A Delicate Finish

by Jeanette Baker

  Sarah came to life. “I’m not much of a cake eater.”

  “No problem. There are other options. You can pick and choose for yourself.” She wiped her hand on the towel. “Please, come in.”

  Mitch found himself inside the kind of home he hadn’t believed existed anymore. A large Victorian with original wood floors and beveled mirrors, it had the look of being cared for, as if generations of children had grown up in these rooms, boldly colored with moldings and classic carpets and long old-fashioned French windows opening out to allow a spectacular view of sunlit hills covered in healthy grapevines.

  “Have you lived here long?” he asked, shortening his stride to match hers.

  “Ten years,” she said. “This is my daughter-in-law’s family home. The house was built more than a hundred years ago by the original Frank DeAngelo. Now it belongs to his great-granddaughter, Francesca.” She led them around the kitchen, filled with appetizing smells, into a small sitting room furnished with two matching love seats, a coffee table and another long window with a view of the hills. She motioned toward the couches. “Please sit down. I’ll bring out the lemonade and a tray.”

  Mitch chose the couch facing the window and sat down. “I’ll enjoy your view. The lemonade sounds wonderful, but don’t worry about feeding us. We’ve just eaten.”

  Julianne smiled and spoke to Sarah. “Would you like to come with me and see if anything appeals to you?”

  Sarah nodded and followed her into the kitchen. She stopped at the entrance and gasped. Every available foot of counter space was filled with desserts. “Are you having a party?”

  “It’s not my party. I’m a caterer. It’s my business. But I’m sure I can spare something for you and your dad.”

  “It looks great. Really, it does,” the girl stammered, “but I’m full from lunch.”

  Julianne was already assembling a plate with two huge chocolate cookies and two slices of lemon-colored cake. The girl could use a few calories. “Take this back to your dad. I’ll join you in a minute with the lemonade.”

  Sarah carried the dessert plate in one hand and two smaller plates and forks in another. Julianne followed with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. “Here you are,” she said. “Just in case you’re in the mood for something sweet.”

  “You should see the kitchen, Dad,” the girl said. “She has desserts coming out of the woodwork.”

  “I’m in the catering business,” Julianne explained.

  “That must keep you busy.”

  “Very.”

  He watched her pour the lemonade. She wasn’t as young as he’d first thought, somewhere in her mid-forties, a woman who kept herself in very good shape. The laugh lines around her eyes gave her away. There was something else about her, a careful quality about her speech, a formal tone to her words. She intrigued him.

  “You didn’t tell me your names,” she said.

  Mitch was embarrassed. He didn’t often make social gaffes. “Excuse me. I’m Mitchell Gillette and this is my daughter, Sarah. We’re new to the area.”

  Julianne looked surprised. “You’re from around here?” She handed him a plate with a cookie and a slice of cake.

  “Not yet, but we’re looking. We drove down from the Bay Area and stayed at the Santa Ynez Inn last night. I’m sure we’ll find something soon. We have to.”

  “Why is that?”

  “My job is here. I live in Tiburon, near San Francisco. That’s an impossible commute.” For the sake of good manners, he bit into the cookie. A look of surprise came over his face. He took another bite and then another.

  Meanwhile, Sarah picked up her fork and cut into the lemon cake. Delicately she lifted the cake-filled fork to her lips and nibbled at it. “Wow!” Down went the fork again for a bigger bite, again and again, until the slice was gone. Then she went for the cookie. “I’ve never tasted anything like this,” she said. “What’s in it?”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  “The cookies are made with crushed toffee bars, semisweet chocolate and nuts. The cake tastes the way it does because I use fresh lemon.”

  “I suppose nothing you make is from a box,” the girl ventured.

  “Not much,” Julianne admitted. “I’ll give you the recipes if you like.”

  “You mean your recipes aren’t guarded secrets?” Mitch teased.

  Julianne laughed. He noticed that she laughed a lot.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’m flattered when someone wants to re-create my food.”

  A voice called out from the hallway. “I’m home, Jules. Whatever you’re baking smells delicious.”

  “Back here,” Julianne called out. “We have company.”

  A long-legged woman with dark eyes and creamy skin walked into the sitting room. Mitch experienced a jolt of recognition. The woman from the diner. Apparently, she remembered him, too. Her smile faded.

  He stood and held out his hand, hoping to correct his first impression. “I’m Mitchell Gillette. This is my daughter, Sarah. We’re here from San Francisco to look at your horse, Fairy Light.”

  Francesca didn’t smile. She shook his hand briefly. “I’m Francesca DeAngelo. Fairy Light is outside today. We’ll have to track her down. How well does Sarah ride?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Mitch replied coolly.

  Francesca’s eyes narrowed. “All right. Are you a competent rider, Sarah?”

  The girl leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “I think so. I’ve ridden horses since I was seven and I’m fifteen now. I had my own quarter horse until two years ago when I had to sell her. My mom—” Her voice broke.

  Mitch rested a hand on his daughter’s knee.

  Francesca’s eyes met Julianne’s in a silent question. Julianne shrugged discreetly.

  “Sarah and her brother lost their mother three weeks ago,” Mitch explained.

  “Oh, no,” Julianne cried. Involuntarily her hand reached out toward Sarah.

  Francesca’s voice changed completely. “I’m so sorry. I’ll change my clothes and take you to see the horse.”

  “How old is your brother, Sarah?” Julianne asked when it was clear that Sarah had regained control of herself.

  “Drew and I are twins. He didn’t want to come today,” she volunteered. “He’s upset about the move.”

  “It’s hard to leave your home and friends when you’re fifteen,” Julianne agreed. “However, it’s rarely as terrible as you imagine it will be. Life turns out to be school and friends and homework and, before you know it, you’re settled in.”

  Mitch wasn’t feeling like himself at all. He had the insane desire to curl up with his head in this woman’s lap, listen to her sensible wisdom and her warm laugh, eat her cake and drink her lemonade until the world righted itself again. He wanted his life back, the life he had before GGI decided they wanted to grow grapes in Santa Barbara County and Mitch was to be their pioneer. He wanted the bright lights and smoky pubs and warm restaurants and fog-shrouded streets of San Francisco. He wanted his freedom and the predictable organized existence he’d created for himself before Susan died and left him with two children he didn’t know and would never understand. He wanted to be far away from the censorious judgment he’d seen in Francesca DeAngelo’s eyes. Mitch wasn’t used to women who disapproved of him, and somehow he knew the young woman was not impressed with his credentials.

  He wasn’t aware that Julianne had asked a question until the silence had stretched out for several seconds. “I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed again. “What did you say?”

  “I asked what line of work you’re in.”

  “Grapes,” he said briefly, hoping she would leave it at that.

  “As in growing or producing wine or both?”

  Thanks to Francesca, he was spared the necessity of answering. She was back in the room, this time dressed in jeans, boots and a blue work shirt.

  “Would you like to come with us, Julianne?” she asked.

  “No thank
s. I have plenty to do here and I wouldn’t be much help anyway.”

  Mitch was disappointed, but he rose to the occasion. “It was very nice meeting you, Mrs. Harris. Do you have a business card? I can always use a good caterer.”

  Francesca looked surprised. “San Francisco is a long way to go for catering.”

  “We’re going to live here,” Sarah said. “Dad’s company is transferring him.”

  “What business are you in, Mr. Gillette?”

  It was the same question Julianne had asked, but from her daughter-in-law it took on another meaning. “I’m in the business of grapes, Ms. DeAngelo.” He drew a deep breath. He’d known this would be difficult. “I work for Grape Growers Incorporated.”

  The icy blankness of the younger woman’s face didn’t disturb him nearly as much as Julianne’s obvious disappointment. The silence was difficult.

  Finally, Francesca broke it. “Are you aware that your cause might be a lost one, Mr. Gillette?”

  “I’m here for a horse, Ms. DeAngelo.”

  She looked at him, judging once again. Then she looked at Sarah and her face cleared. “My car is outside. We’ll drive together.”

  Francesca maintained a continuous flow of conversation until they reached their destination, a paddock Several miles from the house where three horses munched on yellow grass behind a white rail fence.

  “Fairy Light is the red one in the middle,” she said, always addressing her comments directly to Sarah.

  “She’s beautiful,” the girl breathed. “Why are you selling her?”

  A look of pain flitted across Francesca’s features.

  “She’s worth too much to keep her,” she explained.

  “She’s not fast enough to race and I don’t have the time to show her.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Four. She’s beautifully trained and very manageable, if you know what you’re doing.”

  “How much is she?”

  “I’ll talk that over with your dad. Meanwhile, if you’re interested, you can ride her.”

  The girl’s eyes were like stars. “Can I, Dad?”

  He smiled at his daughter. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “I assume you don’t know very much about horses,” Francesca began.

  He cut her off. “I know nothing about horses. What I assume is that you’ll tell me whether or not this is a horse for a fifteen-year-old girl and that your price is a fair one.”

  “My price is fair for a horse like Fairy Light,” Francesca said carefully. “Whether she’s the one for Sarah, I won’t know until I see her ride. This horse won’t cooperate with a hesitant rider.”

  “There’s one more thing.”

  Francesca tilted her head back. He was a tall man, taller than Jake and thin like his daughter, with dark, gray-peppered hair and light eyes. His skin was unlined, making it difficult for her to tell how old he was. “What is it?”

  “If I buy her, I’ll need a place to board her until we relocate. It makes no sense to move her up North and then back down here again. Also, Sarah will need lessons. She’s a good rider, but the whole point of buying a horse is to give her a hobby where she can be challenged and excel. I want her to have something to think about besides—” He stopped.

  “Fairy Light can stay here, but I’ll have to charge you, Mr. Gillette,” Francesca said matter-of-factly. “Horses take food and care. They’re expensive.”

  “I understand.”

  She couldn’t stop herself, even though it was none of her business. “What about your son? Is he interested in horses?”

  “I’m afraid not. Drew will have a harder time settling in. He’s a city boy.” Like his father, he added silently.

  Less than an hour later the transaction was completed. Francesca was satisfied that Sarah Gillette had enough knowledge to ride Fairy Light without doing damage to herself or the horse. The check she had in her pocket would more than pay for the new spray rig. The lessons she’d promised the girl wouldn’t start until the Gillettes had moved to Santa Ynez. She wasn’t happy about GGI’s presence in the county, but she had expected it. They didn’t have water rights and until they did, their plan for a world-class wine-production center was no more than a dream.

  Francesca was more than pleased with her afternoon. Now, if Jake would have already gone home by the time she walked through the front door, her satisfaction would be running at a serious high.

  Four

  Julianne was brushing the last of the glaze on the top of her walnut rum cake when Francesca breezed into the kitchen, the tension of the morning forgotten.

  “He gave me twice my asking price,” she said. “I won’t need the bank loan after all.” She swiped a finger along the inside of the bowl of sugary glaze and stuck it in her mouth. “Yum. This is delicious. It’ll be wasted on Mildred Harrington’s geriatrics party.”

  “It’s her fiftieth birthday, Francie. Don’t forget who you’re talking to.” Julianne’s fiftieth birthday had passed last month.

  Francesca sucked the last drop of glaze from her finger. “You’ll never be fifty, Jules. Men are still throwing their phone numbers at you.”

  “Name one.”

  “Marvin Roach.”

  Julianne groaned.

  “Okay. Maybe he’s not your type. But you wouldn’t have noticed that he’s interested unless I told you.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “Yes, it is. You didn’t even notice the way that man was looking at you today.”

  “What man?”

  “Mitchell Gillette.”

  Julianne’s horrified expression spoke volumes. “Francesca DeAngelo! Shame on you. He’s years younger than I am, he has teenage children and, even if neither of those were true, he’s the vice president of Grape Growers Incorporated. You can’t think I’d consider someone like him, even if I was in the market, which I’m not.”

  “Calm down.” Francesca looked around for another bowl she could lick clean. “I wasn’t suggesting you go out with him. I was simply pointing out that you’re a young, attractive woman who shouldn’t be hiding her charms behind an apron and a mixing bowl.”

  “I don’t wear aprons and this mixing bowl brings quite a bit of income into the family coffers,” Julianne reminded her.

  “I know that and I’m grateful, but...” Francesca hesitated.

  “But?” Julianne prompted her.

  “You’ve been a widow for a long time. Don’t you want to get married again?”

  Julianne leaned against the counter, gripping the mixing bowl in one hand, the wooden spoon in the other, a thoughtful expression on her face. Francesca wondered, not for the first time, if her mother-in-law knew just how unusual she was.

  Julianne Changala Harris combined the best qualities of her Basque ancestors. She had the olive skin, dark hair and silver-blue eyes typical of the people who had once populated the Pyrenees and claimed all of France, Spain and Italy as their homeland. High cheekbones, a square chin, a tilted nose and a small overbite brought a youthful, gamine-quality to her features. She was naturally petite and did nothing more than walk occasionally to maintain her weight. Yet despite her many attributes she never dated and seemed more than content to occupy her time with her cooking, her family, her books and a few choice friends.

  “Well?” Francesca prompted her. “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said with finality. “What would be the point? I’m happy the way things are.”

  “You’re still young. Don’t you think about growing old with someone?”

  “I have you and Nick and Jake.”

  Francesca sighed. “For the time being. Nick will grow up and leave and—” She stopped.

  “You don’t have to warn me, Francie. It’s all right. I know you’ll marry again and so will Jake. I’m prepared for it, actually. I’ve even thought of what to do with the business.”

  The timer went off. Julianne pulled a pan of pastry puffs from the convection oven. “
I’ve put some money aside and, hopefully, whomever you choose will have enough wherewithal to buy out my interest in the house.”

  Francesca’s eyes were wide and accusing. “You’d actually consider leaving us?”

  Julianne smiled. “I don’t think your future husband will want to live with your ex-mother-in-law. That would be hard for any man to take.”

  “I haven’t even met anyone yet,” Francesca protested.

  “It doesn’t hurt to plan ahead.”

  The timer and the intensity of their conversation muted Jake’s arrival. He stood in the doorway. “Smells delicious,” he said. “Who’s planning ahead?”

  “I am,” his mother replied. “I’ll need somewhere to go when Francesca marries again.”

  It was a full minute before Julianne removed the remaining pastry puffs to a cooling rack and turned to look at her son. His expression hadn’t changed, but his skin had gone pale. All at once, Julianne understood what she had long suspected and her heart broke.

  He forced a smile, a painful stretching of skin across teeth. “So, when is the happy day?”

  “It isn’t,” Francesca said. “We were speaking hypothetically.”

  Slowly, like a developing photograph, Jake’s color returned. He lifted one of his crutches, pointing to the tray of cookies. “I could use one of those.”

  Julianne reached for a cookie and pulled out a chair from the long wooden table. “Sit down and eat. You look tired.”

  Carefully, Jake eased himself into the chair. Leaning his crutches against the table, he bit into the cookie. Pure pleasure lit up his face. “You have no idea how much I miss your cookies.”

  Francesca could feel the anger boil up in her chest. He didn’t deserve Julianne’s cookies. He deserved to be miserable for the rest of his life for what he’d done to their family. She clenched her hands, fighting to control herself. “Where’s Nick?”

  “He’ll be along in a minute.” Jake glanced at his mother and then at Francesca. “Did you have any luck at the bank?”

  She didn’t bother to ask how he knew. “Yes,” she said briefly, “but circumstances have changed. I won’t need the loan after all.”