Where Dreams Are Born (Angelo's Hearth) (22 page)

The man was about to say something when his wife cut him off. “What is your friend’s name?”

Shit!

“I don’t know that.”

The man’s face closed and they both backed away a bit farther.

“Has there been…” They weren’t going to answer that. “I’m…” Crap!

They must think I’m insane. The man pulled his wife closer and squared his aging shoulders
, ready to leap to his wife’s defense.

Russell
spread his hands to show they were empty.

“I’m really not a nut.” The old man wasn’t buying it. “There’s this lady. She keeps showing up at lighthouses.”

By the time he was done with his story, they invited him into the cottage. Betty served him tea from a porcelain teapot decorated with sailboats and sat him down in the decent but utilitarian couch in the whitewashed living room. Barney was retired Navy and they’d been high school sweethearts and still looked to be.

Over a plate of oatmeal cookies, they admitted that a young woman had been there and indeed had worn a long, red coat.

“Quite pretty,” had earned Barney a loving scowl from his wife. “Very friendly, though I don’t think she gave us her name.”

Betty stared down into her tea for a long moment. “She did. But I didn’t hear it clearly. It was unusual and she was soft-spoken. Didn’t seem polite to ask again.”

“Perhaps she signed the guest register.” Barney led him over to the leather-bound book laid open on the sloped table just inside the front door. The last entry was three days earlier, Betty and Barney.

“I’m sorry we’re of so little help.”

Russell bit his tongue against any sharp reply. “At least now I know she’s real. I was starting to doubt that as well.”

“But she showed up in your photographs.”

He nodded his head. He knew the photos didn’t lie, but he’d spent his whole career making them do just that. Some part of him would never trust images, especially not digital ones.

At least his Lady of the Lights was real. Angelo might insist that he was nuts…

But she was real.

# # #

Phillipe, a darkly handsome Latino who apparently had no last name, met Cassidy at the San Francisco airport in a wine-red Miata with the top down. In moments, they were leaving the city behind and zipping up toward the Sonoma Valley. She’d tucked Mondavi’s two books as well as the coffee table book about Mondavi by Katz into her carry-on and devoured them on the way down. She’d also brought along Fassbender’s definitive book on Cabernet Sauvignons, but her German was quite rusty and it was heavy going.

Mondavi might not be the most expensive in the valley, too many little boutique vineyards that made a profession of being outrageously priced
, but they were far and away the biggest high-quality vintner. Wines of high quality that sold at affordable prices.

She’d called to find out where her father’s old vineyard lay and been quickly passed to one of the assistant vintners who’d promised to give her the personal tour. Now, here she was cruising up the length of the Sonoma Valley in a sports car and chatting about the finest details of their vintnering process.

“We’re really excited this year. Of course, there was that late cold snap, thirty-four degrees, scared the daylights out of us. It came in right after the set. But then it warmed up at just the perfect pace. And Daryl, you’ll meet her later, she’s a magician. She knows what the roots are doing better than the vines do. What she does with water and fertilizers is staggering. She’s been fooling with some of the organics and they’re really playing out. It’s only May, so the grapes are still tiny, but we haven’t seen better since the ’92 set. Boy, was that a year. As I’m sure you know. First year I worked the fields, I was a cutter then. Worked my way up.”

He must have started in the fields when he was ten. Maybe he had, after school, weekends, and summers.

She saw signs for the vineyard off to the left, but he kept driving. At her look he offered her a low shout over the wind noise.

“Thought you might want to see the land first.”

All she could do was nod, her throat wasn’t trustworthy at the moment. A few minutes later he turned right and roared up into the hills. They left behind the busy valley floor. No more clusters of little boutique towns. No masses of tourists traveling the valley hunting for that perfect case of prestigious wine to slumber in their basement so they felt like real wine connoisseurs.

The hills were covered in vines and orchards. Apple trees used as wind breaks, sun breaks, and bee attractors for pollination
and the tiny cubes of honeybee hives dotted the fields. Every now and then a mansion of obscene proportions thrust its head above the vines, but it was the vines that formed the texture of the hills.

Green. Carefully tended hillsides
lay awash with verdant green and soil so black it looked painted. Not a stray weed allowed to take any nourishment away from the all important vine. Here each plant was nurtured individually, each vine coaxed to its greatest potential.

“You picked the perfect time to come.” He whipped the car onto a narrow gravel road and sped north with no concern for his undercarriage. “We’re just starting the drop on that field.”

“I’ve never seen a big one.” As a girl, she’d helped her dad with “the drop.” They went vine by vine, cutting off all but the finest of the bunches so the plant would pump more juice and flavor into the remaining grapes. At the same time, they trimmed back most of the leaves to let the sun soak into the remaining bunches. But in the Northwest, vines grew slowly and weren’t treated with the harshness of the California vines.

Another turn and he skidded to a gravel-spewing halt by a closed gate and leapt from the car. He moved like he drove, fast, a nervous energy vibrating over his body like a new vine in a cold wind.

He led her through the gate and over the first rise. Then he stopped and waved his hand before him.

“I looked it up in the records. It’s bounded by those two fence lines there, and that row of pear trees. Twenty-nine point three acres. Four point nine seven tons per acre last year. Total yield last year was a hundred and forty-three tons. All Cab-Sauv. When I started, there was still a five-acre section of Merlot on it from the original owner, but that was finally pulled in ’02. You can see the lighter stance of the new vines.” Suddenly he colored.

“Sorry, your dad had planted a Merlot that just didn’t grow very well here. We nursed it, played with it, and phased it out. We’ve had great luck with the Cab-Sauv on this slope and finally converted the whole field.”

He looked as if he wished to erase those last sentences and finally moved away to check the vines.

Cassidy moved slowly forward among the vines. The view across the valley revealed a massive patchwork of fields. Some fields stretched long and narrow, others square, and everywhere rows of vines traced the topography like a map, every rise and dip revealed. This field, this one small field, a quarter-mile square, was barely an afterthought in the valley’s total production.

She’d had Mondavi Merlot and Cab-Sauv many times with dinners. She’d tasted and spit it out at formal events.

The air was thick with the smell of sap. The drop. The rows between the vines were covered in great mats of green grapes and leaves spread far and wide across the ground. Tons of grapes, literally. Thousands and thousands of bunches lay scattered on the soil to rot and return to the soil. The grapes that remained, they held this year’s hope. This small bunch kept and not the next which now lay beneath her feet. On the survivors were banked the fortunes of the vineyard.

She stepped out on the soil her mother and father had labored to preserve and expand
, had nearly buried their hearts and souls to save. She stood now at the core of their greatest failure.

Cassidy knelt and gathered a handful of the mud-dark earth. The vine’s roots could go down thirty feet and still not hit rock. Fertile soil piled so thickly that it might as well go down forever. So different from the Pacific Northwest. Kingston had offered her father two to three feet of rocky soil to plant his roots. And much of that had been painstakingly cleared and set by hand. Here, nascent weeds were scalped back into the soil by the most modern machinery, not a balky old rototiller that she’d never once successfully started on her own. There they battled blackberries that towered above her head in a week’s inattention. Nothing here but the soil and the grapes.

She’d had Mondavi Merlots several times before they replanted this field in 2002. She’d drunk her father’s wine without knowing, or at least a blend of it.

No matter what Mondavi did to the soil, her father’s tears were still here.

# # #

True to his word, Angelo promised them a table for three at eight o’clock on just a few hours notice. At six they hit the Virginia Inn for a couple of drinks in the cozy bar. By seven, they’d decided to go raid Perrin’s store for dinner attire.

Perrin was into a sixties mode. Her hair streaked, part flapper platinum blonde, but with darker lines of oak that made her the very authentic sun-bleached gal. Two months seemed to be the longest she could retain a hair color.

A generous tie-dye skirt, that showed every bit of difference from the classic, dyed-in-Kool-Aid versus professionally done with the best of dyes on the fine-weave of quality cotton. Her peasant blouse was loose, airy, and kept slipping off one shoulder. It invited you to imagine the slender, vibrant woman within.

Jo refused Perrin’s insistence that she go without a bra. Instead, she selected a bright red dress that might have been worn by a flamenco dancer. Her shoulders and dark skin revealed by thin straps, her legs by the knee-length pleated skirt and a minor bell of red petticoats. Hot was the key word to describe the result.

They fussed over Cassidy until she finally agreed to wear the slinkiest of blue dresses. One shoulder bare, her hair up. She’d had just enough to drink that she agreed to go without when Perrin couldn’t find a strapless in her size. The perfect tailoring of the top was all that kept her from being indecent. The long skirt had a slit up to mid-thigh that she would do her best to keep closed. The high heels were ridiculous, but her legs did look great in the mirror.

She slipped on a gold chain with a tiny sailboat dangling at the end, though she hadn’t explained why to anyone yet. Perrin put one of those leather friendship bracelets around each of their wrists. Jo decided to go without further adornment which was exactly right, her long, black hair pushed back over her shoulders was decoration enough.

Perrin had reached for the perfumes, but she and Jo declined. Perrin went for just a touch of lavender, behind one ear only.

Cassidy spotted a poster on Perrin’s wall that had a familiar feel. She went up closer to inspect it. Russell’s work, it had to be. “Perrin’s Glorious Garb –the home of stand-out style.” Perrin in her flapper outfit, sitting on a couch that looked homey and made for two.

“He’s great, Cassie. I can’t believe you found him. Or that he’s so reasonable. You’re the best.”

Jo inspected the poster, raised one eyebrow at Cassidy and didn’t say a thing. Well, the smokescreen was aimed at Perrin, she shouldn’t have expected it to fool Jo for long.

How had the time gone by so fast? She’d meant to call him the day she’d gotten home from Dungeness Spit lighthouse, but researching the vineyard had gotten in the way. That was part of tonight’s celebration, of actually walking her father’s land.

She’d call him tomorrow or the next day, once she caught up on her columns.

By the time they reached Angelo’s they were in a very merry mood and men were stopping on the street to watch them walk by arm-in-arm. Sixties chic, flamenco red, and slinky blue sapphire. Even Jo was laughing and whispering about the one who walked squarely into a newspaper box as they went by.

The sun was near setting when they arrived. Long streaks of gold slid up the street between the buildings, they might regret not having wraps by the time they were done, but for the moment, it was too warm to consider them.

Angelo came out of the kitchen personally to seat them. His exclamations over their attire made them giggle, at least she and Perrin. Jo simply blushed crimson and slipped quickly into an inside chair against a wall. Cassidy sat beside her and Perrin took the other side of the table.

“Josh Harper is coming tonight as well.”

“Oh, you must seat him with us, Angelo. Set another place.” Cassidy turned to her friends. “He’s this great guy from
Gourmet Week.
Good friend, too.”

When he arrived, Angelo led him over.

“Cute, too.” Perrin whispered to her.

“Married,” she whispered back. “Happily,” before turning to welcome him. He kissed both her cheeks and smiled all around the table at introductions.

“Angelo. For seating me with three such impossibly lovely ladies, I will promise you gold, dancing women, great reviews. Whatever you need.” They shook hands in a very manly-looking clasp. He took the seat by Perrin just as the bruchetta arrived, fresh mozzarella cheese, perfect little squares of roasted red pepper, and a sprinkling of minced fresh basil on tiny slices of toast smeared with olive oil and rubbed with garlic.

“So, Josh. Cassidy says you’re happily married.” He nodded as he bit into one of the appetizers. She smiled in her most dangerous and charming way.