A Delicate Finish Read online

  “Is that a polite way of telling me to mind my own business?”

  “Not at all. But I’m hungry and my priority right now is edible pasta.”

  Mitch turned off the flame and forked the noodles into a strainer. Then he ran cold water over it.

  Julianne bit her tongue. It was his meal after all. Perhaps it would be better to retreat. “Shall I call the children?”

  “That would be helpful. Drew might even get to the table some time before dessert.”

  Ignoring his comment, she left the kitchen and walked upstairs. Experience told her that the twins would be in the room with the pounding bass drum. She didn’t bother to knock. The door was ajar and they wouldn’t hear her anyway. Instead, she stuck her head in and waved. They were positioned on opposite sides of the room. Drew lay stretched out on the bed, his eyes closed. Sarah sat in a beanbag chair near the window, her legs curled beneath her.

  Sarah saw her and smiled. She reached over and turned off the stereo. Drew’s eyes opened. Immediately he sat up, eyeing her nervously. Julianne looked from one to the other. They were very much alike, with the same long limbs, dark hair, fair skin and a mouth full of braces “It’s time for dinner,” Julianne said.

  “What are we having?”

  “Spaghetti,” said Julianne and Sarah in one breath.

  Drew groaned.

  Julianne’s forehead wrinkled. “I’ve never known anyone who didn’t like spaghetti.”

  “He makes it with meat sauce,” Drew explained. “I don’t eat meat.”

  “Do you like seafood?”

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “Such as in vegan or will you eat milk and eggs?”

  “Those are okay, as long as they’re in things,” he said.

  “So, my chocolate cake isn’t completely off your list.”

  He grinned reluctantly. “I guess not.”

  “Maybe you can eat around the meat,” Julianne suggested.

  Drew looked doubtful. “Did you bring a dessert?” he asked hopefully.

  “Drew!” Sarah looked shocked.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it,” said Julianne. “Next time.”

  “Right.” He slid off the bed and stood beside Sarah. “Next time. If there is one.”

  “If there isn’t, I’ll invite you to my house and we’ll eat it there,” she replied cheerfully.

  Mitch’s voice called from downstairs. “Hey, everybody, come and get it. Dinner is getting cold.”

  Julianne could see Drew stiffen. Impulsively, she slid one arm through his and another through Sarah’s. “Shall we?” she asked.

  The staircase was wide enough for the three of them. They descended together, Julianne keeping a firm hold on both their arms. She was very conscious of the look of surprise on Mitch’s face and wondered if he’d even thought to make physical contact with his children. “Do you think there might be any plain sauce left over?” she asked.

  He looked blank. “Plain?”

  “As in meatless.”

  “Why?”

  “Drew doesn’t eat meat.”

  Mitch looked at his son. “Since when?”

  “For about eight years now.”

  “Drew, that’s ridiculous,” his father protested. “I would have known.”

  They stared at each other, Drew, bored, defiant, and Mitch, embarrassed.

  Mitch rallied sooner. “If there isn’t enough sauce, I’ll find something else for you to eat. I apologize for my mistake.” He looked at Sarah. “What about you? Do you eat meat?”

  “Occasionally,” she said. “We eat more with you than we ever did before, but it’s not too bad.”

  Mitch looked helplessly at Julianne. “You’ve been here thirty minutes and already you know what apparently I should have known years ago.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Julianne advised. “You’re not the only one responsible for communicating. Can we bring anything to the table?”

  “Everything’s all set except for Drew’s meatless sauce.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” the boy said. “I don’t need sauce. Some salad and pasta will be fine.”

  Mitch frowned. “If you’re sure—”

  Julianne smiled brightly. “Well, that was easily solved.” She looked past him into the dining room. “Everything looks wonderful.”

  Sarah nodded. “It really does, and it smells nice, too.”

  “Shall we eat?” her father asked.

  The children, familiar with the routine, sat down on opposite ends of the table. Julianne took the chair across from Mitch. She looked admiringly at the linen napkins. “These are beautiful.”

  “They were my mother’s,” Sarah offered. “She used them on special occasions. I think she would have wanted you to see them.”

  “I’m flattered,” Julianne said softly. “Thank you.”

  Drew studied her carefully. “You kind of remind me of Mom,” he said suddenly, appealing to his sister. “Doesn’t she, Sarah?”

  “She’s nothing like Susan,” Mitch began.

  Sarah ignored her father, tilting her head to examine Julianne more closely. “She doesn’t look like Mom, but I think you’re right, Drew. She does remind me of her.”

  “She was great,” Drew explained.

  Julianne smiled. “I’m doubly honored. Thank you, again.”

  “She had this laugh,” Sarah chimed in, “that made everyone want to laugh, too, and she was a good cook. Not great, like you, but really good. Dinner was never a disappointment.”

  “She would sing in the morning and late at night. It was the first and last thing we heard, her voice singing to us. It was nice,” said Drew.

  “She liked really sharp pencils when she did the crossword puzzle on Sundays and she’d get mad if we didn’t do our best in school,” Sarah said.

  “Or anywhere,” added Drew.

  Sarah blinked rapidly. “It’s funny what we remember, isn’t it?”

  Julianne felt her eyelids bum. She wanted to gather these children into her arms and heal them. Willing herself not to cry, she spoke gently. “She sounds very special.”

  “Did you always do your best in school?” In spite of himself, Mitch was drawn into the conversation.

  “No,” Drew admitted, “but we knew she wanted us to.”

  Later, after coffee, Julianne stacked the dishes in the dishwasher while Mitch washed and dried the glasses. “You’re awfully quiet,” she said after a few minutes. “Is something wrong?”

  He dried his hands on a towel, hung it over the back of a chair and looked at her curiously. “Drew said more tonight at dinner than he has since his mother died. How did you manage it?”

  Julianne folded her arms. She wouldn’t pretend to misunderstand or put him off, but brutal honesty wasn’t the answer either. “I think you’re all so afraid of stepping on each other’s toes that you can’t be comfortable together,” she said softly. “I said what I wanted to say and asked the questions I wanted answered. The children responded, that’s all. Try not to be so careful of their feelings. Be less formal, more human,” she urged. “They miss their mother. They want to be comfortable, but it’s too soon. Give it time.”

  “Where did you get to be so wise?”

  “Experience. Besides, I’m getting another chance at it with Nick. It’s easier because I’m a grandmother this time. It removes me somewhat.”

  “No one would ever believe you’re a grandmother.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Thank you. I hoped you would say that.”

  He moved toward her. “Julianne—”

  She stepped back, widening the distance between them. “I think I should be going now. It’s late and the roads are dark. Thanks for a wonderful evening. I really enjoyed it.”

  “Can we do it again?”

  “Of course.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll let you know,” she promised.

  He nodded, apparently satisfied.

  She hoped he would wait on th
e porch or at the door rather than walk her to her car. She had no experience with first-date farewells and she didn’t want to spoil the evening.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, sprinting up the stairs. He returned with Sarah and Drew. “They wanted to say goodbye.”

  Pleased with his tact, she shook hands with them all and walked out to her car alone.

  She drove home with the window rolled down, grateful for the cool air on her face. The Gillette family was a mess, as dysfunctional as Jake and Francesca, but Julianne didn’t think they were completely hopeless. The children were in pain, and Mitch... Mitch was not quite inept as a parent, but he came close. She was curious to see how it would all turn out.

  Ten

  At first Francesca thought she was dreaming, but when she heard the roar of falling masonry and collapsing beams, the tearing cracks of splitting trees, the shrieking of the fire alarm and the shrill, musical shattering of glass, followed by a rolling dip and rise like that of a ship caught in a stormy sea, she knew immediately that she was not.

  Throwing the covers aside, she jumped out of bed and raced out of her room and down the hall toward Nick’s bedroom. On the way she pounded on her mother-in-law’s door. Concentrating on her errand, she kept her voice low and calm. “Wake up, Julianne. Earthquake!”

  Jake called from the bottom of the stairs. “Is everyone all right up there, Francie?”

  She clung to the railing, fighting for balance on the rolling floor. “Yes, except for some broken glass. I’ll get Nick.”

  Julianne ran out of her room. “My God! This one’s strong. Everything is on the floor. Where’s Nick? What time is it?”

  “Around four, I think.” Francesca opened her son’s door. He was sitting up in bed, his eyes wide with excitement. “Is it an earthquake?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Yes.” She grabbed his shoes. “C’mon. We’re going downstairs.”

  He nodded and reached for her outstretched hand. “My teacher said we should stay inside. She said it’s safer in the house.”

  Francesca reassured him. “We’ll just go outside for a while until the shaking stops.” She wanted to be as far away from the power lines as possible.

  He bumped against her. “It’s hard to walk, isn’t it?”

  Julianne waited on the landing. “The shaking isn’t as strong. I don’t think the stairs will be a problem.”

  “Hold on anyway,” Francesca cautioned.

  Gripping Nick’s hand tightly, she followed Julianne down the stairs and out into the center of the courtyard. The porch listed, an upstairs balcony sagged in the middle and she saw that several windows had broken in the bunkhouse. Other than that, there appeared to be no other structural damage.

  Jake, carrying a flashlight, a cell phone and a battery-operated radio, joined them.

  “Hi, Dad,” said Nick. “We’re having an earthquake.”

  Jake grinned. “Not anymore, son. The shaking is over.” He appeared calm and steady in the artificial light of the torch.

  Francesca was reassured just looking at him. “I’m assuming our power’s gone,” she said.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “I didn’t want to turn anything on yet. After things have settled for a bit, I’ll go see if the clocks are affected.”

  “I’ve got to check the winery.”

  “Cyril and Danny will have already gone.”

  “Thank God we don’t have any grapes in the press,” she said. “Have you heard anything about the epicenter?”

  “The radio stations are reporting that Palmdale is the hardest hit. No one has any numbers yet.”

  “Palmdale?” Julianne’s lips were pale. “If we feel it like this all the way up here, it must have been a very strong quake.”

  “It’s too soon to tell. Relax, Mom. We’ve had earthquakes before. As far as I can see, there hasn’t been any serious damage.”

  Headlights flared in the driveway. Collectively, they turned to look. A vineyard Jeep bearing the DeAngelo name pulled into the courtyard and a stocky, dark-complexioned man climbed out. Cyril addressed Francesca. “Other than some bottles, no damage to report at the winery. A few windows shattered and the old fireplace lost its bricks, but that’s all. It looks like we pulled this one off, Frances.”

  She sighed and laughed shakily. “I guess that means we can all go back inside.”

  Julianne pressed her fingers against her eyelids. “It’s time to get up anyway.”

  “No.” Francesca shook her head. “We’re all entitled to a little more sleep. I’ve got to test the sugar content of the grapes. It can’t wait any longer. After that, I’ll take a nap, too.”

  “Get some sleep. I’ll test them,” Jake volunteered. “If they’re ready to be harvested, I’ll set it up.”

  Francesca colored. “I’d intended to ask you to test them, but you don’t need to do any more than that.”

  “I don’t mind earning my keep.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered, turning away. She didn’t want to accept more than she absolutely had to from Jake. “C’mon, Nick. Let’s get a few more hours of sleep.”

  “But I’m not tired anymore,” he argued.

  “Lie down anyway. If you don’t fall asleep you can get up.”

  “Can I sleep with you?”

  “If you promise not to kick.”

  Francesca pulled the covers around her sleeping son, kissed his forehead and headed downstairs. Julianne was cleaning up the kitchen. The refrigerator had tipped forward and everything not bolted to the walls was on the floor. It was a mess of broken pottery and utensils.

  “Oh, Lord,” Francesca groaned. “Did you lose anything important?”

  “Not enough to put me seriously behind,” replied Julianne. “Thank God, I didn’t start the food for the Merriman’s party last night.”

  “Do you need help, Julianne?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about me. You have enough to think about. I think the front pillar cracked down the middle and the support beam is sagging. We’ll have to replace that immediately.”

  “I’ll look at it after I check the Pinot Noir vines. Nick’s sleeping. I’m going to let him rest for as long as he needs.”

  Julianne settled a bag of trash on her hip and nodded at the coffeemaker. “Take some coffee with you. It’s fresh.”

  Francesca poured the remaining coffee into her thermos, added milk and sugar and walked out onto the porch. The temperature was warmer than usual and a dense fog had settled over the hills. It made no sense to drive in weather like this. Unzipping her jacket, she slung the thermos strap over her shoulder and started toward the vineyard. She could barely see three feet ahead, but it didn’t matter. She could have walked the path in her sleep. The smell of ripening fruit hung in the air. Her feet sank into the loamy soil, the soles of her shoes leaving deep tread marks. Surely the grapes were ready.

  She knew immediately when she reached the Pinot Noir vines. The tiny, velvety grape clusters glistened in the morning mist. Kneeling at the base of a vine, Francesca pulled several grapes from a cluster and tasted them. They were incredibly sweet. She spit the seeds into her palm. They were dark, the mark of phenolically ripe fruit.

  Strong arms gripped her from behind. “I thought you were going to sleep the morning away,” Jake said.

  Francesca relaxed. “I tried, but I was nervous. I’ve got a lot riding on these vines.” She eased away from him. “So, what do you think? Are they ready?”

  “Yes,” he said emphatically. “You can harvest as early as tomorrow if you can get the crew.”

  “I’ll get them,” she said fiercely, “no matter what it takes.”

  He brushed an errant leaf from her shoulder. “C’mon, Francie. Life doesn’t always have to be so intense.”

  For a minute he thought she would respond. Her mouth quivered and there was a brightness to her eyes. Mustering his courage, he took a step closer.

  Like a startled deer, she flung herself back into the trellis,
the distress on her face unmistakable. Holding both hands up in the air, he spoke softly. “Relax, Francie. Nothing’s happening here.”

  She thrust the thermos at him. “Your mother sent coffee.”

  He watched her walk away, determination in every purposeful stride. “You’re welcome,” he shouted after her.

  “I owe you,” she called back.

  He grinned and shook his head. Francesca was a woman with a mission. He was quite sure he’d never seen anyone as driven in his life. At least she wasn’t asking him when he was leaving. Still, she was a long way from wanting him back. His smile faded. Maybe she never would.

  True to her word, the very next morning, a predawn crew arrived at the vineyard. Francesca was a fanatic about early-morning harvests. Hot grapes meant spontaneous fermentation and volatile acidity, which negatively impacted the flavor of the wine. Heat eliminated the cold-soak phase, when the native yeasts present in the must began the fermentation process.

  Frank DeAngelo had set the standard for a working vineyard years before. Everyone worked, every member of the family, including the owners and their children. From the time she was strong enough to pull a cluster from its vine, Francesca was in the vineyard with the migrant workers and their children. It was a precedent she saw no need to deviate from. No one was exempt, except for Julianne, who provided hot coffee and egg burritos first thing in the morning, cinnamon rolls and more coffee three hours later, and finally, after the grapes were loaded into bins and driven to the crush platform, sandwiches, fruit and lemonade for lunch.

  Even Nick, at eight years old, was proficient enough to catch three to four clusters in his hand before placing them in the picking bucket. After the buckets were filled with twenty pounds of fruit, three to five minutes for a good picker, they were dumped into the thousand-pound picking bins towed behind the tractor. Because Francesca insisted on an early-morning harvest, the grapes were still cold by the time they reached the crush platform at the winery.

  Jake’s job had always been to oversee the bin dumping. Without thinking or asking, he assumed his old position, watching critically, as grapes were slowly and carefully dumped into the crusher-destemmer where the berries and juice, after separation from the stems, dropped into a fermenter. Almost immediately the pinkish hue of the juice began soaking up the color from the skins.