* * *
How was he supposed to look into her beautiful brown eyes when he apologized?
And how was he supposed to make sense of Erica trying to apologize to him?
“Were you just going to say that to confuse the crap out of me?” Ridley watched the water slowly pooling on the floor around him. “Because if that was your plan, it’s working.”
He glanced up enough to see her shake her head.
“Well, it’s working anyway.”
And she giggled.
He looked up in surprise at the completely unexpected response.
“What?”
“I like you, Ridley.”
“You love me.” And why did he find it necessary to throw that in her face? Or was it in his?
“I do,” and she didn’t even blink. “But I like you too.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you mean Perch?”
All he could do was shrug. It was too much. Too personal.
Maybe she felt the same because her face went quiet and her voice soft.
“I just do. You’re a nice man, no matter what you think of yourself.”
“Yeah, right. At least one of us knows better.”
“Yes, I do.”
Ridley sat back in the chair, because leaning in he could imagine that he felt her warmth. He almost asked how she could be so nice, but then he remembered. It was because Erica Barnett really was nice, right down to her very core.
He could ask anything of her and she’d probably do it. Not because she liked him or loved him, but because she was just that nice. Bartolo, who she’d probably never met, could stop her on the street to ask a favor—and Erica wouldn’t shrug him off.
“Could I ask you to do something…” It had all made sense last night as he lay awake staring at the ceiling of his third-story room so close beneath hers. Now it sounded imposing.
She was already nodding, but he held up a hand to stop her.
“I don’t want you to do it because you like me or love me or because you’re so damn nice.”
“Unlike you,” she teased back, but was dead on the money.
“Unlike me.”
She shrugged. “It’s difficult to say what my motivation would be then.”
“Huh,” he thought about that one a bit. “How about professional interest?”
That earned him the arch of a single eyebrow.
“I have a stupid idea. Or maybe the beginning of a stupid idea. And I don’t have anyone to…” Christ, wasn’t he a sad sack. Rich playboy with no friends in the world. There were plenty, but they were all at least as shallow as he was. He hated to admit it, but most were actually even worse than that.
“Oh, Ridley.” And he could hear it in her voice.
“Not that either. For crap’s sake, don’t pity me. I’d just like…” so many things “…your opinion.”
She made a show of saving whatever she’d been working on and closing the computer. Clearly offering to give him her full attention. Damn her kindness for making him feel so small. He hadn’t even asked what she was doing and now he was yanking her away from it.
“What’s that?”
“Bridget manages all of Conrad’s holdings—which is saying something. Her system is on the verge of a nervous collapse so I’m fixing it for her.”
“How are you at business plans?”
“Center of the wheelhouse.”
He nodded. There it was, that sharp brain of hers finally showing itself. Yeah, he’d wager Conrad was a mover and shaker. Ridley had certainly recognized the label on those two bottles of red last night that Conrad said were from his estate.
“Is that what you need? A business plan?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe. Honestly, I haven’t got a clue. I understand the vines. I know wine. The business and marketing mess? Never paid two minutes’ attention to all that crap.”
Again the arched eyebrow, but he saw the smile behind it as well.
Right, real smooth. “That, uh…”
“—crap—” she supplied.
“…stuff you do.”
“Which is crap under the old ‘my stuff, your junk’ rule. I get it.”
Since her smile was still there, Ridley opted for keeping his mouth shut. He’d never really thought of it that way, but he’d certainly lived it that way. “You fall for me, that’s your problem, babe.” What a dick. It would be better if he didn’t know a hundred more just like him—far too many of whom he’d called friends. Thankfully, most of the ones he knew were still back in Sonoma working the tourist bars and clubs.
“So, what junk do you need help with?”
“Uh, it would be easier to show you, if you don’t mind going for a ride.”
The light in her eyes slammed down.
“No. No. Not on my bike.” Then he couldn’t help smiling. “Though you might prefer that by the time we’re done.”
* * *
Erica peered into the abyss and decided that she should have opted for the motorcycle, even if it meant wrapping her arms around Ridley.
The morning sun was bright on the grape leaves atop stout vines as the tiny monorail seemed to waver between dumping her to the right into a thicket of them. Or to the left to tumble endlessly downward until her broken and battered body was consumed by Poseidon or Neptune after it splashed into the Mediterranean. Perhaps the Greek and Roman gods would fight a mad battle over her earthly remains. If they did, she rather hoped that the Norse Valkyrie would swoop down and carry her off to the hall of heroes instead.
But the noisy little engine chugged away taking them over vine and valley until Ridley finally ground it to a stop.
He reached out to help her down, thought better of it, reached again.
While he wallowed in his indecision, she hopped down onto the top of the rock wall he’d parked above.
Vines spread in every direction, both up and down the hill and off to every side. When she turned around, she was faced by another wall of vines on the opposite side of the ravine. And perched atop it was the town of Corniglia.
“It looks sweet from here.”
“It does.”
What was going to happen when she finished Bridget’s project? She didn’t want to sabotage it, but she suddenly wished that it would take far longer than it was going to.
“What I wanted you to see is over here.”
“Oh right.” She followed him as he ducked between the vines, climbed a tiny stairway notched into a rock wall.
Then he stepped aside and stopped.
She looked around. More vines. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“That’ll teach me,” Ridley muttered softly. “A week ago, this terrace looked like that,” and he pointed at the snarled mass of vines above the next rock wall. Except the rock wall was a snarl as well—whole sections of it were tumbled down and the vines were sagging into where the dirt had slumped away. To the left and right, the terrace stretched long across the hillside. The terrace they were on was neat as a pin. The steps had been firm and solid beneath her feet.
“Why do these vines look rougher than the ones down below?”
“Because they haven’t been pruned in over a decade, maybe decades. Perhaps I was a little harsh when I did it, but I think it’s best no matter what Emilio says.”
“Who’s Emilio?”
“A vintner. He owns those lower vines. You’d like him. He’d like you,” Ridley sounded a little surprised as he said the last.
“Maybe I should have fallen for him.”
“I like you too.” And he did. A lot.
There was one of those silences that he’d forgotten about. Silences around women were never comfortable. But Erica was often simply quiet. It was a new experience.
“You did all this?”
“Emilio got me started. But, yeah, this was me.”
“Why?”
And now he was such a sap that he missed the “Perch?” joke.
“It was
a way to not think about…”
“Me.”
“About how stupid I was about… Yeah, you. Anyway…” And he told her about the hillside, showed her how to see the nearly endless section of overgrown terraces. Then he told her about the offer they’d made him over last night’s dinner.
“I’ve been standing out here all morning…”
“Getting soaking wet.”
“I guess. Staring at this damn hillside, and I don’t even know how to think about it.”
“Is it something you want to do? Become a Cinque Terre vintner?”
“Maybe?”
* * *
And there was her problem.
Erica turned her back so that he couldn’t see her face and sat on the newly redone wall.
She’d fallen in love with a man who didn’t know what he wanted. All things considered, she didn’t exactly earn stellar points in that area either. America or Italy? Consultant or employee? Princess in her tower or lunatic in her lofty dungeon? By the time her hair reached the ground, would she be as mad as Rapunzel?
Maybe if she helped Ridley, she could somehow help herself.
He sat down on the wall not too far from her, but thankfully far enough. No one ever said that Ridley hadn’t had practice in judging the state of mind of women. At least ones who weren’t busy falling in love with him.
“Okay. Let’s break it down. This,” she waved toward the vines, “is obviously something you are good at and care about.”
“Check.”
“And the wines.”
“The whole process.”
“Business is a part of that process too.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Sorry.”
“Rid-ley!” But when she looked over at him he was smiling.
“Hello, Gudgeon.”
“Go to hell, Claremont.” But she could feel her own smile. “Other things you’re good at? Besides picking up loose women.”
“You were less loose than any I picked up before,” then he whistled in disgust. “That sure could have come out way better.”
“Court fool.” It earned her a snort if not a laugh. “What else?”
“I’m a fair motorcycle mechanic, but nothing to write home about. If I had a home.”
That got her attention. It took a while, sitting there in the Italian gray, with the sky and the sea almost the same color of slate, but Ridley began talking about his mom and father.
“Why Father?”
“My evil stepbrothers called him Dad. Besides, I thought it was his name. Bibi was one of those moms who always referred to him as ‘Your father.’ It kind of stuck.”
The more he told her, the more she could see the shape of the man. And the real problem was that the more she learned, the more she felt for him rather than less. He was so close to being such a good man if he could only get out of his own way.
“Your mom sounds amazing.”
“The best. The very best.”
“Mama’s boy.”
“No argument.”
And what was her heart supposed to do with that?
“Why me?”
“What are you asking?”
And suddenly she wasn’t sure. Why had he been attracted to her? Because it was clearly more than she was just the next woman available, even if he couldn’t see that.
But she chose the safer question.
“Why did you come to me about this? That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It was damned hard. But I needed someone who knew me enough to tell me if this idea was stupid or not. And you know me. Even if it’s better than you should.”
Erica wondered who she had left to go to if she had a question like this. Not a whole lot of names came to mind. Even Becky wouldn’t be helpful—she was thoroughly convinced that Erica had lost her mind in choosing to come to Italy. Muggings and rapes were only the beginning of her litany of fears. Earthquakes, terrorists, and the re-eruption of Mt. Etna burying Erica in a modern Pompeii had been only a start. Becky had probably never been farther from Boston than Cape Cod in her whole life.
“Okay, Ridley. Snap quiz. Ready?”
“I guess.”
“Yes or no answer. You’re thinking about abandoning the family winery with all of its good memories and ongoing bad blood because you can’t shed your brothers any more than they can get rid of you. In exchange, you’re looking at creating a winery—through backbreaking work and against massive odds—here in Cinque Terre that is completely yours. As mentors, you will have the best vintners the area has to offer. And you get to live out your days in Corniglia.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Okay, wise-ass Princess Gudgeon, what’s the question?”
“Not yet,” Erica ignored the tease because she could see the shape of it. Both on the hillside behind her and in her mind. “This isn’t a problem you can just throw money at to solve. You have to make it into a going concern. You can float the company some startup capital, but it has to eventually support itself. Even turn a profit.”
“I guess so. Sure.”
“Now comes the question. You ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, I’m serious on this next part, Ridley.” She turned to face him and felt the jolt of how close he was.
He was staring right at her, hanging on her every word. A hundred percent of Ridley Claremont’s attention was a lot of attention as both she and her body well knew, and it was difficult to breathe beneath the impact of it.
“This isn’t an ‘I guess’ or a ‘maybe’ kind of answer. Only yes or no is allowed. One word max. It’s not a commitment, just an answer. So whichever comes into your mind first. Okay?”
He saluted her like a military general.
“Okay, Ridley. Here we go. Can you think of anything else you’d rather be doing?”
He blinked at her in surprise as the humor slipped off his face.
And there he was: Ridley the man.
No games going on. No defenses set on stun. No charm set on overkill. Just Ridley. He looked up at the gray sky and down at the vines below.
She tried not to watch him as he stood and turned to face the work he’d done and the work he had yet to do. But she couldn’t help herself. It was so right for him. So perfect. It was easy to imagine him standing there after the hillside had been transformed and gray was touching his temples. He was so handsome now, he’d be devastating as he aged. It wasn’t hard picturing a son or daughter beside him either, perhaps both.
She rubbed the base of her thumb up and down her sternum. The image made her heart ache.
* * *
Ridley could see the vines. Not overgrown, choked out with weeds and one another, but transformed, bearing grapes. Once he understood the soil, he could amend it, planting, then turning under mustard or mint, rosemary or oregano. Subtle flavors to be picked up by the vines.
It wasn’t a challenge of a season, a year, or even a decade. It was a lifetime challenge. He’d been seeing it as a set of concrete tasks. Ten terraces to clear for an acre. A hundred for a ten-acre yield. He’d be lucky to get a ton an acre in the first year, but he might get as high as eight or ten within five years.
No, it would be Father’s method: best yield, not greatest yield.
Fifty terraces, five acres, five to six tons to the acre, thirty tons of grapes… That would produce just over a hundred and fifty cases or eighteen hundred bottles. Also room to grow more, up the abandoned terraces. Maybe a hundred terraces with time.
He could do that. Five years, maybe ten, but he could do that.
The choices later on of which vines, what grapes. Maybe an acre on another slope, perhaps near one of the other towns to extend the terroir to work with. Then…
That would all wait for another day.
“Can you figure out what it would take?”
There was such a long silence that he turned to look down at Erica
. Before he could see her face, she spun away to look at the horizon.
“I can probably put together a first-order estimate and an initial plan.” Her voice was suddenly as cool as the day and he saw her shiver.
“Oh, crap. You’re freezing. Come on, I’ll take you back.”
She glanced at him only once, as he stopped at the end of the monorail closest to the town. It wasn’t long enough to read her expression.
“I take it that the answer is: No, you can’t think of anything better?” She asked him softly.
“Nope. Can’t. Not even a little.”
Erica nodded, confirming that he’d made the right decision before she hurried away toward a hot shower.
That simple nod meant more than anything.
* * *
One mortal wound wasn’t enough. She just had to double down.
“Not even a little,” Ridley had said. All her idiot images of the family standing around him. Not putting herself in the picture, but aware that someone had to observe the scene for it to be seen. And for a brief instant in her imagination, she was that outside observer.
Erica didn’t go back to work on Bridget’s management system, or start on Ridley’s business plan. She went upstairs, locked the door, threw the latch, and shoved a chair in front of it for good measure. Shedding her shoes and jacket, she crawled under the covers fully dressed.
The idiot dreamer. The Gudgeon Princess. Boy oh boy, had Ridley nailed that one.
What part of her was so broken that she needed a man in order to feel whole?
For the moment that the image had shown brightly, she’d been swept up in the joy of it. Ridley’s heart had been so clear on his face as he surveyed the vines. His vision of the dream so clear that she’d been able to see it herself.
What dreams had she ever had of her own?
Work hard.
In Corniglia she’d found a glimmer of light. Work hard was still an aspect of it, but so was having a life. Her affair with Ridley (that’s what she’d call it). Her growing friendships in the community. Her slow discovery of New Erica.
And now back to this: fetal position under the covers, wishing the world would just go away.
Too weary to cry, what was left to do? Who was there to blame?
Path of Love Page 17