by Pamela Aares
And maybe there was no explanation for how deep affection happened. Or love. She’d loved Tyler since before he was born and her mother since before she could remember. Her love for friends often sneaked up on her and then latched on and wouldn’t let go. One thing was for sure—she’d never settle for tepid love, convenient love, half-good love from a just-okay man. The passion she felt for Adrian had made that message come through clearly, hard as it was to admit.
If she wanted a good father figure for Tyler, she’d have to wait until she found a man as good as Adrian. She knew she couldn’t have him. Wished it weren’t true, but knew it deep down. Not only were their life circumstances poles apart—she had Tyler. They came as a package. And the reality was that few men wanted an instant family, especially a ten-year-old boy who’d soon be a teenager.
But she didn’t want to think about reality right now. She deserved a little joy vacation. And thinking about Adrian was just the ticket. Maybe number seventeen had led her to her destiny. It wasn’t a perfect destiny, but she was thankful for where she was at this moment and grateful for the joy and blessings she did have. And for her time with Adrian. Even if it couldn’t last.
“Those oats are going to sprout if you keep stirring them like that,” Debra said.
Natasha looked at the mash of oats and butter in the bowl.
“I was distracted,” she admitted.
“Mooning is more like it,” Debra said.
Mary stopped spooning mounds of batter onto the sheet in front of her and raised a brow.
“Mom! Help me with this tray, it’s—”
He dropped an entire tray of chocolate chip cookies. The cat sprang from the stool she’d been perched on and stole one before Mary could grab her.
“Hot.” Debra said.
Tyler looked like he was going to burst into tears.
Natasha scooped up the dozen cookies that had scattered on the floor and set them on the counter. “We’ll eat those. Mary keeps a spotless floor.” She tapped Tyler with the spatula and winked. “We were going to eat that many anyway, honey.”
“Best get back to work,” Debra said. “Fourteen dozen to go, young man.”
The next morning Tyler chattered all the way to the town hall where several tables had been set up for the bake sale. Each team of two boys had chosen a different location around town.
“Look, there’s Brandon and his mom.” He waved. “Her name’s Monica.”
Monica Exeter was busy directing a woman stacking the trays of cookies she was unloading from Monica’s car on the largest of the tables.
“I wanted to write a check for the blasted bleachers,” she said to the woman carting the trays. “And I wanted to hire a pastry chef to bake all these cookies Brandon committed us to. But oh no,” she said with a shake of her silky blond highlights. “Brandon wanted to bake them himself.”
“I like cooking, Mom,” Brandon said. He lined up a perfect row of cookies along a tray on the table.
“Last thing I want is a chef for a son,” Monica said to no one in particular.
“What does he want?” Natasha asked, unable to resist an effort at championing the boy Tyler was so fond of.
Monica looked at her for the first time. “To be a pitcher. Not going to happen. His father went to Oxford and he’s going to Oxford. They do not play baseball in England, thank God.”
Natasha’s heart sank for little Brandon.
A woman in a sleek linen suit came up to the table. She bought three dozen cookies. Tyler and Brandon treated her like she was the Queen of England. She unwrapped one of the trays and bit into a cookie.
“These are heavenly. Oatmeal and chocolate and—”
“Macadamia nuts,” Tyler chirped. “I baked them.” His smile warmed Natasha. It always did. He glanced at her. “Well, Mom helped. And Debra.” He pointed to Debra. “That’s Debra. She’s a real pastry chef.”
“Really?” the linen-clad woman said. “We need a pastry chef.” She extended her hand. “I’m Margaret Thomas. My husband and I just opened a restaurant in Petaluma. Nothing fancy. Want to come by and have a look?”
Debra looked like someone had hit her with a stun gun. Tyler elbowed her hard.
“Yes. Yes I would,” Debra said.
They sold all but one tray of cookies. Monica was busily adding up the totals. The last two customers had made donations in addition to their rather large purchases. They were shills, maybe, but the intention was right.
“Two hundred dollars short of our goal,” Monica practically moaned. “Now can I write a check?”
“We have one tray left,” Tyler piped up.
A woman came marching up the sidewalk as if someone had set her on fire.
“I am so sorry I’m late,” she said to Mary. Leaning down, she spoke to Tyler and Brandon. “Looks like you did really well today.”
Natasha knew from her tone that she didn’t know how to talk to children. She had an accent, but Natasha couldn’t place it. She clearly knew Mary. The assessing glance she shot at Natasha made heat crawl up her neck. Maybe she knew that Natasha and Tyler lived at Inspire. Maybe confidentiality wasn’t the carefully tended boundary Natasha had been led to believe. Mary probably talked about the shelter with her friends, just as everyone talked about their jobs and their passions.
“We’re two hundred dollars short of our goal,” Brandon said with a long face. “The other kids might beat us,” he said with a plaintive look toward his mother.
“Well, I just happen to need two hundred dollars’ worth of”—the woman picked up the last plate of cookies—“what kind of cookies are these?”
“Chocolate chip macadamia nut,” Tyler and Brandon chirped in unison.
“Exactly. And are you two baseball players?”
“He’s our pitcher,” Tyler said. “I play right field.”
“Well then, these invitations are for you. One of the local vineyards is sponsoring a pickup game. They could use a couple of additional players.” She leaned down again. “I have it on good authority that there will be at least two real live Major League players there,” she said conspiratorially. She handed Tyler and Brandon sheets of paper. Then she slipped three crisp hundred-dollar bills from her wallet and handed them to Natasha. “One extra. In case the math doesn’t turn out right.”
She flashed a dazzling smile that made both boys blush and headed back the way she had come.
“Who was that?” Monica asked.
Mary shrugged. “Oh, she’s active in the community. A philanthropist.”
Monica drew her brows together. “I thought I knew most of the local philanthropists.”
Natasha stared at the retreating woman. If they’d asked her, she would’ve said they’d had a visit from the Sugar Plum Fairy.
Chapter Nine
NATASHA SAT BACK ON HER HEELS AND admired her work. She’d put in two hundred onion starts that now marched in carefully irrigated rows down the sides and middle of the raised garden bed.
The gate creaked, and she looked up to see Tammy walk through it juggling three gallon-sized containers with plants sprouting out of them.
“These are for the pollinator garden,” she said as she set them down in the shade of the kitchen wall. “The rest of the plants will be delivered tomorrow. One of the crew will dig the holes for you next week.”
“I didn’t know we were putting in a new garden.”
“Whim of the owner,” Tammy said with a shrug. “Lots of the vintners around here are putting them in. Good for the grapes and all that.” She glanced at the plants. “It’ll be pretty. And I love butterflies.” She jerked her head toward the gate. “Want to come over and watch the polo game with me? It’s a women’s match.”
“I’ll have to catch the next one. I’m leaving a few minutes early.” She flashed a smile. “I’m going on a date this evening and need some time to get ready.”
“Brava,” Tammy said. “Where?”
“It’s a surprise. But my date said to wear a cockta
il dress.”
“Why can’t I find guys like that? I end up with the jeans-and-cowboy-boots dudes. Not that I don’t like a cowboy now and then, but a girl likes to dress up. They don’t get that. Do you have a great dress?”
Natasha nodded. “Pretty great. Simple. Black.”
“Black works anywhere.”
Mary had gone with Natasha to the thrift shop to help her pick out the dress. She’d been lucky. The black lace sheath they’d found at the back of one of the sale racks was lovely but not too over the top. And the four-dollar price tag was right. And for three dollars she’d found a pair of strappy heeled sandals, black with a little strip of rhinestones across the instep. Mary had loaned her a black wool wrap.
Tammy headed for the gate. “The polo match starts in ten minutes. I like the opening ceremonies for these official matches, all the anthems playing and such. The Haitian team is playing against the American team today. Although calling the team American is odd since two of the players are Italian and the horses are from Argentina. Go figure.”
Natasha toyed nervously with the shawl that Mary had loaned her. She felt ridiculously out of place sitting at an outdoor table at the Rock Wren Café in her fancy sandals and skimpy dress. A limo pulled up in front of the café, and Natasha gawked along with the rest of the evening customers. When Adrian stepped out of the long black car, she was sure they’d all see the flame of her hot blush as it crept up her cheeks.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “We’ll make up for it.”
He held the door for her, and she slipped across the smooth leather seat. All the way to the other side. She needed a minute to get her bearings; she’d never been in a limo.
He lifted a green bottle from a silver ice bucket. “Champagne?”
She might as well. “Yes, thank you.” When in Rome… The phrase taunted her as the bubbles tickled down her throat.
“You look absolutely beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you.” She wasn’t accustomed to compliments. “San Francisco is that way.” Natasha pointed when the limo driver made the wrong turn onto the freeway.
“I hope you don’t mind, but we’re going to see the Bolshoi ballet. In LA. We’ll be flying.”
“Flying?”
“You don’t have a fear of flying, do you?”
She didn’t want to admit she’d never been on a plane.
“No. But isn’t the airport that way too?”
“A friend of mine loaned me his jet. And his limo. And his pilot,” he added rather quickly, as if he feared she might be afraid of his flying skills.
“I have to work tomorrow,” she stammered, considering the implications of flying to LA. Did he mean for her to spend the night with him? She wasn’t ready for that. Might never be.
He laughed. “I’ll have you back here by midnight. Or by one in the morning at the latest.”
She refused a second glass of champagne but soon her jangling nerves had her wishing she hadn’t. They made small talk as the luxurious car cruised the country road. What either of them said hardly registered. When they reached the small airport, there was no red carpet like in the movie Pretty Woman, but there might as well have been for all the deference with which they were treated as they boarded the sleek white jet.
Adrian stopped to speak with the pilot and then came into the cabin and sat across from her.
Surrounded by plush leather and soft lighting, she felt like an angel who’d landed on a cloud.
But the man across from her? He did not in any way resemble an angel. His dark hair was brushed back from his face, and he was freshly shaved. The white collar of his shirt set off the swarthy tone of his skin, making him look mysterious and dangerous. And the tuxedo he wore looked like it had been stitched onto him. He wore the formal attire as though he was entirely comfortable in it. As if he didn’t even notice the fancy clothes. And maybe he didn’t.
He reached across the space between them, and she tensed. But he only grinned and said, “Seat belt.” He lifted the end of the belt and handed it to her.
“Mr. Ellison sent this,” a uniformed flight attendant said as she handed Adrian a bottle of wine with a note dangling from its neck. Natasha watched as he unfolded the note. He laughed.
“Lars is up to his old tricks. He’s challenged me. He bets that this wine is better than any I’ve ever had or made.”
Information. Slowly their stories were leaking through the rules of the game. Adrian was a vintner. There were so many around, it made sense. But evidently he was a very wealthy vintner. Or he had very wealthy friends.
Even though Adrian had said he’d borrowed the limo, the plane and the pilot, Natasha was pretty sure he was wealthier than she’d first suspected. And it began to dawn on her why he wanted to keep his identity a secret. He didn’t want to be liked for only his money, just as she didn’t want to be judged for her lack of it. She was touched that he was willing to risk exposing himself to give her a great night out.
But the reality of his wealth made the gap between them yawn wider. She suddenly felt like a mermaid who knew she couldn’t reside in his world and was certain he wouldn’t want to live in hers. Why couldn’t she have met a nice middle-class Californian? Adrian was probably about to take off for his next destination—Monte Carlo or Ibiza or Fiji or wherever really rich people liked to hang out in the spring—and all she’d have were the memories of the few days she’d spent with him.
It would have to be enough. He’d helped her find her footing, even if he hadn’t known how much he was helping her at the time.
And tonight she could enjoy the waters she swam in. Mary was watching Tyler and knew she’d be home late. Adrian had warned her sufficiently about that, at least.
The attendant returned with two glasses of champagne. Natasha took the delicate crystal glass and sipped.
“Can I bring you a magazine?” the attendant asked. “I won’t be serving the meal until we’re in the air.”
Natasha shook her head. “No, but thank you.” She wasn’t going to miss one minute of looking out the window.
The engines revved and the plane took off down the runway. The speed pressed her back into her seat, pinning her with a force she hadn’t expected.
She looked over at Adrian. He was watching her with an expression she couldn’t read. She leaned forward to peer out the window. The plane lifted, climbed, and soon the hills and mountains, vineyards and town spread out like pieces of a puzzle below.
“There’s Mount Saint Helena,” he said, leaning forward to point.
Impossible to miss, the jagged ridge stuck out higher than any peak on the horizon.
“It was once a volcano,” he added. “It’s on the Ring of Fire. Mount Shasta and Mount Lassen are too.” He patted the bottle of wine in the seat next to him. “The volcanic influence is why such great wines can be made in this area.”
“I still feel bad about keeping you from making it to the top of the mountain.”
“There were many other pleasures in that day,” he said. “Maybe next time we’ll make it all the way up.”
Next time. She doubted there’d be a next time. Although she’d loved the time they’d spent together, at her core she was a realist. The outrageous charade she was playing would come to an end. He’d continue on with his life, and she’d pursue hers. But as she pasted on her most courageous smile, she knew that she’d already let him into her heart.
The pilot banked the plane and the city of San Francisco came into view. The evening light splashed across the buildings, making it appear like a magical land that popped up out of a child’s storybook. The sparkling waters of the bay and the vast ocean beyond the Golden Gate Bridge hugged a green-blue cushion around the city like a cloud.
“It’s a beautiful city,” Adrian said. “Right there with Paris and Rome. I think it’s the most European of American cities.”
She wouldn’t know.
“Yes,” she answered.
She leaned closer to the window and w
atched as the city receded below them and green hills with roads snaking between them took its place. She glanced out the window at the other side of the plane and spied the sun sinking slowly into the vast waters of the Pacific Ocean.
“I came to California on a whim,” she said. “I had no idea how beautiful it was. I mean, I’d seen photos and seen footage in movies, but nothing captured the reality of this.”
He smiled, and the warmth of his expression curled an unspeakable delight into her.
She’d grieve when they parted. But she’d always treasure the memories of the times they’d spent together. She could pull them from her cache of thoughts and let them warm her in the loneliest nights.
Another limo met them on the runway in LA. She didn’t ask if this one was also borrowed, and he didn’t volunteer any information.
The Bolshoi. She was going to see the Bolshoi. Her mother would’ve loved to have been there. When they pulled up in front of the festively lit theater and Natasha saw the poster for the evening’s program, she imagined her mother not only watching the ballet in the beautiful theater but also dancing in it.
“Swan Lake,” Natasha said as Adrian offered his hand to help her from the limo. “It’s one of my favorites. My mother danced the lead several times.”
He tugged her shawl up over her shoulder. “It’s a favorite of mine as well. Your mother must have been a very talented ballerina.”
“I believe she was.” At least she was in Natasha’s memories, and that was good enough for her.
Adrian offered his arm, and they ascended the marble stairs. In Sonoma her dress had felt too dressy, but once they were inside the theater, the parade of fashionable women and tuxedoed men made her feel nearly drab.
An older woman in a sparkling gown with a train—a train—made her way toward them.
“Mr. Tavonesi,” the woman said, offering her hand to Adrian. “We are all so grateful for the gift your family gave to support this production. We couldn’t have brought the Bolshoi here without your help.”