Michael's Father (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Melinda Curtis

  Michael lowered his head to the table with a small “Oh.”

  Blake’s heart tore a little. Clearly, Michael didn’t want to go now that he knew he’d be alone with Blake. The stairway door slid open. Blake’s heartbeat accelerated. He straightened. Maria lumbered into the room and closed the door behind her.

  Blake slumped against the counter.

  “Miss Cori is taking a shower. I’m going back upstairs to sit with Mrs. Sinclair,” Maria announced, making a beeline for her coffee cup.

  Blake hid his disappointment behind a determined smile, shut away the image of Cori in the shower and turned his attention to the matter at hand. His son. The only weapon he held in his arsenal was bribery. And he wasn’t above using it.

  “Well.” Blake closed the pantry door. “Let’s take Jen to school, and on the way we’ll swing through someplace quick for breakfast.”

  “Cool.” Jen popped out of her chair. “I hope you’re hanging around a while, Mikey. Breakfast is usually cereal and granola bars when you’re not here.”

  Michael smiled happily, scooting off his chair and following Jen to the door, ignoring Blake completely.

  “MIKE, CAN I TALK TO YOU? Man to man?” Blake and Michael sat at a table in McDonald’s. Blake nursed his coffee while Michael devoured his pancakes and sausage. In the end, it had taken them so long to decide what to have for breakfast that Jen had no time to even drive through a fast-food restaurant before class started. Rather than complain, she’d pulled a granola bar from her backpack and disappeared into the throng of junior high school students with a smile and a wave.

  “Sure,” Michael said, his mouth full of pancake.

  Blake resisted smiling at the endearing sight or pointing out it wasn’t polite to speak with your mouth full. “You have a lot of friends here, don’t you.”

  The boy nodded, spearing another drippy forkful. “Jennifer’s my friend. And her boyfriend, too.”

  Since when did Jen have a boyfriend? Curiosity almost beat out Blake’s purpose, but he stayed focused on the task at hand—winning over his son. “How about Luke?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Grandma Sophia?”

  “Kind of. She’s sick.”

  “Who else?” Blake hoped he numbered among Michael’s friends, and waited to hear him say it.

  Michael chewed thoughtfully. “Big Grandpa,” he finally offered. “We talk about stuff and he lets me play on his computer after dinner.”

  Coffee churned in Blake’s stomach as envy reared its ugly head. Even tough, old Mr. Messina had found his way into the kid’s heart. He kept his voice light and easy. “You like that, do you?”

  Michael bobbed his head and slurped his milk.

  “Anybody else?” Blake stared into his coffee cup, expecting the worst.

  “You,” he added a little sheepishly. “Sometimes.”

  Blake blew out a breath of relief. Thank heavens Michael was so honest and sensitive. Another kid may not have admitted as much. “Your mom and I are friends.”

  Michael’s head bowed. He pushed his pancake piece around the plate, mopping up syrup, before lifting doubtful eyes to Blake. “Are you sure you and Mommy are friends? You fight a lot.”

  It was Blake’s turn to look away. When he was hurt, he’d behaved badly, venting his pain on Cori. Forcing himself to meet his son’s gaze squarely, he answered, “We used to be best friends when she was in school. Have you ever fought with your friends?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “It’s hard to get along after you argue with someone, isn’t it?” Pride had kept him from calling Cori right after she left, even though he’d missed her like hell. When Cori hadn’t called after a few weeks, Blake’s mind had created several unpleasant scenarios, all of which ended with his heart broken. So he hadn’t called. He’d followed the path of least resistance instead of putting his heart on the line one more time. And look at what he’d lost.

  “You have to say you’re sorry,” Michael said solemnly, understanding dawning in those bright brown eyes.

  Blake nodded. That was exactly what he planned to do.

  “And mean it,” Michael added.

  “I’m going to say sorry, I promise. I’ll make sure I say it right, because I’ve missed being your mom’s best friend.” Blake swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. “I wanted you to know that your mom loves you an awful lot, more than anything. Nobody, not even a friend like me, could make her love you any less.”

  “I know how you can be better friends.” Michael stabbed his last large bite of pancake, stuffing it into his mouth with his fork upside down.

  “How?”

  Michael removed the plastic fork with flourish, sucking it hard to get every last drop of syrup. He tossed it on the plate, licked his lips and leveled Blake with a stern look. “Don’t make her cry.”

  CORI TOOK ADVANTAGE of Luke’s presence and the sunny afternoon to take a walk with Michael out in the vineyard. The air was just warm enough to be comfortable in the sun, with a light breeze that ruffled Michael’s soft brown hair. Her little angel needed some exercise to shake his sillies out, in order to prevent another of his little accidents.

  Cori led Michael down a row of the vineyard that trailed from the house up to the main road. The plump buds that held new growth were just starting to open on the vine.

  “Do you see this, Michael?” she asked, pointing to a small leaf that was partially unfurled. “This round piece is called a bud and it’s breaking open, see? Soon it’ll grow into a leaf.”

  Michael squinted his eyes up at the cane tied to the trellis nearly two feet above him. “I can’t see.”

  Cori lifted him to her hip and pointed to the leaf again. She’d always wanted to share her love of the vineyard with her little boy. His shoes bumped the edge of her khaki walking shorts, undoubtedly leaving dirt tracks, but she didn’t care. They wouldn’t be here much longer. And then they’d be back in the city and their little apartment.

  “This time of year is called bud break because it’s warm enough for the buds to open and start growing. In a few weeks, these vines will be covered with leaves and, soon after that, clusters of tiny grapes.”

  “I like grapes,” Michael said solemnly, lightly fingering the bud.

  Out of habit, Cori tested the tension of the trellis wire, satisfied when it didn’t give to the pressure of her fingers. Grapevines needed lots of support.

  Michael mimicked her and tugged on the wire.

  “Gently,” she cautioned. Weathered wires had been known to snap with whiplike speed, carving scars into vines, earth and flesh that was unlucky enough to be in the way. These wires were gray, without any noticeable rust, but Cori wasn’t taking any chances. As a field manager, one of Blake’s jobs was to make sure the trellises were sturdy enough to support the clingy vines and heavy clusters of fruit later in the year. It was clear that Blake took good care of the vineyard.

  She set Michael back on the ground and they continued walking up the row toward the road. She’d seen workers transplanting new stock at the corner of the drive the other morning and she wanted to see them herself. She loved acquainting herself with the vines. It made her feel a part of the land, a part of her family’s winery.

  “Stretching your legs?” Blake asked from a few rows over and behind them. He towered above the winter vines, his burgundy T-shirt taut across his broad chest. The sun caught the red highlights in his hair, almost making it seem on fire.

  Startled, Cori stood as still as the vines around her and looked at him. Words about her day, about things she wanted to share with him backed up in her throat until her pride took over and she realized she had nothing to say to Blake Austin. Cori looked away, toward her son.

  Michael crouched next to a grapevine and peered at it with interest. As Cori watched, he grabbed on to the slender trunk of a grapevine and shook the plant.

  “Michael, don’t do that,” Blake rebuked firmly, before Cori had even opened her mouth to reprimand him s
imilarly.

  Michael hopped back a few steps, his eyes on Blake, his lips trembling.

  Blake ducked under several trellises until he was in the row with them. Instead of lambasting Michael for tampering with the vines in his care, Blake knelt down by a grapevine halfway between Cori and Michael, resting a knee on the dark earth.

  “This is a delicate plant. We just transplanted it a few days ago.” Blake ran his hand gently up the thin trunk, then back down. “These vines are just babies, only four years old. As old as you, right?”

  Michael nodded.

  From where she stood, Cori could see the swirling pattern of brown hair on top of Blake’s head. “You’re a strong enough boy that you could almost break one, and that would kill it.” Blake looked into his son’s eyes earnestly. “You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”

  Michael shook his head and gave a mumbled “Sorry,” before trodding away from them toward the road. His sneakers kicked the dirt, but it seemed to Cori he did so more because he was disappointed in himself than because he was hurt by Blake’s reproach.

  “You have a way with Michael,” Cori said. “Not everyone would have explained it to him in a way he’d understand.”

  Blake stood with his back to her, watching Michael walk away. Cori’s heart lurched painfully. He’d be a good father if she gave him a chance. Yet, how could she when he thought so poorly of her? They stood for a few moments in silence.

  “I’m sorry about last night.” Without turning, he looked over his shoulder at her, then glanced up the row toward their son. His gray eyes turned to her again and swallowed. “Don’t give up on me yet, okay?”

  Cori managed to nod, her throat clogged with hope. She hadn’t expected an apology. Blake smiled grimly, then started walking toward Michael. After a moment, Cori followed.

  Farther down the row, Michael started leap-frogging with an enthusiasm only a four-year-old could muster.

  “What are you doing, Peanut?” Cori asked, her heart gladdened at the sight of him having such a good time, before she realized she’d used her father’s nickname for her.

  “I’m a hopper, like that one.” Michael didn’t miss a hop, but pointed to one side, to a grapevine.

  “Hopper?” Blake’s voice was filled with apprehension.

  Cori stopped midstride, but Blake charged forward. The grape growers referred to grasshoppers as hoppers, the most deadly of which to grapevines was the glassy-winged sharpshooter, or the B-52 Bomber as some had started calling it. The large grasshopper worked like a mosquito when it came to spreading Pierce’s Disease to plants. There was no defense. Once infested, the vines were doomed to die from dehydration. Several wineries in the Central Coast region of California had fallen into bankruptcy because of Pierce’s Disease.

  “Where did you see the hopper?” Blake kept his voice even as he stopped near where Michael had pointed, where Michael had started imitating the bug.

  “Over there.” Michael continued to hop away from Blake.

  Cori didn’t think she could hide her panic if she spoke. If Michael was right, if he had spotted a sharpshooter and it carried the infectious disease, the winery wouldn’t survive. Never in her wildest dreams had Cori imagined her family’s business could fail. Even when Luke had told her Messina Vineyards was in trouble financially, Cori knew her grandfather would find a way to go on. But how could he push on if the vineyards were destroyed?

  Cori hurried to catch up to Blake.

  “Does he know what one looks like?” Blake asked without sparing her a glance. He was crouched down on the ground looking carefully at the underside of the vine where a grasshopper could easily chew on the woody cane or lay eggs.

  Cori nodded, searching the ground for any signs of a large grayish-brown grasshopper. “He’s fascinated with bugs.” Michael could tell a ladybug from a beetle and a black ant from a red ant. His fascination with bugs made Cori believe her son had seen a hopper. Apprehensively, she scanned the trunks of the vines, not wanting to believe the worst. If there was a hopper, if it was infected, the vines would die within two years. Even if they yanked out the diseased vines, it would take four years for new rootstock to mature into productivity. This section of the vineyard had been grafted, using existing rootstock to increase disease resistance and accelerate productivity.

  “That doesn’t mean anything. It could have been a plain old, everyday grasshopper.” Blake continued to examine the vines.

  “These vines were just grafted.” Cori stated the obvious.

  “I know.” Blake’s voice seemed strained.

  Despite all vines being inspected before planting, most of the spread of the sharpshooter was through new vines grown in the warmer climate in Southern California. Unfortunately, the sharpshooter was more prevalent down south, where they laid eggs on new grape stock. The small eggs were sometimes missed during the agriculture inspection of shipping, and hatched in the warmth of the truck or under the mild spring sunshine—just as the vines were planted or grafted in the vineyards. It was Blake’s job to inspect the stock. Blake would take the blame if sharpshooters had infested the vineyard.

  “But this section’s not too close to the river.” Cori tried to sound optimistic. Sharpshooters liked areas close to the water, and the Russian River was on the other side of the house.

  “Close enough. If it didn’t come from the new grafts, it could have flown over.” One of the characteristics of the sharpshooter that made it so threatening to agricultural crops was its relatively large wings, which could carry it farther than other pests.

  “Michael, honey,” Cori called, her voice tight. “Come back and show us where you saw the hopper.”

  Michael hopped from side to side and then turned back toward them.

  Blake and Cori silently kept up their search. The spring air that had previously seemed so light, now seemed laden with sorrow. A school bus pulled into the driveway. Neither Blake nor Cori paid it much attention.

  “They look the same,” Michael said, looking first at one grapevine and then at another.

  “What color was the hopper?” Cori asked.

  “Blue?” Michael drew out the word uncertainly.

  Cori pointed at the dirt, trying to control the panic that threatened to well up inside of her. Her family’s livelihood was at stake. “Brown like this? Or blue like this?” Cori pointed at Blake’s blue jeans.

  “Brown,” Michael said with finality, looking at the dirt. “It was a sharpshooter. I’ve seen pictures.”

  “What did Mikey lose now?” Jennifer bent beneath trellises to reach them.

  Cori bristled at the teen’s nickname for Michael, but before she had a chance to formulate a reply, Blake spoke. “Slow down, Jen. Look for a hopper.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Despite the disbelief in her tone, Jen slowed and began scanning the ground, her thin back bent. “Right? This is some kind of joke.”

  “I wish,” Blake muttered.

  “Did you see one?” she asked.

  “I did,” Michael piped up.

  Jen straightened. “Seriously? You have some sharp eyes, my man.” She swung her backpack to the ground and put up her hand to give Michael a high-five.

  Three things happened simultaneously. Michael pointed and shouted, “There!” Jennifer’s backpack knocked into a grapevine. And a large, brownish-gray grasshopper leapt right onto Jen’s face.

  Screaming, Jen flailed her hands and leaned back in surprised defense against the small insect. Her hand slapped it down to the ground and she stepped on it with a shiver of disgust.

  Cori and Blake scrambled over to see the crushed remains. Michael followed at a slower pace.

  “Tell me that’s not what it looks like,” Cori said, watching Blake poke the flattened bug with a stick. She’d only seen pictures in the newspaper and on the Internet.

  “Aw, you killed it,” Michael said sorrowfully, squatting next to the remains.

  Blake swore and flung the stick aside, giving Cori all the ans
wer she needed. Her heart sank.

  “Maybe it doesn’t have the virus,” Cori offered.

  “Yeah. Even if it does, it may not have nibbled on any of our vines,” Jen seconded.

  Blake shook his head. Cori could tell he’d already accepted the worst.

  “I’ve got to make some calls.” Blake straightened, avoiding Cori’s sympathetic gaze.

  She knew one of those calls was going to be to her grandfather.

  BLAKE STOOD WITH CORI at the secretary’s desk outside of Mr. Messina’s office at Messina Vineyards’ headquarters, wishing for a piece of chocolate. The administrative offices were housed in a large building that looked like it had been transplanted from Tuscany, Italy, with peach walls and bright blue shutters. A hospitality facility with a large tasting room, delicatessen and gift shop filled the first floor. The administrative offices were on the second floor.

  Blake had called several agencies on his way over to see Mr. Messina and left a crew going over the vineyards vine by vine. Blake should have stayed with the rest, but he felt he had to deliver the bad news in person. Maybe Blake was a glutton for punishment, but he couldn’t use the phone to tell the man who’d been so fair to him that his business was in danger.

  Blake didn’t know why Cori insisted on coming with him, but he was glad she did. She’d held his hand in the truck on the way over and touched his arm reassuringly every few minutes while they waited. Jen had been left in charge of Michael, and Maria in charge of Sophia.

  Cori spoke amicably with her grandfather’s secretary. Blake noticed Cori had the woman talking about herself, deftly deflecting any personal questions the secretary asked without seeming rude. Was that how easily she’d managed him four years ago? He didn’t think so.

  The secretary answered her telephone, then hung up and indicated they could go in.

  As Blake stepped inside, he was struck again by the darkness of Mr. Messina’s office. The walls were paneled in dark oak, the floor carpeted with a burgundy oriental rug. A breathtaking view of vineyards sweeping down to the Russian River was the only warmth in the room. And even that was framed in darkness—floor-to-ceiling, heavy burgundy drapes hung on either side of the window.