A Delicate Finish

by Jeanette Baker

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  She looked at him pointedly. “It’s getting late. Shouldn’t you be on your way home?”

  Once again his eyes met his mother’s in a mute appeal.

  Julianne stepped in. From across the room her voice, though not at all loud, was clear and deliberate. “Jake will be staying with us for a while, until the cast is off his leg. It’s awkward for him to get up and down the stairs. Besides, he’s due for some vacation time.”

  “Are you saying he’ll be living here with us?” Francesca refused to believe what she was hearing.

  “For a while.” Julianne’s eyes were level on her daughter-in-law’s face, daring her to say otherwise, reminding her, silently, that the second mortgage and a good share of the maintenance for the house over the last ten years had come directly from her.

  “How long is a while?” Francesca asked stiffly.

  Jake spoke up. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “Nonsense.” Julianne was firm. “You’re living in a second-floor apartment. Every time you answer the door or go shopping for food, you have to negotiate the stairs. The effort isn’t worth it. If I know you, you won’t bother to eat. Besides, it will be good for Nick to have you here. Frances is an adult. She’ll manage. There’s no reason why the two of you can’t be civil to each other for a few weeks.”

  “It might be more than a few weeks,” muttered Jake.

  “I’m always civil,” replied Francesca. “What I don’t understand is why Jake would want to come back here at all. He was in a desperate hurry to leave two years ago.”

  “I’m not moving in, Frances,” he said wearily. “I just need some help for a short time.”

  “You look like you’re handling your handicap quite well. You drove your car all the way from Napa and you took Nick fishing.”

  “I’m not helpless. But the day-to-day routine is strenuous. Everything takes four times as long. I don’t intend to be a burden. I’ll help out wherever I can.”

  “If you can’t work your own vineyard, how can you work mine?” She stood there, scornful, self-righteous, long, dark hair falling on tanned shoulders.

  Jake swallowed, wondering, not for the first time, how someone so smart and so beautiful could have the killer instincts of a barracuda. He chose his words carefully. “You’re already in budburst. The season will be short down here. I can help with the suckering and shoot positioning. I may not be fast but, if I remember correctly, every pair of hands is usually welcome this time of year.”

  He was right about her needing help, but he was hardly in any condition to tear off water shoots. She was silent, thoughtful. Finally she spoke. “Suckering requires too much stooping and pulling. Besides, we need twenty-four-inch vines before we do any shoot positioning. You won’t be here long enough for that.” She looked at Julianne. “Will he?”

  “Probably not,” she replied. “However, the offer was made graciously. It deserves a gracious thank-you.”

  Francesca flushed, embarrassed. Julianne always managed to put her in her place. “I apologize,” she said stiffly. “As far as helping out, let’s just see how things go”

  “Meaning you hope I’ll be long gone before you need me.”

  She ignored his comment and changed the subject. “Nick will be happy you’re here. He misses you.”

  “I miss him, too.”

  She opened her mouth to remind him, once again, that he was the one who’d decided on separate living arrangements, then decided against it. She did not want to argue in front of Julianne.

  Turning her back, Francesca rinsed her hands in the sink and passed them over a dish towel hanging over the sink. “You know your way around. Make yourself comfortable.” She looked at Julianne. “I ate a late lunch. I’d like to order the spray rig and go over the books. Don’t worry about dinner for me.”

  Julianne’s lips twitched. “I’ll leave any leftovers in the refrigerator in case you get hungry later. I’ve put Jake in the downstairs guest room.”

  There was no mistaking the look of relief on Francesca’s face. The guest room on the other side of the house had its own bathroom and entrance. Other than an occasional meal, she wouldn’t have to see him at all.

  Mitch drove past the sign welcoming visitors to the elite harbor town of Tiburon with a sigh of relief. The drive had been long and awkward, a sad state of affairs for a father and daughter, but true nevertheless. Turning on Edison Street, he slowed to accommodate the tourists that inevitably crowded the picturesque bayside town where he chose to live. Hugging the side of the street, he turned left on to Paradise Road and made his way up the hill toward home. Even before he pushed the button on the garage-door opener, he could hear the loud pounding of the modern age’s definition of music. He drove into the garage. Drew was home and, as usual, he had eschewed his father’s request to use headphones.

  Sarah looked at him nervously. “I guess Drew’s home.”

  “I guess he is.”

  “Maybe he didn’t expect us this early,” she offered.

  “I’m sure he didn’t.”

  Sarah drew a deep breath. “Are you mad?”

  Mitch frowned. “Do I look like I’m mad?”

  She nodded.

  He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. “I’m not. I don’t like Drew’s music, but I suppose my parents didn’t like mine either. Drew thought he’d be alone. How can I be mad?”

  Sarah relaxed. “Mom didn’t like his music either. She wouldn’t let him listen to it. He did anyway, but not in the house.”

  Mitch had a new appreciation for Susan. He was about to ask Sarah how her mother had managed to get Drew to do what she asked, when the side door leading to the house opened and a young girl, pierced in every conceivable orifice, stepped out. Her eyes widened for an instant but, recovering quickly, she waved, sauntered to the refrigerator Mitch kept in the garage, helped herself to two cans of soda and walked back inside.

  “Who is that?” Mitch asked.

  Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know many people here in Tiburon yet.”

  “Did your mother allow him to have a girl in the house when she wasn’t home?”

  “I don’t think it ever came up. Drew is...” She hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “He’s different here. He didn’t want to move.”

  “I know.” Mitch sighed and looked at his daughter. “What about you, Sarah? How are you doing? I don’t think you wanted to move either.”

  She shrugged. “There wasn’t anything else to do,” she said dully. “Mom’s dying was the worst. Nothing else really mattered after that.”

  “Did you know she was sick?”

  “Not that sick. I guess she wanted to keep it from us.”

  “I wish I’d known.” It was a safe and false sentiment. Mitch felt it the instant he said it. What could he have done even if he had known?

  Sarah kept silent.

  Mitch tried again. “I need some help here, Sarah. I don’t want Drew to think it’s okay to have a girl in the house when I’m not home, but I don’t want to make a big deal of it. After all, we’re moving. She’ll be irrelevant in a matter of months.”

  “Months is a long time, Dad. She could be pregnant by then.”

  Mitch blinked. Matter-of-fact reality doled out by a child impervious to shock. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly and opened the car door. “Let’s go inside.”

  The house was blessedly silent when Mitch walked inside and up the stairs. The guest room, now Drew’s bedroom, was the first on the left. The door was closed. Mitch knocked. “Drew, we’re home.”

  “Hi.”

  The monosyllabic response lit the fuse on Mitch’s anger. He turned the knob. The door was locked. “Open the door, Drew,” he ordered.

  Seconds passed. Mitch fought his rising temper. Finally, he heard movement on the other side of the door. The latch clicked, the knob turned and Drew opened the door a crack. He glanced at his father and then
looked at the floor. The whites of the boy’s eyes were bloodshot and his lids were swollen half shut.

  Mitch pushed open the door. Candy wrappers, Coke cans and empty bags of potato chips littered the floor, and the sweet weedy smell he hadn’t forgotten from his college days hung in the air. He motioned to the girl half sitting, half lying on the bed. “I think you’d better go home.”

  She slid off the bed into a standing position, a look of relief on her face, and then passed through the door and down the stairs without saying a word.

  Drew continued to stare at the floor.

  “Give me the marijuana.”

  “I don’t have any more.”

  “Where is it?”

  “She took it.”

  “You will never bring drugs into my house again. Do you understand?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Answer me when I speak to you.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I don’t want you bringing anyone home again without permission either.”

  Again, the nebulous shrug.

  “Are you listening to me, Drew?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I won’t tolerate defiance. I’m not your mother.”

  “That’s an understatement,” the boy muttered.

  Mitch’s hands clenched. He wanted to wipe the blank smirk off his spoiled adolescent face. “What did you say?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Drew’s voice cracked. “Nothing matters anymore.” He threw himself down on the bed and buried his head in his arms. “You can do anything you want to me,” he said, the words muffled in the folds of his shirt. “It just doesn’t matter.”

  Mitch stared down at the lanky form of his only son, wondering if there was anything he could do to repair the rift between them. Deciding he needed a strategy that would take more than a minute to formulate, he backed out of the room and closed the door. His hands shook.

  Sarah stood at the top of the stairs, her eyes huge. He’d forgotten her. “Did you know that Drew was experimenting with drugs?”

  She opened her mouth, hesitated and closed it again. Then she shook her head.

  “What is it, Sarah? If you don’t tell me, I can’t help him. Does Drew have a drug problem?”

  “He never did before,” she said defensively. “It isn’t going to help him if you act like you don’t like him.”

  Mitch reared back as if she’d slapped him. “Of course I like him,” he exploded. “I love him. He’s my son. How am I supposed to react when I see that my fifteen-year-old son is locked in his room with a girl and they’re both loaded?”

  Sarah changed the subject. “Speaking of the girl, you shouldn’t have let her go home.”

  “Why not?”

  Sarah sighed. Did she have to explain everything? Was he really as dense as he seemed? “Mom would have called her parents,” she explained.

  Mitch’s face froze. She was right. How long did it take before one was qualified to be a parent? When did the right instincts kick in? He had always been a high achiever, reaching the top of his class and his field relatively quickly. Why was this particular and most important learning curve so difficult for him?

  Five

  Objectively, Mitch knew that Francesca DeAngelo was beautiful, in the long-legged, earthy way of an Aldo Luongo painting. He wondered why he wasn’t the slightest bit attracted to her. Maybe it had to do with her age. On rare occasions, he’d seen younger women socially, but usually he preferred them over forty. Women who remembered and had opinions on the same important societal and historical moments he did were simply more interesting. However, that didn’t stop him from admiring a pretty face. Francesca DeAngelo, unadorned by makeup, her hair pulled back into one of those elastic things women wore, was undeniably one of the prettiest faces he’d seen in a long time, but Mitch was not admiring her. More than likely it was her demeanor rather than her youth that put him off. She wasn’t at all friendly, or even accommodating.

  He rested his hand on Sarah’s shoulder and spoke to Francesca. “Are you sure you don’t mind if I leave her with you until noon? I’d like to take my son to look at a house.”

  She waved her hand airily. “Not at all. I can’t imagine why you’d want to stay. You’d only be in the way.” Mitch stared at her in amazement. Rudeness was an attitude he didn’t tolerate easily and he was sure he’d never experienced anyone as rude as this young woman with her lovely face and her razor-sharp tongue. Interestingly, she seemed oblivious to her offensive behavior. He hoped it wouldn’t rub off on Sarah. One teenager with attitude was enough. He hugged his daughter briefly. “I’ll be back in two hours, honey. Have fun.”

  She barely acknowledged his departure, completely focused on the red horse, Fairy Light.

  Mitch made his way up the path from the barn, across the circular driveway to the back of the house. Against his better judgment, he’d left Drew with Julianne while he walked Sarah to the stables. Julianne had insisted. He only hoped his son hadn’t destroyed all possibility of friendship between the two families, especially since they would, more than likely, be neighbors. He knocked on the door, waited a minute and walked in. “Hello,” he said. “I’m back.”

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Julianne called out.

  He found them sitting on stools in front of the large island, Julianne on one side, Drew on the other. She held a pencil poised over a pad of paper. A glass of water and four plates, each with a fork and a piece of cake, sat in front of the boy. Two of the pieces had already been sampled.

  “I’m thinking about accepting a regular client, a local hotel,” Julianne said. “They want two cakes a week.”

  “That clarifies everything,” said Mitch, completely baffled. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.

  Julianne laughed.

  Once again, Mitch wanted to do whatever he had done to make her laugh again.

  “Drew is helping me decide which cake should be a standard every week and which I should alternate,” she explained.

  “It sounds like quite a responsibility,” Mitch replied. “I hope he’s up to the task.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, I’m sure he is. Who better than a teenage boy?” She smiled at Drew. “Well? Which one will it be?”

  Drew swallowed the last of his bites and thought a minute. “The chocolate-mocha,” he pronounced.

  Mitch laughed. “Why am I surprised?”

  Julianne nodded, completely serious. “Okay. Why the chocolate?”

  The boy’s forehead wrinkled. “Well, chocolate is a popular flavor. Most people like it for any occasion. Plus, you’ll always be able to find the stuff it takes to make a chocolate cake. I like the strawberry-cream and the lemon-blueberry, too, but fruit is seasonal, isn’t it?”

  Julianne smiled. “I never thought of that. Fruit isn’t exactly seasonal here in California, but it’s hard to find sweet berries in winter without paying more than I want to. It would also raise the price of the cakes. You’re absolutely right, Drew. Chocolate will be my standard and I’ll alternate the others depending on the season. I knew you’d be the one to ask the minute I saw you.”

  Drew grinned. “You would have figured it out, but maybe not for a while. My reward will be a piece of cake anytime I want.”

  To Mitch’s delight, Julianne laughed again. “You’re on,” she said.

  Mitch couldn’t believe it. His surly, difficult son was actually communicating and doing it with charm and intelligence. The woman was a witch, a good witch. Once again he didn’t want to leave this warm, sunlit kitchen with its wonderful smells and copper pots and sweeping views of burlap hills. Most of all he didn’t want to leave Julianne. Her contagious laugh and the knack she had for saying just the right thing to make a teenage boy feel important was balm to his spirits.

  Reluctantly, he left his hostess and drove north with his son.

  Mitch had looked at a number of houses since his first visit to the valley two months ago, but none had satisfied him. He couldn�
��t have put into words what he was looking for. It was an ideal, not easily described, but he knew he would recognize it when he found it. Without a great deal of enthusiasm he negotiated the twisting road into the hills, shaded by giant oaks and peeling eucalyptus, crossing the stone bridge with the creek below.

  When he first set eyes on the house, he rubbed his eyes, blinked and rubbed them again. Then, with pounding heart, he pulled into the courtyard and climbed out of the car to explore.

  The rambling structure was perfect, more than he’d hoped to find, an old Spanish hacienda with tile floors, original moldings, oddly shaped bedrooms and old- fashioned windows. It was a house with charm, a house for raising a family.

  The real estate agent had given him a map, confident that no sale would occur, that this would be a morning wasted. Wealthy, confident businessmen from the city who owned property in Tiburon would not be interested in a ramshackle stone house surrounded by leaning oak and eucalyptus, enclosing a courtyard wild with red bougainvillea, a defunct winery on one side and a mountain on the other. He had no idea that Mitchell Gillette would walk up the creaking stairs, rest his eyes on the shrouded furniture, finger the faded drapes covering the long windows, explore the spidery, bat-filled caves of the winery dug into the mountain and feel a tug, a definite pull from a bygone age. He didn’t know that Mitch’s dream was to grow grapes, the kind of grapes that would not survive anywhere but in the hot days and cold misty nights of perpendicular mountains, grapes that would produce a Pinot Noir unlike any other in the world.

  Drew was less than impressed. At first he’d refused to leave the car, but when his father didn’t return after thirty minutes, boredom overcame his desire to prove a point. He climbed out of the car and walked through the copse of eucalyptus, under the canopy of oak toward the gurgle of a stream. He would never be happy away from the city. Tiburon, where his father lived, was a barely acceptable alternative, a ferry’s ride across the bay from everything familiar, everything he wanted back again.

  His dragging feet disturbed the dry soil. The dusty nimbus rose into the air around his face. He sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. It was hot and dry, nothing like San Francisco, and he’d worn the wrong clothes. The idea of starting school in this place was an unimaginable horror he couldn’t think about, not without the dulling help of the weed that, lately, had become more than recreational.