He was unable to move, his will suspended under the massage of her hands, the lave of her tongue, the wet heat of her mouth. He lay still, absorbing the richness of her skin, the pulsing in her throat, the strands of her hair swimming into his mouth, tickling the back of his throat. She moved against him and over him, the gauzy floating material no longer between them. He felt the throb of his blood, the call of her rhythms. His body rose to meet her, and then, she would leave.
He would wake instantly, his body wet and heaving, a mess on the sheets, an ache in his chest. If only he could keep her there, long enough to tell her he wanted it all, much more than this. If she would stay, he would make her understand the wanting. If only he could move and speak in her presence.
He heard the click of the door. He stared at the ceiling. Soon, in less than a minute, she would be with him. Inside him the wanting roared. It was too much to hide, or pretend otherwise. He turned and watched her walk toward him with an extra-slow moving grace. Their eyes met.
She stood by the bed looking down at him. Her long fall of hair hung over her bare shoulder. She wore something shimmery and short, not white at all. Her legs were shapely and brown all the way up.
This time he found his voice. “You came.”
She nodded, and when she spoke he realized this was no dream. She was real and she was here.
She nodded. “Your mother said I should.”
Perhaps he would live after all. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I know.”
He picked up her hand and pressed his mouth to her palm. He felt her tremble, saw her close her eyes, lean her head back, exposing the long, lovely line of her throat. He filled his hands with her hair and pulled her down beside him. Then he looked at her, at the bones at the base of her neck, the scoop of her nose, the blades of her cheeks, the smooth line of her forehead, the small, perfect breasts, all the parts of her that had the power to send him over the edge.
Incredibly, she spoke. “I want you to kiss me. That’s what I missed the most, the way you kiss. The way your lips fit my mouth.”
He laughed exultantly and then he began, softly at first, gently, until his control broke and the part of him that didn’t think beyond the now reared up, hard and dangerous and desperate. He hadn’t had a woman in a long time and the only one he wanted, Francie, his friend, his love, his wife, was here and willing, wanting him.
He murmured against her throat. “Ride with me.”
She said something, but Jake was beyond hearing. For the first time in two years, he felt a woman’s flesh close around him and he came inside her, explosively.
Minutes passed. Maybe he dozed. He opened his eyes. She leaned on one elbow, her eyes dark on his face. “Do it again,” she whispered.
And he did, and then once again.
When he woke it was still night, but she’d gone. The only evidence she left was the soreness between his legs and the sheets, stained from what they’d done together.
The smile started somewhere in his middle and made its way to his mouth. It wasn’t a done deal, but it was a start, a very good start.
Twenty
Francesca tied the laces of her shoes, tucked her blouse into her jeans, grabbed her hat and sunglasses and ran down the stairs. She heard Julianne in the kitchen with Nick, smelled the sweet, cinnamon smell of her apple pancakes, heard the soothing tones of her voice in conversation with her grandson, but decided against stopping. She couldn’t face Julianne just now. She couldn’t face anyone. Time was what she needed. Time and peace and a place to think.
The vines in their dormant stage called to her. She stopped at the shed to pick up her pruning shears, threw everything into the Jeep and set off over the hills toward the Chardonnay acres at the southern end of the vineyard. The dirt road narrowed near her destination. Parking the Jeep, she grabbed the shears, climbed out, tied the wide-brimmed hat under her chin, pulled on her gloves, hiked into the rows and bent over the woody canes.
The buds, sensors of light, temperature and humidity were fleshy, red-colored, thorny. She attacked them with a vengeance, working carefully, cutting away all but two twenty-four-inch canes per vine, using year-old wood the way her father had taught her. Then she tied them down with wire and paper twists. In spring, the buds would break, producing a shoot tip that wrapped a tendril around the upper wires before shooting up in a vertical direction, seeking the sun. These two tendrils would fill out to a veritable wall of foliage with pounds of fruit hanging from the bottom sections.
In order to produce superior grapes with intense varietal characteristics, sixty to ninety percent of DeAngelo’s dormant canes would be pruned, reducing the yield by over half and allowing the clusters to hang long enough to develop complex flavors. It was a backbreaking job requiring the hiring of outside labor for two weeks in late fall.
Several hours later, despite the chilly air, she was soaked with perspiration. Her shoulders ached, she was thirsty and she still hadn’t resolved Jake’s place in her life. The bottom line was, Francesca wasn’t a risk taker. She wanted guarantees, and even if Jake gave her his solemn word, she knew it meant nothing if at some point in the future they weren’t right together. Not that she wanted someone to stay with her because of a promise. But she wanted him to say he would anyway. She wanted him to think, here and now, he would never leave again. They didn’t speak of the two years he’d lived in Napa. She didn’t know if there had been anyone else. All at once it became very important that she know.
Her water bottle was in the car. Removing her gloves, Francesca wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and started walking through the even rows toward the Jeep.
A late-model SUV was parked behind it and a man stepped out. At first she didn’t recognize Mitch Gillette behind the dark glasses and baseball cap. “Hello,” she said surprised.
He walked toward her. “Julianne thought you might be here. I took a chance.”
She reached into the Jeep for water, unscrewed the cap and drank deeply. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a grape question.”
She kept her eyes on his face. “Are you asking as a local vintner or as the vice president of GGI?”
“Local vintner,” he said, immediately.
She smiled. “It must be an important question.”
“I didn’t want to wait.”
“Fire away.”
“I’m interested in planting dormant vines.”
She nodded.
“How do I do it?”
Her eyebrows rose. “You’re kidding, Mitch. Tell me where to start.”
“From the beginning.”
“You can’t possibly expect me to go over the entire process of planting dormant vines while we stand here on the hillside. There’s more to it than can be explained in a single afternoon. Besides, you can hire people to plant them for you.”
“They’re already planted, but they’re not taking root,” he said grimly. “I want to know why.”
She folded her arms against her chest and leaned back against the Jeep. “First I need to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you asking me ? We’re not exactly the best of friends.”
“Because your family has been good to mine. Because I don’t think it’s me you object to, not personally. No matter what our differences are, I believe you’ll give me an honest answer.”
Francesca chewed her lip. “All right. Fair enough, but only because I’m flattered. Let’s start at the beginning. What kind of rootstock are you using?”
“American 5C”.
“That’s good,” she said approvingly. “What about scion wood?”
“Dijon 76.”
“Still good. Your soil should be loose at the bottom with no compaction on the sides.”
He nodded, listening intently.
“Snipping the root ends guarantees vigorous root tissue at the top. When you drop the vine into the hole, the roots should be spread out, then covered
with loose soil and tapped down.”
“I’ve done all that.”
“Are your vines close to the stake and your graft union a few inches from the ground?”
“Yes, to both of those.”
“What’s the soil like?”
“What do you mean?”
“That could be the problem. I’ll show you.” She gestured toward the Jeep. “You can ride with me.”
Francesca climbed into the vehicle and waited for Mitch to settle himself beside her.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I’ve lost vines, too. I want to show you the ones still in the ground and see if we’re talking about the same problem.”
“If you’re referring to the crack in the dam and an excess of water, it isn’t that. My soil isn’t wet.”
“It doesn’t have to be. The water may have already receded. New vines need optimal conditions. If chemicals or an excess of minerals have leached into the fields, the balance might be off.”
The Syrah vines were located along the eastern border of the vineyard, in the bosom of two hills. Francesca killed the engine and pointed to the valley. “That’s where the damage is. Come and look.”
Mitch followed her. She dropped to her knees beside a row of gray, wilted vines and pulled lightly on the trunk. It came out easily. “Normally, when vines come out this way, I’d say it’s due to rodents, phylloxera or nematodes. But not this time.” She held the root close to his face. “These haven’t been nibbled. This is root failure due to chemical damage.” She dropped the root and dusted her hands on her pants. “What do you think? Does any of this look familiar to you?”
“I think you’re damn smart, Francesca DeAngelo,” he said slowly. “And, yes, these roots look like mine.”
“We’re in good company. Every vineyard in the valley has it, too, some more than others.” She looked around. “Thank goodness we can stand the loss. Syrah doesn’t account for a large portion of our harvest.”
His mouth went tight. “I can’t say the same for me. I’m only interested in Pinot Noir. I was counting on the new vines. It sets me back a year, at least.”
Francesca stood. She was tall enough that their eyes were nearly on a level. “The winery isn’t your livelihood, Mitch,” she reminded him gently. “You have another job. Others are in a much more difficult position. I’d say you have bigger fish to fry.”
“I assume you’re referring to Drew.”
She nodded. “Julianne told me. Is there anything I can do?”
“Thank you, no,” he said briefly.
“Is he home?”
Mitch nodded. “He’ll appear before a judge in three weeks.”
She changed the subject. “How is Sarah holding up?”
He looked surprised. “She’s fine. Nothing’s wrong with Sarah.”
“You aren’t finding her more irritable, sensitive, more emotional?” Francesca probed.
“No.”
“Good.” She was surprised that he hadn’t told her to mind her own business. “Shall I drive you back to your car?”
“Thanks.”
The ride back was silent. Behind the dark glasses, Mitch’s eyes were focused on something outside the windshield. Francesca left him alone.
“I hope I helped,” she said before dropping him off.
“Yes, thank you.” Mitch hesitated. “Sarah likes you.”
“I like her, too,” Francesca said warmly. “Very much.”
“She hasn’t made many friends.”
“Give her time. She’s personable.”
“She’s also very busy.”
Francesca smiled. “It’s a very good thing for a teenager to be busy.”
He opened the door and climbed out of the car. Keeping his arms on the edge of the window, he leaned in. “I know this is an imposition, Francesca, but maybe you could spend some time with her.”
“I’d love to.”
“I’m not doing a very good job in the raising-my-children department.”
All at once she realized that Mitchell Gillette was quite likable. Despite his arrogance and his GGI affiliation, he was a good man, not afraid to ask questions or to admit when he was wrong. “Sometimes even the best of intentions go wrong. Ask Julianne about her daughter Kinley Rose. She was a wild child. I don’t think drugs were a problem, but she certainly was defiant. Julianne managed her all alone, too. Carl was gone by then.”
“She never mentioned anything to me.”
Francesca nodded. “Julianne is a private person. Don’t give up.”
Mitch grinned. “I don’t intend to. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Jake drove into the courtyard at the same time she did. Anticipating their first meeting after the night before, Francesca had prepared for it, talking to herself on the way home, perfecting just the right air-light tone, the pleasant, neutral smile, commanding by sheer will the telltale color to disappear from her neck and cheeks.
They met at the porch stairs. Playfully, he tugged her braid. “How are you?” he asked softly.
Calling up what she hoped was a convincing smile, she answered him. “Fine, thanks. I’ve been pruning Syrah vines.”
His eyes moved over her face, lingering on her mouth. Despite her intentions, Francesca blushed.
He looked away. “I have a business proposition for you.”
“Can we talk about it over lunch?”
“Sounds good. I’m hoping to interest my mother as well.”
She followed him into the kitchen. Julianne had already set their places and was dishing out healthy portions of ginger-carrot soup. Fat Reuben sandwiches, stuffed with corned beef, sauerkraut and Swiss cheese, dripping with her secret sauce, sat on a serving plate in the middle of the table. There was milk for Francesca and lemonade for Jake.
Julianne needed no reminders of who preferred what when it came to food. She never failed to remember that Jake drank his coffee black and unflavored, while Francesca liked whole milk, not cream, and coffee that was flavored with cinnamon, pecan or hazelnut. Both loved mushrooms, but Jake preferred his raw while Francesca wouldn’t eat them unless they were sautéed in butter and garlic. Francesca drank milk with her meals. Jake hadn’t touched a glass of milk since he was fifteen years old.
Jake rubbed his hands together. “The food looks great, Mom.”
She smiled at him. “Thanks. Wash your hands and sit down. I don’t want the soup to get cold.”
They sat together at the end of the long wooden table that fed a dozen or more men around pruning and harvest seasons. No one spoke for several minutes, savoring the meal, the warmth and the combination of unusual spices.
“I don’t know if I ever appreciated this growing up,” Jake said.
“You didn’t.” His mother sent him a fond glance.
“I didn’t either,” admitted Francesca, “until I went to someone else’s house for dinner. The food was never as good.”
“Amen,” Jake said reverently.
Francesca swallowed the last of her sandwich. “Are you going to tell us about this business proposition?”
“I want to buy Soledad Vineyard.”
Both pairs of eyes, brown and blue, stared at him.
“Can you afford it?” Francesca asked.
“Not without help. That’s where you and Mom come in.”
“Jake, Soledad is worth millions,” his mother protested. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“You have collateral.”
Francesca’s heart was in her throat. “You want me to put up the winery.”
He nodded.
“The answer is no,” she said shortly. “I won’t risk Nick’s inheritance.”
“Hear me out, Francie.”
“I don’t need to. I’m not changing my mind.”
Julianne’s cool blue eyes darkened. “I’m not saying it’s a good idea, Frances, but it doesn’t hurt to listen. I helped you when you needed it.”
Francesca bit her lip. Julianne had
a point.
“I’ve looked at the books and the numbers,” Jake went on. “With the three of us going in together, we can swing it.”
“Would we be equal partners?” Julianne asked.
“Yes.”
Francesca frowned. “Where’s your share coming from?”
“I have stock options I can cash in from Napa as well as some real estate that’s appreciated. My dad left money that I invested and I’ve saved every penny for the last two years. I don’t need much capital from either of you for a down payment. All I need is DeAngelo Winery on paper. I’ve already talked to Marvin Roach at the bank. We can do it without the vineyard or the house.”
“I have money, Jake,” his mother said slowly. “You don’t have to tap yourself completely.”
“Who will work the vineyard?” asked Francesca.
“Gene and Kate, with my help.”
“They aren’t doing a very good job right now,” she reminded him.
“They bought at a bad time and expanded too soon. We can remedy that.” He looked at Francesca. “What do you say, Francie?”
She felt herself wavering. It sounded as if Jake had done his homework. “I want to see the books before I decide anything.”
“That isn’t a problem.” He turned to Julianne, his excitement barely contained. “What about you, Mom?”
“I’d like you to have something that’s yours.” She avoided Francesca’s eyes. “Your father never did. I think he would approve. But, first, I agree with Frances.
I’d like to have a professional check the books and figure out where the Cappiellos made their mistakes.”
Jake appeared lit from within. He pushed himself away from the table. “I’ll get on it right away.”
Francesca exhaled. She’d been temporarily reprieved, but not for long. She knew Jake. He wouldn’t allow them to pretend last night never happened.
Twenty-One
A Delicate Finish Page 19