California Wishes

by Casey Dawes

  She smiled, her shoulders relaxing. “It’s an eclectic area.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  She pulled up next to the vineyard building and parked.

  As they walked up the steps to what Marcos supposed was the front door, he kept his eye on the stairs, which were uneven and cracked. The treads were sturdy, though. Perhaps looks could be deceiving in the mountains.

  Their knock was answered by a bellowed, “Come in!”

  Marcos pushed open the door and ushered Elizabeth up the stairs in front of him, admiring the curve of her bottom as she climbed to the upper floor. Inaudibly, he sighed. Somehow he had to break through her reserve. Not only did he want a deepening relationship with the woman, his physical desire for her grew daily.

  The aging office chair creaked as a large man in blue jeans, a green flannel shirt and suspenders rose from it. His handlebar mustache quivered with the grin that wreathed his face. “Welcome! I’m Henry!”

  Marcos hid his wince as Henry pumped his hand vigorously.

  “How nice to see you again, Elizabeth.” Henry enveloped her in a bear hug.

  “I didn’t realize you were selling, Henry,” Elizabeth said. She smiled at the older man and turned to Marcos. “Henry’s been around forever. Rumor has it he was found as a baby in a basket of vines.”

  Henry laughed a belly laugh.

  “Why are you selling?” she asked.

  His grin got wider. “I fell in love. She likes to travel. I’ve been here for thirty years. ’Bout time I moved on.” Henry’s sharp gaze fell on Marcos. “And who’s your young man?”

  “He’s not — ”

  “Marcos Gamari. I’m thinking of buying a California vineyard.”

  “Not enough vineyards in Italy? Or you want to have vineyards all over the world?”

  Marcos shrugged. “I think it could be a smart move. Different regions, different grapes. Or the same grapes with subtle nuances due to climate.” He wasn’t sure what to make of the man. He blustered like a country hick, but his eyes were sharp and Marcos suspected he didn’t miss much.

  “Ah … the search for the elusive terroir.” Henry settled back into his chair and gestured toward a brown couch against the wall. “Have a seat. Lumpy,” he added when Elizabeth looked at the couch and back at him. “But sturdy.”

  Gingerly, Elizabeth and Marcos sat down. The legs of the couch held, but the cushions sagged, tilting them both toward the center. Marcos almost laughed out loud when he noticed Elizabeth efforts to sit up straight and keep a distance between them.

  “This is the best area for Pinot Noir in the mountains,” Henry said. “Bought it in the 70s. I was going to give it a pass, but then I came back up here at sunset with a bottle of the best Burgundy France had to offer. By the time the sun settled into the ocean, the land and I were one. It took me ten years to learn how to farm it and another twenty to learn how to make decent wine.”

  Marcos relaxed. Henry was a man who’d had a dream, like he did. They both understood that the cost of making wine wasn’t the money you put into land, grapes and equipment, the true investment was your life. Only marriage required the same commitment. Many people failed at both.

  “Let me show you the facility.” Henry rose and the chair protested again.

  Marcos stood and gave Elizabeth a hand and the same electric charge went through his fingers. She looked up at him wide-eyed, with a tremulous smile.

  He followed Henry into the low-ceilinged, webby and musty cellar, guiding Elizabeth behind him. Dust-covered bottles lay on hand-made wine racks.

  “I have five bottles from every year I’ve been doing this.” Henry chuckled. “Some of them I’d have to be desperate to drink.”

  Henry pointed out the gravity-fed fermentation tanks and talked about his winemaking methods: traditional and labor-intensive. No wonder the man needed a break.

  “Can we take a look at the vineyard?” Marcos asked.

  “Sure.” Henry led the way from the cellar darkness to the bright light of California sun. They climbed the short, but steep, path to the vineyard. The air was redolent with the heavy sweetness of ripened grapes. Crows protested the netting on the vines.

  Marcos knelt to examine the trunks and leaves.

  “It’s about thirty years old,” Henry said. “Not as vigorous as it was, but I swear the fruit gets sweeter every year. I have to watch or the sugar will get too high.”

  Marcos studied the grafts of the vines onto rootstock and the texture of the leaves. He held one of the grapes and looked up at Henry. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  Marcos plucked the grape and squished it between his fingers, which took some effort, since the grape was like a hard little berry. The seeds were light brown and the runoff of juice was minimal, but rich. He licked his fingers and his mouth exploded with potential textures of flavor.

  He stood and brushed his fingers off on his jeans.

  “Good, isn’t it?” Henry asked. “Be ready for harvest in a week or two.”

  Marcos nodded. He stared at the redwood-covered hills rolling to the ocean. This was it. He could feel it in his bones.

  “How much are you asking?”

  Henry told him. The price was fair.

  “I’ll discuss it with the agent.”

  The men shook hands.

  “You’ll both be happy here,” Henry said.

  “We’re not … ” Elizabeth began.

  “Uh-huh,” Henry turned and led the way back down toward the winery. “Glass of wine anyone?”

  • • •

  “Let’s go to dinner in Carmel,” Elizabeth said as they drove down the driveway of Henry’s winery. “It seems like the right place to celebrate the owner of a new vineyard.”

  Marcos laughed. “I have not even put an offer in on the place. I have to call the realtor and get the process started. Because I am an Italian, the paper work will be brutal. Will you drop me off at my hotel and I can do some work? Then I can pick you up in my car and we can go to Carmel.”

  “I don’t mind driving, really.”

  Maybe it was time to push a little harder. “I think you do mind giving up control.”

  Elizabeth pursed her lips. “No. It’s just that I know the roads better.”

  “Cara. Let me drive. Allow me the privilege of taking care of you a little bit.”

  Her teeth dug into her lower lip.

  He needed to pry the tiniest bit of her armor loose. He was tempted to add more pleas, but allowed the silence to linger instead.

  “Okay.” It was a small whisper.

  He touched her hand. “No harm will come.”

  He’d do everything in his power to make sure it didn’t.

  • • •

  Marcos snapped his cell phone closed. Only the vision of the vineyard would keep him going though this deal. The realtor had been more difficult over the phone than she’d been in person. He shook his head. He never understood why people were uncooperative when they were going to be making a lot of money.

  Ah, well. He shrugged. He had another woman to consider.

  He picked up his brown dress jacket and left the room.

  About ten minutes later, he stood in front of Elizabeth’s door. As he raised his hand to knock, it opened. Framed in the entryway, she looked like a womanly version of the season — a vision in a fall-colored dress with an accent of red.

  “Beautiful, cara.”

  She blushed.

  He held out his hand. “Shall we go?”

  She slipped her hand in his, the warmth of it spreading up his arm on a direct route to his heart.

  He smiled and led her down the path to his dark black rental car. In a few minutes they were speeding south on Highway One.

  “T
his is a much more civilized road than your Highway Seventeen,” he said.

  “Yes,” she murmured and then stared out the window. Low-lying fields of strawberries and artichokes whirled past.

  “Do you know Marilyn Monroe was queen of the Castroville artichoke parade?” she asked abruptly.

  “No, I didn’t.” He fell silent. Soon they passed by power plant smokestacks towering over clanking fishing boats in the harbor. Seagulls whirled in the sky while prehistoric-looking pelicans lined the pilings. Egrets patrolled the marshes.

  “It is a beautiful place to live,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to leave.”

  He glanced at Elizabeth. She was staring out the window. “I don’t,” she said quietly.

  And there was the problem. Why would she want to take up with a world-traveler who spent far too much of his life on airplanes when she had the beauty of the bay?

  He took a deep breath. Time to change the subject. “I talked with the realtor.”

  “And … ” Elizabeth turned her attention back to him.

  “She’ll email the papers I need to review and sign.” He frowned. “She is not easy to do business with. I don’t think she’s ever dealt with a purchase from out of the country.”

  “Oh, don’t let her fool you. Plenty of people from other places come to work in Silicon Valley and buy houses in Saratoga.”

  “Then perhaps she hasn’t sold a vineyard. Or … ” he paused. “She doesn’t like Italians.”

  “Oh, you’re probably right,” Elizabeth’s voice lightened. “She probably had a long, sordid affair with an Italian who dumped her for an elderly, but wealthy, woman from Milan.”

  He glanced over at Elizabeth. A broad grin was wreathing her face. He smiled. “Ah you are … what do they say … pulling my leg.” He became serious again. “So, this realtor, she is bereft and impossible because she is sad about her Italian.”

  “And the baby.”

  “The baby?”

  “Oh, yes, she had a baby she had to give up because she didn’t have the time to raise it, being a realtor and all … ”

  “So very sad … ” The absurdity of the conversation finally got to him and he started laughing … a huge belly laugh that brought tears to his eyes. He wiped them away to bring the highway back into view.

  At his side, Elizabeth was doubled over with silent laughter. He caught a glimpse of tears running down her face.

  “It is good to laugh,” he choked out. “Thank you, Elizabeth, I needed that.” And I need someone like you in my life.

  The thought startled him. He glanced at the woman beside him. She was getting under his skin. But picking someone who was a homebody in California would only lead to more heartache, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t they simply enjoy the fun?

  They could, but he suspected it wouldn’t be enough. For either of them.

  He turned right at the Ocean Street light and drove down the hill to Carmel. The fall day had retained its warmth and people were strolling the sidewalks.

  “Secret summer,” Elizabeth said. “Did you make a reservation for dinner?”

  “Fortunately, yes. I have been to Carmel before and know it is very crowded on weekends. I see I should also have made a reservation for a parking place.”

  They spotted it at the same time. “There!” Elizabeth pointed at the sleek Mercedes with its backup lights shining while Marcos put on his blinker for the spot. Moments later, they’d joined the throngs walking up and down the main street.

  Marcos glanced at his watch. “We have a half hour before our reservation. Would you like to walk, perhaps look at galleries?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “May I?” He held out his hand.

  She placed hers in his, the heat from her palm warming him against foggy tendrils that had begun to drift in from the ocean at the bottom of the street.

  Marcos was relieved that discussions of artwork and luxury products allowed them to chat without having to confront anything of real substance. The muscles in his shoulders eased and his jaw relaxed. Elizabeth exclaimed over several of the art pieces and he longed to plunk down his credit card and buy them for her. Instead, he picked up several gallery business cards to take home to his daughter.

  At the appointed time, he steered them to a small Mediterranean restaurant. “I’m told this is the best in the town,” he whispered to Elizabeth as they waited to be seated in the densely packed room. “It reminds me of Italian restaurants — small, crowded and good.”

  The owner, a tall, skinny man with a hawk-like nose sat them at a small table in the middle of the room. In spite of the crush of people, they were still able to speak. He looked around at the painted murals, woven scarves and shelves of Etruscan pottery that lined the walls. Someone had thought of acoustics.

  Once they’d ordered, moussaka for him, seafood Alfredo for her, awkwardness returned to the conversation. If he brought up her fear of romance, would she think he was pushing too hard? And why was it so important to him. He didn’t have anything to offer her except a crazy schedule and a dream. Women wanted security — his ex-wife had proved that.

  “Tell me about your marriage,” Elizabeth startled him by asking. “What went wrong?”

  Nothing like having the tables turned on him. He shrugged and took a sip of his wine to delay the answer. Finally, he shrugged. “What always happens. We drifted apart. She found someone else. It was over.”

  “Somehow I think it was more than that.”

  He looked up into her dark brown eyes. She was staring steadily at him and he knew he was not going to get away with a glib answer. He sighed and put down his wine glass.

  “We were happy at first. At least I thought so. What I didn’t know, what she kept hidden for years, was that I was, what do you call it … a return relationship?”

  “I think you mean rebound.”

  He nodded. “Yes, that was it.”

  The waiter placed large steaming plates in front of them.

  “So much food!” Marcos stared at the pile in front of him.

  “Lunch leftovers for sure,” she said.

  “For you. I must leave early in the morning for my flight.”

  Her face softened. He sensed her sadness; it matched his own.

  “Everything is good?” The tall proprietor clapped his hand on Marcos’ shoulder.

  “Uh … yes … yes … ”

  “Good. Enjoy your meal.”

  Elizabeth glanced at him with merriment in her eyes, picked up her fork and began to eat. Marcos did the same. The food was amazing. Silence took a third seat at the table, friendly at first, but straining after a few minutes.

  “Rebound from who?” Elizabeth asked.

  No, she wasn’t going to forget.

  “My best friend.”

  “Oh.”

  He positioned his fork beside his unused knife. “Shortly after my daughter Gina was born, they apparently took up with each other again. They kept their affair discreet for years — I had no idea. They must have tired of the secrecy — it was obvious they wanted to be found when I walked in on them.”

  “How horrible for you.”

  “Yes.” Time had dulled the pain, but not the memory.

  She stabbed a piece of shrimp and placed it into her mouth. Curious. It was his pain, but she was reacting.

  He regarded her for a few moments as she continued to eat. His story had affected her more the few others he had told. “Why are you afraid of romance?” he asked.

  She twirled the linguine, using a spoon in the Italian style. Long after the pasta was safely lodged on her fork, she kept spinning her utensil.

  He caught the shine of tears in her eyes.

  “I can’t talk about it right now,” she said and plopped the pasta in her mouth. />
  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth stared at the pile of flour and salt on the island in the middle of her kitchen. After she studied the directions again, she made a deep hole in the top of the pile. She took a deep breath, cracked the egg with the back of her butter knife and eased the egg white and yolk into the hole. Good! Her concoction looked like the picture in her recipe book.

  Marcos had been gone a week. She’d managed to end the night without any disastrous entanglements. In fact, once she’d told him she didn’t want to discuss her past love life, he’d taken a step back, as if remembering his promise not to make her do anything she didn’t want to do. The end of the evening had been pleasant, but unromantic.

  She knew keeping a distance between them was for the best, even if it left a small hole in her heart. Their lives were diametrically opposed. He was going to be flying around the world making wine and she had a product line to launch. In her spare time, she could master making ravioli. That was all the Italian she needed.

  She forced her attention back to the mess in front of her. Picking up a fork, she began to scramble the egg, pulling in a little flour at a time. Soon the counter, hands and arms were covered with a gooey mess. Some had even made it to her face.

  Then a miracle occurred. The dough began to come together and assume a shape.

  If only her life would attract the same miracle.

  She began to knead the dough … push, fold, turn … As she fell into the rhythm, her mind began to pick up the pieces of her time with Marcos. Truthfully, she’d enjoyed her time with him.

  Even when he was questioning her, she’d felt his concern. He wasn’t asking questions to gain control, like Bobby or Joe had. He was asking to understand.

  After Marcos’ revelation, it should have been so easy to tell Marcos about her husband’s infidelity.

  Elizabeth slammed her fist into the dough. Joe had been dead for almost as long as they’d been married, but Serena’s revelation about Joe’s betrayal had reopened the wound of his death. Fortunately, Alicia was proving to be a hard worker with a lively personality and didn’t remind her of Joe.

  Well, not too much.

  Maybe when Marcos came back she could have a little fling with him. Nothing serious. Nothing long term. She was facing enough risk with her business.