A Delicate Finish Page 3

  His timing was perfect. She’d been at an all-time low, with her father’s death barely behind her and a mountain of debt she’d known nothing about, all because Frank DeAngelo never believed Francesca was up to the task of running a vineyard and winery. She knew how to grow grapes, thanks to Carl Harris, but the day-to-day operation of the vineyard was unfamiliar territory. She had to learn on her own, which meant late hours and enough frustration to drive anyone insane. Jake never understood the pressure she was under. Sometimes, she was too exhausted to try and explain it to him, but most of all, she didn’t want to burden him. He’d been attracted to her because she was smart and competent. She wanted to live up to his expectations. In the end, her reluctance to confide in him backfired.

  She sighed. There was no point in dwelling on lost causes. It only made her miserable all over again.

  As the highway opened, Francesca relaxed, caught up in the subtle colors of the landscape, butterscotch hills, golden savannah grasses, olive trees, yellow mustard, majestic white oaks, darkly crowned, their twisted limbs a canopy for birds, horses, cattle and an occasional hiker, all part of the giant watershed bound by the San Rafael and Santa Ynez Mountains rolling to the sea beneath a blister-blue sky. This was California, the real California, originally inhabited by native Chumash, explored by Catholic monks, settled by Spanish nobles and Mexican patriots, exploited by Americans seeking gold and finally, planted and tilled by waves of immigrants from every third world country on the planet, among them the DeAngelos, her own ancestors. Francesca found it laughable that legislators in Sacramento routinely tried to curb the flow of illegals into California. Most elected officials weren’t more than two generations away from their own illegal-immigrant roots.

  The sun-kissed hill country revived her spirits just as the river brought life to the valley, depositing fertile sediment from the mountains, nourishing America’s breadbasket, a land rich as Eden. A single red-tailed hawk circled overhead and settled on a telephone pole. A swaybacked horse munched dry grass behind a white, split-rail fence. The two-lane highway stretched ahead, curving smoothly, effortlessly, under the tires of her Jeep Cherokee. The township of Santa Inez, renamed the Spanish Ynez, founded in 1882, lay just ahead.

  Francesca crossed the city limits and eased up on the gas pedal. She was a fan of old TV westerns, Gunsmoke and Rawhide, and the town never failed to thrill her. Along the boardwalk and old-fashioned storefront facades, fine bistros and chic California eateries nestled inconspicuously among barbecue and steak restaurants. The town’s flower shop and museum, crafts galleries, lovely eighteenth-century mission, homey Main Street with parking at a diagonal and fledgling backyard wineries were all within an hour’s drive from the ocean. Santa Ynez had a bit of everything for everyone. Francesca was born and raised in this valley. Except for a brief stint at the University of California at Davis, her entire experience was the rich farmland sandwiched between two mountain ranges. She had good cause to be biased. In her opinion, the Santa Ynez Valley had it over Santa Barbara by a long shot. It wasn’t nearly as crowded. Housing was affordable. People were friendlier and it was every bit as beautiful.

  She turned down Edison Street and maneuvered the Jeep into an empty parking spot near the Santa Barbara Bank and Trust. Checking her hair and makeup, she repaired the damage to her cheeks, applied more lipstick, pasted a smile on her face and mentally rehearsed the speech that would convince Marvin Roach that she needed yet another loan to tide her over until her grapes were harvested.

  “You don’t have an appointment, Francesca,” the bank manager’s secretary informed her.

  “I know that, Millie. My spray rig’s jammed. I need another one or mold will set in on the vines. This is an emergency.”

  The woman fluttered her lashes, thick with mascara. “It pays to save for a rainy day.”

  Francesca smiled sweetly. “Please tell Marvin I’m here. Why don’t we let him decide if he has a spare minute or two.”

  Millie Robbins shrugged and picked up the phone. “Francesca Harris is here to see you, Mr. Roach. I told her you were booked today but she—”

  Two spots of color appeared on the woman’s cheeks. “I see,” she said briefly. “I’ll tell her.” Carefully, she replaced the phone. Then she opened the top drawer of her desk and spent several minutes arranging the contents. Finally, she looked up and met Francesca’s amused glance. “He’s just about ready to go for lunch. He wants to know if you’re free.”

  “I’m free.” Francesca hitched the strap of her purse over her shoulder and walked toward his office. “I’ll tell him myself.”

  Knocking briefly, she opened the door of Marvin’s office without waiting for an invitation. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed against her chest.

  Marvin, a large, unkempt, middle-aged gentleman with merry eyes and a head of iron-gray hair, had a mind that belied his careless appearance. He grinned at her and pulled on his coat. “I was thinking of Los Olivos. Is that okay with you?”

  “I never subsidize the competition. Besides, I have to get back. What about the diner?”

  Marvin looked disappointed. “I don’t know how you can live with Julianne’s cooking every day and then make do with food from the diner.”

  “I don’t think about it,” Francesca replied, “and I’m not very hungry.”

  He took her arm and ushered her out of the office, nodding at Millie Robbins. “Hold my calls, Millie. I’ll be back in an hour and my cell phone will be turned off.”

  Millie sniffed audibly but she said nothing.

  “I’m assuming this isn’t a social call,” Marvin said to Francesca, “but let’s wait until we order before I hear the details.”

  “Why don’t you fire your secretary?” Francesca asked. “She scares everyone away.”

  Again, Marvin grinned. “That’s the point. Only hardened borrowers like yourself aren’t intimidated.” He pushed opened the door of the Red Barn Inn and led Francesca to a booth by the window.

  “I thought the whole point of a bank,” she said, sliding in across from him, “was to finance people’s loans, collect interest and invest money. What kind of businessman scares away his investors?”

  He laughed. “Don’t take this wrong, Francie, but you’re hardly the type of client a bank profits from. Millie smiles at the right people.”

  “That’s insulting. My family has been doing business with your bank for years.”

  He drained his water glass. “I know. That’s the reason I put up with you. Decide what you want and then we’ll talk.”

  Francesca’s dark eyes narrowed. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Admit it. You put up with me because of Julianne.”

  Marvin nodded. “I won’t deny it.”

  “Give it up, Marvin. She’s not going to bite. If she hasn’t already, she never will.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  Francesca sighed and smiled at the waitress who’d appeared at their table. “Hi, Shirley. I’ll have the chicken salad and an iced tea.”

  “You got it, honey.” She smiled at Marvin. “What’ll you have, Marv?”

  “Pot roast with mashed potatoes, apple pie and coffee.”

  “Too high on the cholesterol,” she said flatly. “I’ll bring you a grilled chicken breast with vegetables, and if it’s gotta be coffee, you’ll have decaf. It’ll be here in a jiffy.”

  Marvin groaned. “All I eat anymore is chicken, vegetables and egg whites.”

  Francesca laughed. “I don’t believe it. If that were true you’d be a hundred pounds lighter.”

  “Are you suggesting that I’m fat?” He looked offended.

  “I’m suggesting that you should be grateful you have friends who care whether you live or die.”

  He sighed. “All right. What’s this about, Francie?”

  “My spray rig’s jammed. The last time it happened, Herb told me not to bother bringing it in again. It’s twenty years old. I need a new one and I
need it fast.”

  “You’re already in quite a bit of debt,” he reminded her. “I don’t know if I can get any more money for you past the committee.”

  “You know I’m good for it. The harvest will pay my debt and then some.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “How?” she demanded.

  “GGI is here. Several wineries have folded. There’s no guarantee that yours won’t go the same way. We have to protect our interests.”

  “I’ll never sell the vineyard, Marvin. It’s been in my family for more than a hundred years.”

  He looked at her pityingly. “You may not have a choice, Francie. People depend on you. You have to think of Nick. If they make you a strong enough offer, I’d go for it.”

  Francesca’s stomach churned. She sipped her water. “If I sell the vineyard, all loans would automatically be paid, wouldn’t they?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about. You’ll be paid when I harvest the grapes or when I sell. Either way I’m covered.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Thirty thousand.”

  He frowned. “That’s a mighty expensive spray rig. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’re wedded to producing without pesticides. That’s bringing you three tons of grapes per acre. If you’d consider an alternative, you’d get twelve tons per acre. Your financial worries would be over.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He shook his head. “Why thirty thousand?”

  A tide of red rose in her cheeks. She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to come back for more later.”

  He nodded. “I’ll bring it to the committee.”

  “I’m in a time crunch, Marvin. If they approve, when do you think I can have the money?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  Relieved, Francesca leaned her head back against the vinyl of the booth. She knew that Marvin was the committee. If he agreed, they agreed with him. Her spray rig was a done deal. Now, if GGI would suddenly go bankrupt, and if Jake would disappear from the face of the earth, she would consider her life to be on the upswing.

  Three

  Mitchell Gillette flipped his cell phone shut, glanced at his watch and frowned. So far the day had been wasted. He hadn’t found a place to live nor had he found a horse that satisfied Sarah. Of course, nothing he did ever satisfied Sarah. He was beginning to think that short of resurrecting the girl’s mother, his late ex-wife, from the dead, whatever he suggested was doomed to failure.

  He looked across the table at his daughter. She was listlessly stirring her chocolate malt with a straw. At fifteen, Sarah was all arms and long legs and silver braces. She was also an impossible conversationalist. “Aren’t you hungry, Sarah?” he asked.

  She shrugged.

  “You can choose something else from the menu if you like.”

  “Won’t that be a waste of money? Mom was always worried about money.”

  Mitch gritted his teeth. There had been no reason for Susan Gillette to pinch pennies. Not only was his spousal and child support more than adequate, but she was an heiress in her own right. Wisely, he refrained from voicing his comments. “I’m more concerned that you eat something,” was all he said.

  “I never eat much.”

  That was obvious, but in the interests of preserving the peace, once again he refrained from commenting.

  “I miss Mom.”

  Immediately he was ashamed. She was fifteen years old and she had lost her mother less than a month ago. Under the circumstances, she was holding up quite well, better than Drew, her twin brother, who’d refused to accompany them on this expedition. His voice gentled. “I know you do, honey. I wish there was something more I could do.”

  She fixed her large blue eyes on his face. “I’m surprised you’ve taken us on. I didn’t think you would. I mean, you weren’t around all that much and you don’t seem too comfortable around kids.”

  He had to give her points for honesty. It was all too true. Mitch cleared his throat, again deciding to preserve the peace. At this rate he’d be a candidate for the Nobel Prize. “I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you and Drew.”

  She nodded, apparently satisfied. “Do we have any more appointments today?”

  “A lady just west of here has a horse for sale, a thoroughbred. Are you willing to look at one more?”

  Her eyes brightened. “If you are.”

  The last thing Mitch Gillette, vice president of Grape Growers Incorporated, wanted was to muck around in a horse stable, but he would have done a great deal worse to bring that look of interest to his daughter’s face. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Sarah followed him to the cash register where he took his place in line. A tall woman with striking bone structure stood in front of him holding a glass of water in her hand. She had taken a sip and was handing it to the waitress behind the counter when a small boy lost the helium balloon tied around his wrist. Without looking, he charged into her, knocking the glass out of her hand. It shattered on the tile floor, spraying glass fragments and water over Mitch’s shirt and the fly of his trousers.

  Francesca, waiting for Marvin to return from the rest room, turned quickly. “I’m terribly sorry,” she apologized to Mitch. “Are you all right?”

  Mitch removed a splinter of glass from his thumb and watched a bubble of blood form where it had lodged. His lips were thin and tight, but his voice was level, a testimonial to his years in the GGI boardroom. “No permanent damage.” He nodded at the boy, sobbing over the loss of his balloon, now hovering at the highest point on the ceiling. “I imagine he belongs to someone, although I don’t blame the person for not claiming him.” He dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the counter and nodded at the waitress. “Keep the change.”

  Francesca’s eyes widened. She watched him walk out of the restaurant with a very thin teenage girl. “Poor child,” she muttered. “I wonder what her life is like.” Then she knelt on the floor beside the little boy. “Don’t cry, honey,” she said, checking his hands and bare legs for cuts. “Someone will get your balloon.”

  The busboy knelt on the floor with a dustpan and broom. Shirley hurried forward and corralled the child. “I think he belongs to one of the two women having lunch in the back. I’ll take him.”

  Marvin Roach emerged from the rest room and stepped gingerly around the glass. “Did I miss something?” he asked.

  Francesca shook her head. “Just an obnoxious man, a screaming child and a runaway balloon.” She pointed at the ceiling.

  “Good Lord.”

  Francesca laughed. “Walk me back to my car and be grateful you’re childless.”

  “I am,” he said reverently. “Every day.”

  Mitch Gillette drove west on Highway 154 past the glider port and airstrip, past the Shetland-pony farm and the equestrian center, past rolling-hilled ranches dotted with long-legged horses grazing on yellow grass, past wineries he’d never heard of and others he had. He almost missed the sign. Easing his foot off the gas, he drove down a beaten dirt road lined on either side by olive trees leaning into each other, forming a leafy canopy of green. Fields of purple lavender and Mexican sage perfumed the air. In the distance an eagle descended gracefully over a hill of young Riesling vines. Rows of Sangiovese spilled into a pasture of lupine where a herd of cattle munched sleepily. He was mindful of the words he’d read in Spectator, the guru of wine periodicals. “Wine and horses. Horses and wine. The two overlap in a harmonious symphony of sensory sensation against golden hills and verdant vines in California’s central wine country.”

  A flutter of anticipation rose in his chest. He was nearing one of the few estate vineyards in the area. An open wrought-iron gate flanked by brick pilings loomed ahead. The name DeAngelo Vineyards had been worked skillfully into the iron.

  Mitch continued through the gate, up the long dirt road, through the leafy arched trellis into the gravel driveway and turned off t
he engine. For a long minute he looked at the house. Then he breathed deeply. Three stories of pristine white wood, trimmed in green, rose up before him. On the wraparound porch, rattan furniture was comfortably arranged and every windowpane sparkled.

  “Nice house,” said Sarah. She unbuckled her seat belt and followed him up the slate steps.

  Julianne was elbow deep in cake flour and didn’t hear the doorbell. When she did, she considered the time it would take to wash away the evidence of her trade and dry her hands thoroughly and decided against cleaning up. Whoever it was would be long gone before she answered the door. Grabbing a towel to protect the wood floors, she dashed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. As it was, the two were nearly down the porch steps before she opened the door. “Don’t go,” she said quickly, and then, “May I help you?”

  At the sound of her voice, Mitch Gillette turned back. His first sensation was that of pleasure. For some inexplicable reason, he was pleased to see this woman, small-boned, dark-haired, with startling blue eyes and the loveliest smile he had ever seen. She was dusted from head to foot in white powder. He smiled back and held up a current copy of Horse and Rider magazine. “I’m here about your ad. I called this morning. Is the horse still available?”

  “It’s not my horse,” said Julianne. “My daughter-in-law placed the ad. Fairy Light is her horse.”

  “May we see her?”

  Julianne shook her head. “She’s out in the pasture right now and I’m afraid I don’t know very much about horses. I wouldn’t be able to answer your questions, but Francesca should be back soon. Would you like to come inside and wait? I have cake and a pitcher of fresh lemonade.”

  Mitch wanted nothing more than to follow this woman with the delightful smile and the lovely crinkles around her eyes into her kitchen. But there was Sarah to consider. He hesitated.

  Julianne smiled again. This time she addressed the girl. “I’m Julianne Harris. Fairy Light really is a beautiful animal and very gentle. It would be a shame for you to leave without seeing her.”