“Emilio is regaling the party with tales of your first terrace.”
“I was just helping out Emilio.”
Conrad’s look said he was definitely missing something.
He was. A mere slip of a woman with a smile that could light up an entire café.
* * *
Old Erica would have wondered about an onset of psychosis. Perhaps not seriously, but she definitely would have toyed with the thought.
New Erica simply sat atop her tower and fought against the storms of giggles when they attacked. She was alone with the sunset and it was too late for the church bells. They had rung while she was still in the impromptu party in the café. Her and Max’s little scene over gelato had been merely the spark-off point.
Hal made espressos and served beer. Bridget had churned out pizza in surprising varieties: pesto cream sauce with chicken and artichoke, a spicy red sauce with tiny shrimp, as well as more recognizable varieties. Giuseppe provided a hard salami that put New York pepperoni to shame, which Bridget also dressed with wild mushrooms. There was even a truffle pizza, cut into thin slices to ease the overwhelming richness.
At the end of the meal, Max had hurried back to his shop and returned with a tub of the Miele di Corniglia gelato. A few tourists slipped in and were welcome, but it was a locals’ celebration built upon the thinnest of excuses.
Again the giggles overtook her on her lone little terrace in the sky, as the Mediterranean rippled beneath the rising moon.
And again the overwhelming sadness that Ridley was not there. Even if he wasn’t beside her, he’d have loved the event.
Old Erica would have him be there as a shield. And to take cues from as to best behavior.
Without that reference point, she’d had to…be herself.
That thought had her jolting upright in her chair.
She had just been herself. And it had been fine. Ridley had helped crack the mold she thought she belonged in, but she was the one who had stepped out of it. What version of Erica had kissed Max square on the mouth after that second serving of the Honey of Corniglia gelato, eliciting everyone’s cheers? Though she could tell they read nothing into it. And had her whispering for his ears alone, “It is too bad how much I love that other man.” Which had earned her a knowing smile and a kiss on the forehead like she was a good girl.
She herself loved Ridley Claremont III. There wasn’t any point in avoiding that thought. Oh, in the past she’d have tried, but he’d been so good for her.
And, she’d spoken those words aloud again—without dying. At the beginning of the week, she’d known to do so would be fatal. But somewhere along the way she’d grown more certain. Stronger.
They might never be together again, but as they both seemed to be remaining in town for now, it was time they stopped avoiding one another. She wouldn’t let him pass her by in silence another time. He might not be able to deal with it, but she could.
Or she’d figure out how to.
* * *
The meal seemed to have flowed for hours.
Conversation was raucous and impossible to follow, except when a fresh wine was opened. Then silence would descend. Everyone would swill a little water in their glass to cleanse it, and whichever vintner had brought the bottle would describe what he’d done and what he’d been trying to achieve as it was passed around.
True silence would descend as they were tasted. It had taken a subtle elbow in the ribs from Conrad to make Ridley realize that no one would speak until he had.
Testing the newbie. No more than he’d have done had their situations been reversed.
The nods from around the table when he did speak seemed to say, “Not so bad for a beginner.”
By the end of the night there was a substantial line of dead soldiers along the middle of the table—and a lot of drunk vintners around the sides—but Ridley had just received an amazing education in the wines of Cinque Terre.
“Why didn’t I know about any of these? There are some exceptional wines here…if you don’t count those two reds that god alone knows who brought.”
Conrad smiled tolerantly at the tease. The two reds had been exquisite, partly because of their contrast to the fresh young whites of Cinque Terre and partly because they were simply fantastic wines that had paired perfectly with the cinghale (which much grunting and fingers curved near the mouth told him was wild boar even before Conrad could translate) and Italian lasagna soup (which sounded awful but tasted marvelous).
“You are unaware of these wines, Mr. Claremont, because the locals and tourists who come to Cinque Terre consume all that is produced. Most of these wines are produced in quantities of less than two hundred cases a year. This one,” he tapped the final wine of the evening (a sweet and punchy Sciacchetrà that had been served with narrow slices of strong cheese), “is one of only a few hundred bottles per year. The entire region only produces sixteen thousand cases.”
Ridley could only whistle in surprise. Sonoma alone produced roughly two thousand times that at over thirty million cases per year. Add in another twenty million for Napa… Even the elite Claremont winery—which had focused on quality (and higher price) versus volume—produced ten times what all of Cinque Terre bottled.
The men in this room really were an entire wine industry unto themselves: grown, processed, bottled, and consumed locally.
Ridley rocked his chair back, then thought better of it when the old wood groaned in protest.
They were a part of something authentic here. Had he ever really been that?
He had, in a way. He, Bibi, Father, and Marissa—Claremont Family Wines’ long-time chief vintner. He had gone to UC Davis because it had been Marissa’s alma mater about the time he’d entered kindergarten. Just five years younger than his mother, she’d entered through an internship in the fields and been the obvious person to take over by the time Pearson retired. A tall, dramatically beautiful Latina, he’d had a boyhood crush on her apparently from the first day of her arrival.
The four of them had come together over the nurturing of the Claremont wines. The day Father had died and taken Bibi to the grave with him, it had ended. He’d been thrown… No, he’d let himself be thrown off the reservation and had been peripatetic ever since.
His parents had died, ironically, on a Valentine’s weekend vacation along the coast. Bibi’s idea probably. Her “crazy” ideas were clearly something that Father enjoyed so much about her. He’d always pretend resistance, but cave in with a big smile. Father didn’t smile much when she wasn’t around, but when they’d all been together in the winery, Ridley had been included in that warmth.
Almost four months now he’d merely been unanchored.
He hadn’t been rootless despite thinking of himself that way.
Surprised the shit out of him.
Or maybe it didn’t. Throughout his teen years—when he wasn’t at the winery—he’d portrayed a fine imitation of rootlessness. Fast motorcycles, big parties, loose women. Yet there was that small core, those moments when they’d all been together.
And here it was again.
He looked around the room. Tomas and Bartolo were off at a side table. Chins resting on crossed forearms, they might be having a staring contest, contemplating their next wine, or have slipped into drunken slumber. A trio were working their way down the long line of empties. They were picking up each bottle, making a show of debating about it, but also tipping it up to see if there were any dregs to dribble into their glasses.
Emilio heaved himself up from his chair with a heavy grunt and two fists propped on the table. The small Italian made an impressive display by not staggering as he circled around the table and dropped into a chair across from Ridley and Conrad.
“Bene?”
“Molto bene!” Ridley agreed. Then turned to Conrad, “Please tell him that such fine food and wine in the company of such good men is a real gift. Grazie!”
Emilio nodded heavily. It was hard to tell if he was nodding drunk or preparing s
erious thoughts. There was a bright humor in his dark brown eyes that made Ridley suspect the latter.
“Uno,” he made the two handed sign he’d used to indicate the finished terrace of vines. “Due,” and then he moved his hands in multiple pats to indicate all the untended terraces that lay above. Next he pointed at Ridley’s chest and spoke to Conrad at some length.
“Ah,” Conrad barely glanced at Ridley before answering him back.
Ridley really needed to start learning Italian in a more serious way. In the vineyard he’d gotten by on hand signs and manly grunts, but this was getting awkward. Soon the discussion expanded to include the others who huddled about them—except for Tomas and Bartolo, who apparently were still too deep in their silent consultation to notice anything.
Those still conscious eyed him speculatively as the conversation continued.
“Sì?” Emilio finally asked the group.
They all nodded in reply, those who’d been inspecting the dregs of each bottle having a somewhat harder time with the simple motion.
Then Emilio made a waving motion from Conrad to Ridley. Conrad made a show of turning to face him and collecting his thoughts. Though he’d drunk no less than any of them, Conrad’s erect posture showed no sign of wavering except in an overly rapid blinking of his eyes after he swiveled his head. Every other motion remained distinct and deliberate.
“The combined vintners of Cinque Terre wish to make you a proposal.”
“Fire away. As long as they don’t want to marry me, we’re fine.” Now why had he said that? Because marriage was the one word that always made him clear out of any relationship. But tonight he could easily picture…but that was ridiculous. He restricted himself to a nod for Conrad to continue.
Conrad’s small smile implied that he had understood the half thought, which had better be impossible. The man was just drunk, even if he was the only one left not slurring his words. Breeding paid off. Which left him where? The mongrel son of a fourth-generation melting-pot immigrant turned wine multimillionaire and a runaway street girl turned actress.
“Their proposal is both simple and complex.”
“Figured out that much on my own.”
“Indeed. You are aware that they created a program under which any vintner willing to tend the vines for a minimum of five years will receive ownership of them.”
“Sure.”
“But they are also aware of your heritage and that you could buy a whole hillside perhaps out of petty cash.”
He shrugged. Close enough to true.
“But they also see in you a man who loves the vines and knows the wine.”
“Yep. No denying that.” Even if it had taken Emilio bludgeoning his body for a full week in the vineyard for him to remember it.
“So, in addition to offering you immediate ownership of any terraces you recover, they offer their services as mentors to teach you the vagaries of working the grapes of Cinque Terre. The old methods and the new. They are offering you the chance to join this simple brotherhood.”
That did rock Ridley back in his chair. A moment too late he realized he’d overbalanced. He missed a grab for the table and crashed over backwards into Tomas’ lap. Even that didn’t rouse the man from his well-soused contemplations.
He got himself squared back away and looked around the table. They were all watching him closely, except for Leon, who appeared to be watching the table his forehead was now resting on.
“Do not accept this offer idly,” Conrad warned.
“Yeah, even I got that.” And it hurt that not only had Conrad seen fit to warn him, but worse that he’d been right to do so.
Had he ever really committed to anything?
He could hear Erica’s question, “You never had a job?”
Nope. Never committed to a thing in your life, Ridley.
It was a hell of an offer. Someone willing to take a chance on him. He flexed his hands. The work had felt good. He’d never minded hard work when it came his way. But it was Father’s winery or his brothers’ business or…
However, a chance to build his own wines. Not a Claremont label, but a Ridley one. For some idiot reason he saw the two sets of graceful initials carved on that dumbass lock.
Conrad was right. It wasn’t a simple answer.
“Thank them for me, as sincerely as—Screw that!”
Ridley looked at each of the men in turn, looking last at Emilio. Emilio who had taken him into the vines and reminded him of his passion for them.
“Grazie! Grazie mille! I… Io…” he tapped his temple to show that he needed to think. “But…” he clasped his hands over his heart. “Grazie!”
There was so much handshaking that followed that he had to ask Conrad, “They did understand that I haven’t said yes, right?”
“They understand, Mr. Claremont. And at the risk of sounding even more pompous than usual, I’m proud to know you, Ridley.” And Conrad shook his hand very sincerely.
The room slowly emptied. Bartolo, Tomas, and Leon staggered out the door weaving against some internal hurricane.
Conrad was gone, so he tried to ask Emilio if they were okay getting home. He could barely drive these roads sober in the daylight, he couldn’t imagine doing it blind drunk in the middle of the night.
But Emilio had pointed up the carruggio, away from the street where vehicles were allowed. In companionable silence, they put the restaurant back together. Emilio showed him how to run the commercial dishwasher crammed in the tiny kitchen. They soon had it put to rights and parted ways out on the stone cobbles in the heart of Corniglia.
Once Emilio was gone, Ridley tried to wrap his thoughts around the magnanimity of the offer. And the enormity of it.
He needed someone to talk to. Father or Bibi. Someone to talk with about it. Someone who knew him.
No one here, he gazed up and down the street.
Then he looked up at the moon. It was just slipping by the tower of the B&B, appearing to highlight the top floor. Slipping past…and into the thickening clouds that presaged rain. He was too drunk to mind the cliché—rather finding the irony to be really goddamn irritating.
The person he really wanted to ask was up there in her princess’ bower.
Not a chance could he do that.
Was there?
Chapter 13
The cold rain had moved in overnight. Erica missed her morning run because she was a total wimp about freezing to death. Besides, she’d had an idea last night.
The B&B’s reporting structure was good, but it was too simple. She knew what an executive reporting system had to encompass. The problem was to create it so that it would meet the client’s needs and yet not be so difficult to tweak that a programmer had to be hired each time an asset was added or removed.
Once she saw the structure, it was trivial to set up. It was the conversion that was going to be the real challenge. She’d have to map and build a custom routine for each old-form asset, but she should be able to move all of the historic data as well as the current bottom line. That was essential for meaningful trend analysis.
She was several hours into it when she became aware of a customer hovering in the middle of the restaurant, uncertain what to do. Glancing around, neither Bridget nor Hal were in view. It was the quiet lull of midmorning and she was the only other person here. Just her and the sleeping Snoop.
Erica turned to offer her help—and was staring straight into Ridley’s eyes.
“Hi,” he offered a questioning smile.
She tried to speak but neither Old nor New Erica were being of any help.
His smile faded as she continued to stare at him. He looked so good. She could see beyond him that the rain had tapered off, but his long hair was soaked as if he’d been out in it all morning. The slicker was plastered to his broad shoulders. His knuckles were marked with small scabs, one looking particularly fresh. Talk about a man with his manliness intact. He was utterly breathtaking. And apparently speechtaking.
“Sor
ry,” he whispered and turned for the door.
He walked away like a man defeated. Like—
“No! Wait!” She’d practically screamed it out.
Snoop woke with a quick bark, gazed around blearily, then settled back into the depths of his morning nap.
Ridley froze but didn’t turn.
“I—” What was she supposed to say to that unturning back? “You startled me is all.”
Still he hesitated.
“I didn’t know you were still speaking to me.”
At that he finally turned. “You’re the one who isn’t supposed to be speaking to me. Not if you had any common sense.”
“I know. But I think I’ve had too much common sense in my life. I’m trying to get over it.” And now that she was starting, it felt good. Surprisingly good.
Ridley kicked a boot at the floor, like a little boy. Which made her smile. He looked like a little boy who knew he’d been very bad.
She gave him the space to gather his thoughts. At least she’d think of it like that because she had no idea what to say.
“I suppose that saying I’m sorry is pretty damn unimaginative.”
“It’s a place to start.”
“How do you say it in Italian?”
“Mi dispiace means I’m sorry.”
He quirked a small smile at her. “Looked that one up ahead of time, did you?”
“I looked it up for myself. You told me yourself how you perceived women and relationships. And I was okay with that. I’m sorry for going past that. I looked it up for me.” But she couldn’t seem to form the words. Now that the moment was here, she couldn’t be sorry for anything except the ending.
Ridley edged over and waved one of those big hands at a chair on the other side of the table.
She nodded that it was okay.
He pulled it well back before sitting, then leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees to study his clasped hands. He looked up at her, but only for a moment before looking back down.
“Mi dispiace, too. I am sorry.”
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