Love in the Vineyard (The Tavonesi Series Book 7)

by Pamela Aares

  If she’d known that the native plant nursery where she’d worked for two years was going belly up, she’d never have made her desperate bet. She’d loved that job. All day with plants. No numbers. And only a little reading. She’d memorized all the plant names and if she forgot one, she had her trusty notebook where she could trace out the names onto the tags letter by letter when no one was looking. But the owner couldn’t compete with the big box store that had opened just two miles down the road. He’d given her two weeks’ pay. But her landlord wouldn’t give her a grace period to find another job in order to pay the rent. He’d practically booted them to the curb. The three weeks she and Tyler had been forced to live in a cheap motel had wiped out the last of her funds.

  Inspire was her only hope.

  Natasha pushed open the steel door. A stocky woman with a broad smile met her just inside the building.

  “I’m Mary Caslan,” the woman said as she extended her hand.

  “I’m Natasha Raley,” Natasha said. And then she felt embarrassment flush her cheeks. “Well, you know who I am. I mean, what with the buzzer and my appointment and—”

  “No need to be nervous, honey. We don’t bite.”

  The woman’s warm smile and firm handshake didn’t untangle the knots cinching Natasha’s belly.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have a room for you when you called last week. But you’re in luck. You and your son will have the Marshland room.”

  “You mean we’re in? For sure?”

  “For sure. I thought we made that clear in the letter I sent.”

  Natasha hadn’t received a letter. No doubt the motel owner hadn’t been bothered to pass it on. He hadn’t been pleased to have a woman with a child underfoot, preferring to rent his ill-kept rooms by the hour, and had done all he could to make her miserable enough to leave. If she hadn’t followed up by phone and spoken with Mary directly, she might have missed her chance.

  “The Marshland room is a bit bigger than the others,” Mary went on. “And you won’t have to share. I’ll show it to you, and then I’ll give you a proper look around.”

  Natasha heard what Mary’s words didn’t say. Though the woman’s manner wasn’t forced, Natasha knew she was trying to make everything seem normal. As if it could ever be normal to end up in a homeless shelter.

  Mary ushered Natasha into a tidy, well-lit room.

  “Here we are. Of course, you can bring some of your things in to make it homier, but we have restrictions since it’s short-term housing. As I explained in your phone interview, guests are only here for short stays.”

  Guests. A strange term for homeless women. But hey, better than a life sentence.

  “It’s just fine,” Natasha said. Her throat tightened, and she felt tears welling as she took in the room that would be her and Tyler’s temporary home.

  Twin beds flanked a window with a wrought iron security bar. Along one wall, a counter held a two-burner stove, a small sink and a tiny cube-shaped fridge.

  Mary pointed to the fridge. “We allow cooking in the rooms, but the meals in the dining hall are provided.”

  Provided. She meant free. And right now Natasha and probably the rest of the women in the shelter needed free.

  “The bathrooms are down the hall to your right. There’s a separate one for the boys.” Mary opened a set of double doors built into the wall. “The closets are roomy, but if you need more space, there’s a storage area in the annex.”

  “Thank you, but I put most of our things in storage. And my wardrobe is pretty sparse. Mostly work clothes, which in my case means jeans and T-shirts.” Natasha assessed the shelves and hanging rods. “Tyler’s things will fit. There’s even room for his baseball gear.”

  “He likes baseball, does he?”

  “He’s mad for it. But his passion gives me the perfect carrot to hold out to make sure he does his homework. He’s a straight-A student,” she added proudly.

  It was a miracle that Tyler didn’t suffer from the disability that plagued Natasha. Or suffer because of it. Severe dissociative dyslexia—even on a good day she couldn’t spell the word properly. She’d prayed and prayed late at night when Tyler was a toddler, prayed that he’d be normal, that he could read. Evidently some prayers paid off.

  “After your interview last week, I looked into some of the gardening jobs at the local vineyards,” Mary said as she closed the closet doors. “But you could still take the aptitude test. Lots of local employers accept that in lieu of a high school diploma. Our Work in the World program has great success in placing our guests in new jobs. And the clerical jobs pay much better, you know.”

  Natasha knew. Knew too well that if she could do basic math, an office job might lead to better pay. But her dyslexia made that impossible. Besides, she hated being inside. If she could get a decent job as a gardener or at a local nursery, she could save up, apply for the low-cost housing that Mary said was nearby. Tyler could stay in a good school district. He’d be happy and have better tools and skills to navigate the challenges that life would throw his way. That was enough.

  “I’d rather do what I’m good at,” Natasha said, glad that she could be honest. “I’m a great gardener. I’m good with plants.”

  Mary tilted her head and smiled. “I understand. There are two good prospects. But if I were you, I’d look into the position at Casa del Sole first off. It’s a gorgeous facility, but more importantly, the new owners have a reputation for looking out for the welfare of their employees.”

  Adrian urged his horse into a full gallop when they reached the summit of the ridge-top path overlooking Casa del Sole and its vineyards. The early morning fog had cleared from the coastal plain, but his thundering ride hadn’t cleared the doubts that had nagged him during the night.

  Sunlight glittered on the streams running through the land below, as if mocking his troubled mood. From the ridge he could see Zoe and Cody’s home at the border of Casa del Sole. His own house, nearly finished, was barely visible on the ridge to the east.

  Birds chirped in nearby oaks, but other than their songs, there was silence. The air was still, as it often was between weather patterns. By midafternoon the coastal breezes would return, bringing with them the cool temperatures and night fog that teased nuanced flavors from the smaller-berried grapes of the region, grapes that so many lives and dreams depended upon.

  In the distance, two riders approached. As they neared, he recognized Coco and Amber riding Zoe’s polo ponies.

  “Taking a day off?” Coco asked with a wry smile as she and Amber flanked him.

  “Assessing the acreage for the new vineyard.” It was partially true.

  “Had you said yes, I’m sure the planet would’ve stopped revolving,” Coco said in a chiding tone.

  “You look troubled,” Amber said.

  Coco peered at him. “Where were you last night? We missed you at dinner.”

  “I had feathers to smooth. Some of the local growers aren’t keen on the precedent I’m setting with having employees of the vineyard own shares in the business.”

  “Too egalitarian?”

  “No, it’s not that. For the most part, the local owners I’ve met are fair and community minded, not snobs. But involving workers in the profit of the business… That makes them nervous. Even Dante isn’t so sure about profit-sharing.”

  Their brother Dante had returned from his tour of Australian wineries full of ideas and plans. But profit-sharing with employees hadn’t been one of them.

  “And what does Papa think?” Amber asked.

  “He has his usual wait-and-see attitude. Cautious. He insisted on two-year contracts with employees to start. If what we’re trying isn’t viable, we’ll pay out the shares and start over. But I know it’ll work. People always rise to a challenge and do their best when you trust in them.”

  He caught Amber’s quick glance at Coco.

  “What?”

  “You always see the positive,” Amber said. “It’s times like this that I know I
’m adopted. Doubting blood runs in my veins.”

  He had doubts—he just didn’t want to admit to them. “This from a woman who risks her life to protect livelihoods in the villages of Uzbekistan? From what Dante tells me, you should be up for sainthood.”

  “I just show them how to collect wild herbs in a sustainable way. But my efforts would be better spent if I could instruct them on ways to protect themselves from thieves.”

  “It’s still hard for me to believe that licorice is a cash crop anyone would kill to get their hands on.”

  “Licorice is used in nearly every Chinese medicinal formula, and China can’t get enough. That makes it the equivalent of herbal gold. And therefore dangerous.”

  “You’ll never get me near it. I never liked licorice.”

  Coco leaned out of her saddle and tapped his arm. “When you’re finished surveying the realm, come down to the studio.”

  “You are not getting me to pose for your calendar project, Coco. Never.”

  “Just for the prototype?” She shot him her most irresistible youngest-sister smile. “I need the practice.”

  “And then join us for lunch,” Amber added. “I’m headed to Bulgaria tomorrow. I’d like to spend time with you before I go.”

  “They grow licorice in Bulgaria?”

  “Chamomile.”

  “I can’t believe that chamomile is endangered.”

  “Wild chamomile is. I’ll fill you in over lunch. After you strip down and pose for Coco.” Amber winked at Coco. “Race you.”

  “I’m not posing. You’ll have to find a more willing subject than me,” he said into the dust kicked up when his sisters thundered down the hill.

  He worried about each of his eight sisters, perhaps more than he should. But there was no way he was going to pose for Coco’s calendar, no matter how much money it might make for the women’s shelter Coco supported. The thought of posing half-naked for all the world to see made his skin crawl. His sisters had wild ideas and wilder dreams. But there were limits to sibling loyalty.

  After checking on the progress of the shelving in the Casa’s new gift shop, Adrian headed up the path along the stream to the building that housed Coco’s studio and the apartments for her and Anastasia. A young man lugging full firefighting regalia was just exiting as Adrian reached the stairs to the porch. The man was all smiles. Evidently some men liked taking their clothes off in public.

  The door to the studio was open, and bright lights at the top of poles lit the interior, particularly a makeshift locker set up in the middle of the room.

  “There you are,” Coco said as she switched off one of the taller lights. “You missed the shoot. Did Tate pass you on your way up here?”

  “He did.”

  “He’s perfect. A bit shy, though. It took all my powers of persuasion to get him to take off his shirt. I’d never have been able to persuade him if I’d tried to shoot at the firehouse. He could be Mr. February. You could be Mr. March.”

  “No is evidently not a word in your vast vocabulary,” Adrian said as firmly as he could without sounding harsh.

  He glanced at the photos lining a counter along the side wall. All featured Tate stripped down, bare chested, glistening and smiling what could only be described as the California smile.

  Coco peered over his shoulder. “Which pose do you like best?”

  “I’m not your audience.”

  “But you have an excellent eye.”

  “Ask Zoe. She has the eye of an artist.”

  Coco wrinkled her nose. “She and Cody are down at spring training. He’ll be catching for the season opener.”

  “Boning up on your baseball facts?”

  “Hard not to in this family,” Coco said with a laugh.

  Adrian surveyed the photos. Coco was determined to have a full year’s worth of local men posing for her calendar, one for each month. He was determined not to be one of them.

  “I prefer the shot where he has his helmet tucked under his arm,” he conceded.

  “It’s good.” Coco held up a different print. “But this one with the coiled fire hose is more suggestive.”

  “I hadn’t realized that was the criteria.”

  Coco eyed him.

  “You look tired, Adrian. Why do you push so hard when you don’t have to?”

  “Why does anyone do anything? Why do you work at your art so hard? I see you sweating at finding locations, pulling together your crews—you’ve been focused for months on this calendar project.”

  He knew Coco didn’t share his feeling of guilt, his sense of living with opportunity neither deserved nor earned. It was like being sentenced to constantly having to prove worthy of unearned good fortune. But Coco was driven by a desire to make a difference in the bigger world. They shared that drive if none other.

  “Touché.” She pressed a finger to his heart. “And my work would be much easier if you and Alex cooperated. If you’d pose and get a few of your friends to agree to as well.” She stepped away from him and crossed her arms. “You scare me sometimes. I see that look in your eyes, Adrian. It’s like you wouldn’t exist without your project.”

  “It’s not a project.”

  “Okay, without what you’re doing here at the Casa, with the vineyard. But you need to lighten up, have some fun. Take a break, for goodness’ sake. You haven’t been on a date since you moved here from Rome. Sophia must’ve left some serious tread marks on you.”

  “She’s in the long distant past.”

  “Then why don’t you date?”

  “I visited Blair Turling last month when I went to Southampton.”

  Coco clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Blair is a man-eater and—”

  “She’s a great polo player.”

  “Six chukkers of polo does not qualify as a date.” She poked her finger to his heart again. “Let somebody through that wall of focus and determination. You’ll be old and lonely if you don’t, no matter what great endeavor you have going.”

  “And what, may I ask, makes you so wise about all this in your young years? With all the men you’ve had in and out of your studio in the past few weeks, I’d think one of them might’ve caught your eye.”

  For all her outward bravura and ease in social situations, Coco often seemed closed off, as if a deep loneliness had carved itself into her heart and refused to set her free. He knew the feeling. Inherited wealth such as theirs could make a person suspicious of the motives of would-be friends and lovers and force a retreat into detachment and caution. And being Italian expats, recently relocated to California, hadn’t made it easy to chart the unfamiliar social waters.

  Coco laughed. “Oh, they all caught my eye—that’s why they’re in the studio, why I chose them to pose for the calendar. But that’s business, Adrian. You’re the one who always says don’t cross business and the bedroom.”

  “I said that?”

  “Unless a zombie had taken over your body. I overheard you telling that to Dante. I was fourteen at the time, but your advice stuck.”

  “You always were a pesky eavesdropper.”

  “Maybe spying runs in our blood.”

  “What was wrong with Jake Ryder?” Their cousin Alex’s teammate had shown pointed interest in Coco, but she’d rebuffed his advances from the start.

  “He’s a ladies’ man. Fun, but I’d never trust him.”

  “We may suffer from the same affliction.”

  “Do not rope me into your fantasy world. At least I admit I have trust issues. And Papa hiding the fact that he was a spy didn’t help any.”

  Adrian stood and paced behind the towers of lights. “I wasn’t thinking about trust—we’re both looking for perfection.”

  “I keep my quest for the perfect in the realm of my art.”

  “Uh-huh.” He fingered proof pages for her calendar. “So this is all about art, is it? I thought it was to fund the homeless-women’s shelter?”

  She snatched the pages from him. “I didn’t say you can’t try
to make a difference. But you can’t just march in and change the way the world works.”

  “I hope you’re wrong. I don’t want to believe that life is just the luck of the hand you’re dealt. I want this place, this endeavor, to be an opportunity—a place where people can pursue their interests and preferences, develop their talents—really belong to something. And make a good living, have a stake in the success of the business. Own a piece of their future.”

  “You’re just—oh, I don’t know—you just seem obsessed.” She eyed him. “You can’t give your inheritance back, none of us can. But you don’t have to beat yourself up about it. You’re like some sort of questing knight, blinded by a mission. There’s life too. You used to know that. I miss my playful brother.”

  He tilted his head and tried unsuccessfully to suppress his smile.

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering how my baby sister got so smart so fast.”

  She swatted him with the sheaf of prints.

  “Yo!” a voice called from the doorway. Their American cousin Parker strode into the room wearing riding gear and carrying a duffel bag. He surveyed Adrian. “Where are your riding togs?”

  “I was just headed to my house to change,” Adrian said, switching to English. Parker spoke decent Italian, but Adrian knew he struggled with it. He nodded toward Coco. “This one distracted me from the time.”

  Parker looked from him to Coco. “Am I interrupting a sibling squabble? I’m quite good at peacemaking.”

  “You’re good at fanning the flames of drama,” Coco said. “I was telling Adrian that he needs to get out more. Go on a date. Get a life beyond Casa del Sole Vineyards.”

  Parker shoved the duffel at him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your costume for tonight. The masquerade to raise funds for the Boys and Girls Club. Eight o’clock sharp. You too, Coco.”