yeah, you know, the celebrity stuff."
"Oh, that." Jason turns his gaze from the road and glances at me. I see laughter in his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing." He smiles at me and then looks back at the road. "I told him I'm spending time with someone I want him to meet. That's all."
"That's all?"
"That's it, babe. I'll let you fill him in on 'who you are.'"
"You know, Jason, a lot of men would be proud to bring me home to Daddy."
He's quiet for a minute. "I am proud to introduce you to my dad, but not for the reasons you suggest."
"What do you mean?"
"It's not about what you do, Andee. It's about who you are—who you're becoming. Not the titles—financial advisor to the rich and famous, radio personality, author—but who you are on the inside. That's who I want to introduce to my dad."
"You can't separate the two."
"Really? I think you can. In fact, I think you have to."
I feel my pulse accelerating. "Forget it." I reach for the shoulder strap of the seatbelt and pull it away from my chest. "Tell me about your dad. What's he like? It sounds like he's a hands-on businessman?"
"My dad—"
I take a deep breath and sit back in my seat when I realize Jason's willing to change the subject.
"—is an enigma. He's driven, certainly, but not to the exclusion of all else. He works hard, he plays hard, and he loves hard. And hands-on? Yeah. He loves what he does. He's kept the company small—manageable—so he can be hands-on." Jason takes the steering wheel in his left hand and reaches for me with his right hand. He holds my hand and rubs my wrist with his thumb as he talks. "When my mom died, something in my dad died with her. But something new was also born."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, that's when Azul was conceived, during my mom's illness. Before, wine had been a hobby for my mom and dad. Something they enjoyed together. They'd tour wineries, wander through the vineyards of neighboring ranches, enjoy evenings dining under the stars and sipping their favorite labels, notating varieties and vintages. They'd dream of someday planting the acreage of their ranch and opening a winery of their own. But the joy was in the dream . . . not in the living out of the dream."
"What's the point of dreaming if you're not going to accomplish the dream?"
"Like I said, for the joy of it."
"The joy comes in seeing the dream to fruition."
"Not always."
I shake my head but decide not to debate him.
"But when my mom was diagnosed, a shift took place in my dad. That year, he began selling off the cattle that roamed the ranch and planted his first hundred acres of grapes. Pinot Noir. And as long as my mom was able, he'd walk her out to the vineyards and they'd track the progress of the seedlings.
"For the better part of the year, he spoke of nothing but grapes and the winery he and my mother would open. As long as he kept the dream alive, he thought he could keep my mother alive."
"But it didn't work?"
"No. She died nineteen months after the initial diagnosis."
"But the dream lived on?"
"Yes, and though it didn't keep my mother alive, I think it kept Dad alive. It gave him purpose."
"So . . . the vineyards, the drive to achieve the dream, kept him going." Drive determines destiny.
Jason nods.
"What about the label? Azul. Where did the name come from?"
"It's Spanish. It means blue."
"I know. But why that name?" My question is answered with silence and I wonder if he heard me. "Jason?" He stares at the road ahead. I reach out and place my hand on his arm. "Did you hear me?"
He turns, glances at me, and then turns his gaze back to the road. He clears his throat. "Yeah, I heard you. My mother was Mexican-American—the daughter of my father's ranch manager and his American wife." He's quiet for a moment and then says more to himself than to me "She was beautiful." His tone is wistful. "Her skin was the color of melted chocolate and her eyes were the color of a twilight sky."
"Azul . . ."
Jason nods. "Yes. Jenna has her eyes."
I think back to meeting Jenna at the brunch and recall the intense color of her eyes—her beauty. Then I remember the scar, but that will be a topic for another time. I've heard the rumors but decide not to broach the subject now.
Jason continues his little jaunt into his past and the hour-and-twenty-minute drive zips by. As we enter the valley, I look out the passenger window and tick off the rows of vines as they fly past. I listen as Jason talks while calculating the information he offers.
The car slows as we turn into a winding drive flanked on either side by low rock walls, and I hear the tone of Jason's voice change.
"Andee . . ." Jason pulls into a parking space outside the administration offices of the winery and puts the car in park. He turns toward me. "Azul is more than a business to my family. As you work with Brigitte, I want you to remember that."
Surprised by the passion I hear in his voice, I hold my response.
"You mentioned something the other night and I want to be clear with you. You made the assumption that Jenna and Gerard's marriage was a business merger." He shifts in his seat and looks out the front window for a moment. "That wasn't and isn't the case. At least not from our perspective. Azul is more than a business to my father, Andee."
I nod as I assimilate this bit of information.
"Do you understand?"
"Sure."
He pats my shoulder and turns and gets out of the car. As I wait for him to open my door, I have just one thought: The game is getting interesting.
You will not see things as He does until you have clearer light.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER SIX
Jenna
MEMORIES OF MY mother tug at the recesses of my mind, calling forward longings so familiar they are woven, I'm certain, into the fabric of my fate, likely having informed every choice I've made since her death. I remember lying next to her in bed when she was sick—curling into the warmth of her and twisting strands of her long, silken hair around my fingers. She'd turn her head and through cracked lips whisper, "Jenna Brooke, my little lamb."
As I climb the stairs to our suite, I feel the welcoming warmth of Brigitte's kiss lingering on my cheek and wonder at the concern I saw in her expression. I want to believe, need to believe, her love is genuine. Yet, I so often doubt her.
After my mother's death, I lived
in a world of men—my father, Jason, and the many men who tended the vineyards and worked in the winery. Then, when I was twelve, I met Brigitte at a vintners' dinner hosted by my father. I'd been allowed to greet guests with him as they arrived.
Brigitte's elegance sang like fine crystal and the song drew me. Her attention stirred the longings I'd attempted to bury with my mother when I was seven years old—longings for beauty, tenderness, and love. And later, the longing to embrace my impending womanhood. A daunting task without a woman to guide me through that delicate transition.
While my father taught me the wiles of winemaking and introduced me to a way of life known only to those who live amongst the vines, it was Brigitte who noticed and then nurtured my beauty—tending to me like one of those precious vines. Brigitte trained me and I grew into her vision of the woman Gerard needed. Like a plant reaching for the sun, I grasped for Brigitte's attention and determined I'd flourish and bear fruit for her.
I gave Brigitte the place in my heart left gaping upon the loss of my own mother.
As I reach my room, I recognize how I still grasp for and cling to Brigitte's approval.
I am ever the trained vine.
Was I what Gerard needed? Or was I, in some way, what she needed? Perhaps Brigitte's void was as great as my own.
Maybe it's my need that so often leaves me feeling crazy in Brigitte's presence. I think of Skye and tuck these thoughts away for our next conversation. I look forward, always, to the wisdom she imparts. I leave our times together with a deeper understanding of human nature—and a fledgling understanding of myself. I wish I could hold onto that understanding, but my mind feels like a sieve—what's poured in, drains out, leaving just the sediment of what I've always known.
I pass the alcove off our master suite, where my desk and laptop sit surrounded by shelves of books. I stop, open the lid of the computer, and watch as the screen lights up. I sit at the desk and open my mailbox and scan the list of e-mails. They'll have to wait. I open a new message and type a quick note to Skye, apologizing for my abrupt departure today and asking if I can buy her lunch soon. She'll pick up the e-mail either at the library or an Internet cafe. It may be today, or a week from today, but I'll hear from her.
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