“Exactly. We have a date.”
“I’m proud of you.” Mia rose and stretched. “So let’s find that diaphragm of yours. I want to see what it looks like and you need to practice. It sounds to me like someone might be getting lucky.”
Francesca followed her into the bedroom. “I thought guys got lucky and girls put out.”
“Whatever.” Mia flopped down on the bed. “So start looking.”
Francesca walked to her dresser but didn’t pull out any drawers. She’d added the diaphragm to her to-do list on impulse. She wasn’t actually expecting to get naked with Sam, was she? She’d been a virgin when she married Todd, and after his death she’d never been all that sexually active. There was an assortment of reasons, most of which could be the subject of their own psych term paper.
Yes, she’d promised her sisters, and yes, keeping that promise was the only way she was going to enter the mainstreaming dating world, but still. Sex with a stranger? She reminded herself that simple sex beat a complicated relationship any day.
Mia groaned. “I can hear you talking yourself out of it from here. Francesca, come on. It’ll be fun.”
“You don’t actually know that.”
“Yeah, I do.” Mia flipped onto her stomach. “Trust me. Life with sex is pretty thrilling.”
“I can’t believe my eighteen-year-old sister is offering me advice on this.”
“I can’t believe my twenty-seven-year-old sister needs it. Now, start looking.”
Francesca didn’t have to look. She knew exactly where the device in question was parked. She opened the top drawer and moved a pile of socks. The slim blue case sat in the corner.
When she pulled it out of the drawer, Mia sat up. “How does this thing work?”
“It provides a barrier against invading sperm,” Francesca told her. “You put a gel on first, then fold the diaphragm in half and insert it.”
Mia looked doubtful.
Francesca opened the case and took out the birth-control device. Mia peered at it.
“Are you sure you can’t go on the Pill?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Like I said, I had a bad reaction last time. The problem is, even if I could, I have to wait until I can get to a doctor for a prescription.”
“Yeah, and then you have to wait for your period to start. Bummer.” She poked at the diaphragm. “I guess this could work, but I gotta tell you that putting it in will really break the mood.”
Francesca hadn’t thought that part through. “Good point. I guess I can put it in before I leave, although that seems so sleazy. Like I’m expecting something to happen.”
So many issues to work through, she thought as she walked into the small bathroom and took the diaphragm from its case. She turned on the water and rinsed it.
Mia followed. “Aren’t you?”
Francesca laughed. “Not so I want to admit.” She liked Sam. They’d had a good time the previous evening. And the kiss, well, she’d already spent plenty of time reliving that. Was she ready to take things to the next level? Did she—
“That can’t be good,” Mia said.
Francesca glanced down at the diaphragm. She’d filled it with water, and now the liquid dripped out the bottom. Panic swept through her.
“No,” she muttered. “It can’t have a leak.”
“How old is that thing?”
“I got it the first year I was married.”
Mia shook her head. “I don’t think they’re supposed to last nine years, kiddo.”
Francesca dumped out the water and held the diaphragm up to the light. Sure enough, there were three tiny holes. “Just perfect. I finally decide to do the wild thing, and this is what happens.”
“It’s no big deal,” her sister told her. “The guy’s supposed to wear a hat, anyway. Just make sure he does. Or make him wear two.”
Francesca tossed the birth control into the sink, then sank onto the edge of the tub. “This is so unfair.”
Mia crouched next to her. “It’s no big deal. Really. Condoms are perfectly safe. Or if you’re really worried, then don’t have sex with him. That solves the problem, too. On Monday head over to the health clinic on campus and talk to someone there. Maybe you can try something slightly more modern in the birth-control department.”
Francesca brightened. “Good point. I don’t have to do it with Sam. I can just say no.”
“Not yet,” Grandpa Lorenzo said as they walked through the rows of Cabernet Sauvignon. Not yet, meaning they hadn’t started to ripen.
Brenna Marcelli barely saw the clusters of pea-size green grapes. Instead a gently sloping track of land filled her mind. One that sat in the way of a cool ocean breeze, tucked between hills that blocked out early-morning and late-afternoon sunlight. A place shrouded by morning fog. Perfect conditions for the high quality Pinot Noir growing there. Perfect and possibly up for sale.
She’d already driven by twice, but she hadn’t had the nerve to stop. Not when she knew that seeing the land would cause her to dream of four perfect acres that she would never own. She didn’t have the money herself and knew the futility of trying to talk her grandfather into purchasing the acreage.
Probably just as well, she thought grimly. Why buy more when there were rumors that her grandfather was going to sell Marcelli Wines? Persistent rumors that didn’t go away.
“When does the bottling start?” he asked, crouching in front of a cluster of young grapes that had yet to begin ripening. The Cabs always came in last.
“Middle of the week,” she said. “That’s when we’ve booked the crew.”
“Are you ready?”
Brenna thought about the intense process of bottling wine. The various machines were linked together by conveyor belts that wound around like a noisy snake doing the rumba. Bottles clinked and jerked along the line, being blown clean, filled, corked, labeled in a mechanical dance that made her long for the time and manpower to lovingly fill each bottle by hand.
She hated bottling—knew how the wine could be bruised or aerated or traumatized by the rapid and brutal journey from quiet barrels to jostling bottles. A thousand and one things could go wrong with the equipment. She would check in a few times a day but otherwise planned to avoid the process.
“The Chardonnay is ready,” she said. “We’ll get it all done in time.”
The bright sun made her pull her baseball cap over her forehead and squint to see, the vineyard stretching out for what felt like miles in every direction. The smell of earth mingled with the fragrance of grapes. The scent wasn’t rich as it would be at harvest, when simply walking through the vineyard could be intoxicating. But it held promise of a good crop and a great wine.
This was her home, she thought contentedly. This land, these vines all existed within the confines of the only world she had ever loved. It had taken coming back to discover that.
She knew now she should never have left. That taking what had seemed to be the safe choice had been a mistake she’d paid for over and over again during the past nine years. Now it appeared she would be paying the ultimate price when her grandfather sold the winery. If he sold the winery.
Brenna couldn’t get confirmation of the rumors, but there were so many of them, she couldn’t help believing them true.
“People are talking,” she began slowly. “About the winery. I’ve heard them say you’re considering selling.”
Her grandfather picked up a handful of dirt and let it run through his fingers. He rubbed a few leaves, then straightened and glanced up at the sun.
“A good day,” he said. “A good season.”
She didn’t say anything. Her heart seemed to have frozen solid in her chest. Despite the heat of the afternoon, every part of her was cold.
Finally he turned to look at her. “You asked me before. I told you. I’m not selling.”
She studied his weathered face. He was a stern man who ruled his family with outdated laws and discipline, but he didn’t lie.
Relief poured through her, hot and welcome. Her heart began to beat again. She sucked in a breath, then another. As long as she had the winery, she had a reason for living. It didn’t matter that her personal life was in the toilet and that she was twenty-seven and had just moved back home. The grapes were everything. They—
“Not yet,” he said. “Maybe soon.”
Brenna stared at him. “No,” she breathed. Sell? Marcelli Wines? Her chest ached as if someone had stabbed her. “You can’t. This land has been in the family for over seventy years. Why would you turn all we’ve worked for over to a stranger?”
“I’m an old man.”
“I’m not. I’m here and working hard.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “For now. But then what?”
They’d had this conversation before. The unfairness of it burned like a brand. All her life she’d been told her duty was to get married as soon as she turned eighteen. Which she had done. That relationship had taken her away from the vineyard she loved.
She turned and walked away. Her body ached, but that pain was nothing when compared with the emptiness of her soul.
Her grandfather blamed her for leaving. After all those years of telling her to get married, he now punished her for listening to him. Worse, Brenna almost couldn’t argue his point. She couldn’t figure out why she’d given up the vineyards to marry her ass of an ex-husband who was knee-deep in preparations for his wedding to wife number two.
Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not over Jeff. Not anymore. She’d moved past hate, regret, and revenge. Now she simply wanted that chapter of her life over. Let him get married again. Let him get married a dozen more times. As long as she had the grapes…
She crested a rise and turned to look back at the land. She’d been born and bred to work the vines, and she had walked away from them all. If only—
The bright sunlight made her squint. In the distance, on neighboring Giovanni lands, she saw movement. Was it Nic? She was too far away to tell.
If only what? If only she’d listened to her heart instead of taking the easy way out and marrying Jeff? Things would not have turned out much better with her grandfather. There were no if onlys. There was now and the fact that she’d finally found everything she wanted only to lose it again if her grandfather sold.
She’d learned her lesson. Unfortunately the education had come too late. What did it matter now if she never again trusted her heart and soul to a man? Without Marcelli Wines she was nothing.
4
F rancesca hadn’t spent much time in Montecito, an upscale neighborhood just east of Santa Barbara. She glanced at the directions she’d scribbled down, then back at the street signs and wondered what she was going to do if she got lost. No doubt the local police would want to impound her truck for being the wrong type of vehicle, the wrong age, and definitely the wrong price. In this neighborhood even the maids drove Volvos.
Francesca chuckled as she recalled her terror when Sam called and suggested a barbecue at his place, or what he’d referred to as Montecito’s best grill kitchen. Her first thought had been she couldn’t—she had faulty birth control. Her second had been wild temptation, followed by bone-numbing fear. Obviously she needed to get out more. Pitifully, she’d accepted his invitation when he’d mentioned a live-in housekeeper who would act as chaperon.
Less than five minutes later she found the right street and the right house. Make that the right gate. Both sides of the narrow street were lined with tall fences and gates. Some stood open, but others were firmly closed. Francesca pulled in front of Sam’s, then opened her truck window to press the button on the control panel.
After a couple of seconds a familiar voice said, “Hello, Francesca. Glad you could make it.”
