“Make sure that it is twenty-four hours or less.” Rafe clicked off.
Eli stood directly in front of him. In a low voice that vibrated with emotion, he said, “It’s not that kid’s fault.”
“No, it’s mine.”
“You’re right. It is. Listen to me, Rafe. I hoped you’d find Nonna’s attacker, but I was like everybody else. I thought it was a vagrant, and I figured as long as you were here for Nonna, that was all that mattered.” The bar towel wrapped his palm, and Eli had a look on his face Rafe had never seen before: bitterness, grief, and hopelessness. “Then you started sticking your nose into the security of the resort, acting like the big man on campus. When Noah was pissed, I stood up for you. I figured you’d tweak the security, make it better, and you’d feel like you were accomplishing something.”
Right now, Rafe didn’t feel like he’d accomplished anything. He felt small and incompetent.
Eli rolled on. “We get a body in the Dumpster—one of our gardeners—poor son of a bitch. Okay, he was killed before you got here. But he was placed in that Dumpster after you arrived. Half the guests checked out. Noah’s profits for the quarter are totally screwed. Which sucks for everyone all around. And me—I’m still standing up for you. I’m saying, ‘Look, Rafe was right; it wasn’t a vagrant. Better to know and catch the bad guy.’ That’s because I still imagine you’ve got a handle on the security.” He waved a hand at the wall. “Then this happens. This . . . carnage. I picked out those top-end bottles myself. Do you have any idea the value of the wine that was destroyed here?”
“Hey, Eli, calm down.” Noah put his hand on Eli’s arm.
Eli slammed him against the bar. “You little shit. Don’t patronize me.”
Abruptly the atmosphere in the bar went from uncomfortable to shocked; Rafe had never seen Eli as wild and angry as he was now. “Eli,” he said quietly. “It’s me you’re mad at.”
Eli slowly let go of Noah’s collar, but nothing about him was contrite. He glowered at Noah, then turned back to Rafe, and as if he’d never been interrupted, he went back to his tirade. “Some of the bottles on that wall were one-of-a-kind bottles. Thousands of dollars apiece. Thousands. Owning those bottles . . . that’s like owning history. Or, let me make it clearer for you—it’s like owning an antique car. Our insurance won’t pay for their destruction.” He closed his eyes as if in pain.
One thing became clear to Rafe: Eli wasn’t being an artist. He was crushed by not only the aesthetic values; the financial loss also weighed on him.
“One-of-a-kind bottles. Do you understand what that means?” Eli opened his eyes and his gaze drilled Rafe. “It means we have a Chateau St. Neuf 1943, bottled at great risk during World War II, that has disappeared off the face of the earth. It means we have an Alessandrine Côté 1891, bottled in New York State—have you heard of her, Rafe? Possibly the greatest female vintner this country has ever seen, the only female vintner of the nineteenth century, and it was her last bottle. Her last bottle. We had a bottle created during Prohibition by Massimo, right here in Bella Terra, circa 1933. Gone. Gone forever. If I had sold those bottles at auction, prices could have gone over fifty thousand apiece.”
The price of the wine made Rafe want to gag. The loss of his brother’s goodwill made him want to grovel. “Eli . . .”
But Eli wasn’t finished. “I didn’t take those bottles to auction. I knew that sitting in our wine wall, they made us a place of pilgrimage for the great wine connoisseurs of the world.” He paced away, then paced back. “Those bottles are gone now, irrevocably destroyed, and the tragedy is—they were never tasted. Wines that old might have been—probably would have been—nothing but vinegar. They might also have been ambrosia. But we’ll never know. No one will ever know.” Eli poked his finger into Rafe’s chest. “Let me make this clear. I want whoever did this punished. I want him in jail. I want him dead. And I expect you, Rafe, to do what everyone thought you were doing, and protect this resort from any further deprecations. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Eli.” It was the only answer Rafe could give.
“Good.” Eli took a long breath. “I’m leaving for San Francisco. I’m going to attend the winemaker’s dinner. I’m going to receive my awards, accept my accolades, knowing all the while that everyone in that mammoth dining hall is not envying me, not cheering me, but pitying me. And when I come back, this had all better be cleared up, because it’s springtime, I have vines to tend, and I don’t have time for this kind of horseshit!”
“I’ll take care of it, Eli,” Rafe promised.
“See that you do.” Eli stalked out of the bar.
DuPey wandered over to Victor and spoke quietly.
Noah and Brooke moved to join Rafe.
“I’ve never seen him like that,” Noah said.
“I’ve never heard him use that many words in a month,” Brooke said.
“I’ve never been so firmly put in my place before,” Rafe said.
“Why’d you let him do it?” Noah looked at Rafe differently than he ever had looked at him before—with less hostility and more appreciation.
“He’s my older brother. And he was right. If I was going to stick my nose into Bella Terra’s business, security should have been improved.” Rafe considered Noah and Brooke. “I think it’s time I took Nonna for a drive. Maybe take her home for a few hours. Either of you want to go with me?”
“What?” Noah stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Now, when you’re supposed to be cleaning up security?”
Of all the people here, Brooke understood what had happened. She had been Rafe’s lover. She knew Noah and Eli. She worked at the resort and she understood what the wines meant to the family. And she had witnessed every minute of the scene between Rafe and Eli. Turning to Noah, she explained, “The security problem is handled. Rafe’s got his hacker on that. His point is—Nonna wasn’t rambling when she said all that stuff at the hospital. She knows something, and we need to know what it is.”
B
y ten o’clock in the morning, Rafe was driving the road to the home ranch, Brooke was scrunched into the backseat of the Mustang, and Sarah sat in the front seat, looking relaxed for the first time since the attack.
Checking her out of the hospital, even temporarily, had been a profound hassle that ended in Rafe’s firmly announcing rehab could wait and Brooke’s asking softly whether a patient suffering from depression could perform up to her potential.
Sarah had done her part by looking pitiful.
As soon as they got her in the car, she grinned at them. “You’re the best two children in the world.”
“We brought lunch, too.” Brooke indicated the picnic basket beside her.
“Thank heavens.” Sarah patted her stomach. “It’s not that the food in the hospital is
awful
. But it all starts tasting the way it smells . . . like antiseptic.”
They drove up to the house. Rafe put the car in park.
Sarah looked at the house, just stared, her face so poignant that Brooke came to a hard and ugly realization.
Sarah didn’t complain. She always kept up a cheerful facade. But she was depressed. The hospital, the injuries, the rehab: They had oppressed Sarah’s spirit. Brooke wished she had realized what Rafe had known: that Sarah needed to get away.
Rafe helped Sarah up the porch steps to her rocking chair. “Noah wanted to come, too,” Rafe told her.
“Next time,” Sarah replied.
“Something’s come up at the resort,” Rafe continued.
“Shh.”
Sarah put her finger to her lips.
Brooke started to lay out the lunch on the table.
Sarah shook her head. “Not yet, dear. Let me sit here for a few minutes and simply . . . be quiet.”
Rafe and Brooke exchanged glances.
“Okay, Nonna.” Brooke seated herself in the porch swing.
Rafe, always an opportunist, seated himself beside her.
Brooke didn’t want to sit with him—Mr. I Slept with You Because I Owed You—but she didn’t want to make a scene, either. He wasn’t worth it. A scene would upset Nonna.
With his foot against the floor, he pushed them slowly, back and forth.
The silence, the warm breeze, the sense of being above the day-to-day troubles of the resort . . . they brought the peace that Sarah sought. And they worked on Brooke, too. Her anxiety slipped away and she was doing nothing but breathing, relaxing, being.
This was why she loved to visit Sarah. Here Brooke left responsibility behind. She didn’t think; she didn’t worry. . . .
Sometimes she dreamed, but a woman could be forgiven her dreams.
She looked at Rafe, motionless, watching the valley with the sad intensity of a man saying good-bye.
Perhaps it was time this woman changed her dreams. Maybe it was time she dreamed of Sweden and a new life.
Sarah sighed. “Thank you, children. This was exactly what I needed.” She looked at them. “Now—why did you bring me up here? It wasn’t merely a kind thought on my behalf. I hear things, even at the hospital.”
Rafe grimaced. “We never could put anything past you, Nonna.”
“What happened at the resort that Noah couldn’t come with you?” Sarah asked. “Has it got to do with the wine?”
Rafe and Brooke simultaneously turned their heads to stare at Sarah.
“Oh, no.” She thumped the back of her head softly against the rocking chair. “I wish your grandfather hadn’t been so stubborn. I wish we’d ended this years ago. To have this shadow hanging over the family now, after so many years . . .”
Brooke leaped to her feet and unpacked the lunch, spreading it on the table where they could all share the cheeses, the salamis, the breads, and the dried fruits.
Rafe eased out of the swing and opened the two bottles of wine Chef had packed, poured a barbera for himself and Nonna, and a riesling for Brooke. He handed out the glasses and prompted, “What shadow?”
“The story starts with Massimo Bruno.” Nonna accepted a plate from Brooke.
“Massimo . . .” Rafe’s eyes grew narrow. “He was a winemaker.”
“That’s right. And a good man.” Sarah shrugged a little. “Or at least, my father said he was. My mother said nothing, but she said it very loudly.”
“What did you think of him, Nonna?” Brooke asked.
“He disappeared before I was born,” Sarah said.
Brooke blinked at Sarah.
“Oh, yes. The story is an old one. But almost from the beginning, I was afraid it would never be over until all of us were dead.”
“Go on, Nonna.” Rafe placed slices of cocktail rye on his plate and, using five different cheese-and-meat combinations, made himself a series of sandwiches. He took almost all the chocolate-dipped apricots, perching them around the edge of his plate, and went to sit facing his grandmother with his back against the main porch post.
His appetite wasn’t affected by the morning’s tragedy or any emotional angst.
Brooke bit into a prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe. She was
so
glad for him.
Sarah considered him fondly. But what grandmother wouldn’t?
Last night, for Brooke, he had been all temptation and seduction, a man in charge of his sexuality . . . and Brooke’s. Today the sunshine stroked the strong angles of his face, illuminated the dark fringe of eyelashes, and brightened the intense blue of his eyes. It sparked off his dark hair and rested lightly on his broad shoulders. The sunshine and the fresh air, the boyish pose and the manly self-assurance . . . literally and figuratively, what a package.
Brooke supposed she shouldn’t be thinking about sex when sitting at Rafe’s grandmother’s house. But last night was so near: the passion, the exploration, the heated press of skin against skin. Even with what had come afterward, the memories connected her to the past, like pearls on a string of time.
Nonna ate a few bites, then put her plate on the table. Taking her napkin, she used it to dust her fingers, then twisted it tellingly in her lap. “In the nineteenth century, among the Italian families who settled Bella Terra, the Di Lucas and Bianchins were the most successful. Successful in the Old Country. Successful here, battling for land, money, and influence.”
“What about the Marinos?” Brooke asked.
Sarah grinned. “The Marinos were from the south. Rude, loud, pushy thugs. My mother was a Marino.”
Rafe sat up straight. “Nonna! I didn’t know that.”
Sarah laughed at him. “Why do you think you head over to the Beaver Inn every time you need to blow off some steam? You’re like a salmon swimming back to your spawning ground.”
“That’s barbaric.” Rafe ate another sandwich.
Oh, good.
Not even unwanted family revelations affected his appetite.
“Why aren’t they part of the family at Christmas?” Brooke asked.
Sarah’s amusement disappeared. “My grandfather disowned me when I married Anthony. But disowning doesn’t change the bloodline, does it? Give them another hundred years. The Marinos will go into politics, take over the West Coast, and own Bella Terra.”
“God forbid!” Rafe said.
“Don’t kid yourself, Raffaello. They have an energy and a drive that only people fighting their way up from the bottom can have.” Sarah rocked, her eyes distant.
Rafe paused in the middle of eating his minisandwiches and ate a chocolate-covered apricot.
Brooke pushed the swing with her toe and wondered if he was afraid he’d get too full, what with that bread, cheese, and meat.
Sarah’s smile faded, and she returned to her story. “In the early twentieth century, all the Italian families in Bella Terra raised grapes and made wine. When Prohibition came along—I think it went into effect in 1920—the Bianchins converted their lands to orchards, and their prosperity was undiminished. The Di Lucas refused to replace their vines and chose instead to build their hotel business. Ultimately it was a good decision—the old vines grow the best grapes—but with the Depression overlapping Prohibition, the family took a hard hit.” She looked at the two of them. “I got all this from my mother-in-law, rest her soul. She did love to gossip.”
“Thank heavens, because the only family history I’ve ever heard you talk about is the cheerful, we’re-allin-this-together stuff,” Rafe said.
“I hoped we wouldn’t have to worry about the rest of this. What’s happened is probably punishment for my hopes, because the only way this trouble would not have reared its ugly head again was if Joseph Bianchin had died.” Sarah looked across the valley, her eyes narrowed against the sun. “But only the good die young.”