Fielder's Choice

Chapter 3

  If every day started like this one, Alana was sure she’d go mad before a month went by. She’d overslept and missed the staff meeting. Then her father called. He and Patrice were on a month-long photo safari in Africa and had extended their trip for another week. He’d asked her to organize the memorial for Nana.

  Told her was more like it.

  The prospect was chilling. Half of San Francisco would attend Nana’s memorial. Hire a party planner, her dad had said when she’d protested that she knew nothing about organizing such an event. But then her dad wasn’t one for handling much of anything. That gene she’d come by honestly. Did one just look online for a party planner who specialized in funerals and wakes?

  Then she’d spent nearly an hour on the phone with Nana’s attorney, trying to sort out exactly what was wrong with the windmill. She leaned back in the chair and propped her legs on the desk in Nana's study. Her conversation with Mr. Wilkinson had been particularly unhelpful. His main suggestion was that she get out and meet the neighbors and talk the windmill over with them, see if she could develop support for the project. Surely a staffer could do that kind of thing, she’d argued. He’d just laughed and told her to give it a go. She’d considered firing him for treating her so cheekily, but he was the only person who could help her right now.

  Her phone vibrated, and she pulled it from the pocket of her jeans.

  “Tell me you are making fun.” A husky voice breathed through the poor cell connection.

  “Having fun, Marcel. And no, I’m not.”

  “You ran off so suddenly. We Frenchmen prefer longer goodbyes.”

  She was supposed to have met up with him in France after he returned from his ascent of Kilimanjaro, but she’d left Paris before he’d reached base camp. She’d sent word, but it probably hadn’t reached him for a week.

  “I was told there was an emergency that required my immediate attention,” she said, not liking the defensive tone in her voice. “Now that I’m here, I find that every day there’s some emergency. Seems to go with the farming part. This week it’s a windmill.”

  “Now you see why Marie Antoinette preferred cake.”

  “Not funny. But this blasted windmill—I have seven people working on the problem and now they’re telling me that as the owner, I might have to meet with the county supervisors. This whole thing could take weeks.”

  “Meetings. Americans love meetings. I’ve never understood it.”

  “I might miss the Lavanne exhibition in New York next week,” she said, changing the subject. “I was looking forward to it.” It would do no good to discuss matters of responsibility with Marcel.

  “And I was looking forward to you,” he said in his luscious, smooth voice. “Are you sure there’s not some wild western cowboy keeping you? I’ll have to brush up on my fencing skills.”

  Alana heard the possessiveness under the humor in his tone. Last autumn they’d started out light—fun, no strings—just the way she liked it. But lately he’d been angling for a commitment. It was time, he’d said. For both of them. She liked Marcel—he was certainly the most interesting man she’d met in a long time. He shared her love of the fast-paced life of Paris. And she couldn’t complain about their sex life—the man was a wizard in bed. But commitment didn’t come easily to her. It was a constraint she preferred to avoid.

  And deep down she felt that he saw the union of their families as a sort of merger, a business deal. The Tavonesi family had the best olives in Sonoma. Now the best grapes as well. Throw in her brother Simon’s organic, high-end fruit and vegetable farm, and her family had almost every front covered. Marcel’s family brought old-school Champagne, one of France’s finest, to the table. Marrying her would diversify and extend the reach of his family’s empire.

  She might not love Marcel—wasn’t really sure what loving a man felt like, wasn’t sure she wanted to know—but life with him was smooth and easy, skimmed along like a breeze on a lake. And he had a way of making her feel like the sexiest woman on earth. But she was in no mood for marriage or a merger of any sort.

  “It’s California, Marcel. Not a cowboy in sight.” She offered the words with a teasing tone, but since she’d met Matt Darrington, her feelings were in a jumble.

  “Ah. I will sleep easier tonight. But I would enjoy my evening better if you were here.”

  His sultry voice laced a path of desire deep into Alana. Already she missed the languid nights of delicious sex. Sex never had her jumbled; it was always good. Only now she was having racy dreams of Marcel as well as another man. A man whose face she couldn’t quite see. A man she’d easily wager was Matt.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “I’ll call you at the end of the week.”

  “I’d rather have a visit; I can meet you in New York. Your people can handle the farming details. I know something of the business, remember?

  “You told me your idea of farming is to show up for the awarding of the medal for your family’s Champagne and leave before the celebration becomes dull.”

  “You wound me,” he said, laughing. “But it does sound vaguely like something I might’ve said. I give up. But don’t forget—the Versailles gala is in August. No excuses. You are my special date.”

  She hadn’t forgotten. The gala to celebrate the restoration of Versailles was to be a highlight of her summer. She’d planned to fly there right after her diving vacation in the Seychelles.

  But that was before Nana had died and left her the ranch to deal with.

  It stung that Nana hadn’t let on that she was ill, much less that she was dying. She hadn’t shown any signs of being near the end of her wild and exuberant life. Worse, her death had left a gaping hole that Alana hadn’t expected. But the guilt that lanced through the grief squeezing in her chest hurt more. If she hadn’t blown off her grandmother’s request that she visit, hadn’t instead dashed off to Paris into Marcel’s arms and the buzz and whirl of parties and nightclubs, she wouldn’t have missed the last days of Nana’s life.

  Guilt intensified the nagging feeling she’d had for the past few months, as she’d been dogged by something that wouldn’t reveal its name even before she’d been called back to deal with the ranch. Immersed in the vibrant nightlife of Paris, she frequently forgot about the odd sensation that sometimes jabbed at her in the midst of charming company and opulent parties, the strange ache that made words and laughter lose their verve. Until she’d walked up the hill and seen the land spread out before her, she’d managed to ignore the chafing that had been softly but insistently abrading her soul.

  But now, faced with the breadth of the ranch property, its divisions and its people, she could no longer ignore the doubts that niggled at her.

  “Miss Tavonesi?”

  Isobel Vargas stood framed in the doorway of the study, holding an envelope. Isobel and her husband, Rafael, had been with Nana from the beginning. They’d been part of making Nana’s dream come alive. Rafael managed the gardens, and Isobel served as housekeeper and personal assistant. Alana was pretty sure Isobel had also been one of Nana’s closest friends.

  “Perhaps this is not a good time?” Isobel said in her quiet, steady voice.

  “It’s always a good time to speak with you, Isobel.” Alana smiled and waved her into the room. The bluish circles under the older woman’s eyes told Alana that the stress of Nana’s passing had been hard on her as well.

  “Señora Tavonesi wanted you to have this.” Isobel held out her hand.

  Alana reached for the envelope. She tore it open and unwrapped layers of tissue paper. Inside was a small, smooth stone, wider at the bottom and tapering to a narrow top. She fingered the gray-green stone, then held it out to Isobel.

  “A charmstone,” Isobel said as she took the stone and turned it in her hands. “Some of these are more than a thousand years old. They’re used for blessings when entering a new land.”

  Isobel placed the stone in Alana’s palm and closed Alana’s fingers around it.

/>   “She loved you.” Isobel’s voice was a tender whisper. Tears pooled in the older woman’s eyes, and she wiped at her face with the back of her hand.

  “And you.” Alana swallowed down the lump forming in her throat and slipped the stone into the pocket of her jeans. “I know you miss her.”

  Isobel nodded.

  “I couldn’t have managed these past weeks without you,” Alana added, fighting back her own tears. If it hadn’t been for Isobel, Alana wouldn’t have lasted two days on the ranch, much less the past two weeks. The woman knew more about the details of running a household and managing the affairs of the ranch than Alana had known existed.

  A spark of protest fired in Isobel’s eyes.

  “Señora Tavonesi was a wise woman, Miss Tavonesi. Do not doubt her decisions.”

  “It’s not her decisions I doubt, Isobel.”

  Alana checked herself before saying more. Now was not the time to tell Isobel or anyone else that she didn’t intend to keep the ranch, but there was no way she wanted to be tied down by the responsibilities of a farming operation.

  Even if she wanted to keep it, even if she might consider giving up her sophisticated life, she knew next to nothing about managing a business. It’d be crazy.

  Isobel laid her hand on Alana’s arm. “Forgive me. My heart ran away with my tongue. It often does.”

  Isobel’s sincerity cut into Alana. Standing there in Nana’s study, surrounded by her grandmother’s life, by the world Nana had created and the people whose lives it served, she felt like a fraud. Alana had never done anything permanent, had never created anything that stood, anything that had lasted.

  She patted Isobel’s hand. “Please don’t apologize. I appreciate your help and your advice. And I need it straight up, no sugar-coating.” The smile she tried for wobbled.

  Mercifully, Isobel turned and lifted the stack of signed paychecks from the desk.

  “I’ll distribute these, Miss Tavonesi. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. Please call me Alana.”

  She’d known Isobel from the first days she could remember visiting her grandmother; the formality felt awkward and unnecessary. Nana was from a generation and a culture where names and titles mattered. So was Isobel. But using titles around the house made Alana uncomfortable.

  “The staff already had lunch. Would you like for me to make you something, Miss Alana?”

  “Just Alana, Isobel. And no, thank you. I’m headed down to the barn. I saw an old easel I’d like to bring up to the house.”

  The last thing she needed right then was to sit around a table with the staff. She didn’t have to believe in mind-reading to know the question in each of theirs. Just thinking about their concerns made her queasy. Having other people’s futures in her hands wasn’t anything she’d ever imagined doing, and she certainly hadn’t asked for such a responsibility. What she needed was a brisk walk to let the afternoon winds blow through her and clear her head.

  As she stepped out of the house into the sunshine, she fingered the stone in her pocket.

  Blessings in a new land.

  She’d need them.

  She turned her face to the sun, felt its warmth spread through her. She closed her fingers tighter around the stone and decided to stop in Peg Martin’s office before she went down to the barn. Peg could talk to the neighbors. She was friendly and pretty and had an easy air of confidence.

  “You missed lunch,” Peg said as Alana walked in. “Mark made leek and mushroom pizzas.”

  “I was on the phone with Mr. Wilkinson.”

  Peg groaned. “That’d put me off lunch too.” She slanted a sly look at Alana. “I saw that gorgeous guy in your tour yesterday. He was making saucer eyes at you.”

  “Not interested—he has a kid. Married. I have standards.” Alana’s tone wasn’t as light as she’d aimed for.

  “Nah. His daughter told me she doesn’t have a mom. She died in a plane crash. Shocked the hell out of me. But you know how kids can be—they say the darnedest things.”

  Alana didn’t know how kids were. And the fact that Matt had no wife didn’t negate the kid factor. In fact, it accentuated it. But it troubled her that she couldn’t put him out of her mind. She’d always been good at keeping her perspective about men. It was a discipline that served her well. But she knew from her changed feelings as she’d spoken with Marcel that Matt Darrington had had an effect on her. A strong and deep effect that baffled her and made her want to know more in spite of the warning signals that barked don’t go there.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the problem with the windmill,” Alana said, changing the subject. “I’d like for you to meet with the neighbors, see if you can get them to see why it’s a good thing.”

  “Already tried.” Peg spun her chair to face Alana straight on. “They want to talk to you. You own the place, and these are Sonoma County ranchers; they don’t do staff. Imagine Texas, John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, and you’ll just about have the picture. Although our neighbors aren’t as tall. Except for crotchety Mr. Hartman. He’s tall. And grumpy. If you can get him on board, you’ll have the whole county. But good luck. He thinks anything built in the twenty-first century is suspect. Especially a windmill run by a computer.”

  “No one mentioned a computer.”

  “It’s a Norwin, state of the art. They use them all over Europe. It’s going to be great—we just need those final plans approved. I’d hate to have to pull it down. It has twenty-inch steel bolts driven into a twenty-five-foot concrete foundation. It’s meant to last.”

  Every cell in Alana’s body told her to flee. Arguing with ranchers about computer-controlled windmills just was not going to happen, Nana’s final project or not. The fact that her grandmother had put the thing up before she had the final approvals astonished her. But then again, maybe it didn’t—Nana was a Tavonesi, after all.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d missed lunch. But she hadn’t been to the gym in a week, so maybe missing a meal wouldn’t hurt. Marcel might be a Frenchman, but he had an eye, a critical eye, for any inch of her body that wasn’t perfectly trim.

  “Would you have someone call the travel agent and get me tickets to Paris for the end of next week? And book a limo, please. Thursday would be the best day. Danielle at the agency has the log of all my travel preferences.”

  “One of the staff can drive you.” Peg’s tone had lost its friendly lilt. She spun her chair back and faced her computer, shoulders pulled back as if for battle.

  “That won’t be necessary. I know everyone has work to do here. Besides, I prefer the limo.” Alana turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “Would you also see if there are any rooms for late July at the Four Seasons in the Seychelles? It’s lovely there in July.”

  A good swim in the azure water of the Indian Ocean would do her good. Especially if Marcel could fly down and meet her. Maybe she’d take her paints. The lush jungles and blazing sunsets were always inspiring.

  “The fruit set tours are in July,” Peg said, turning in her chair to face Alana. “Surely you’ll want to be here for those. Enzo has growers from around the world booked for the tours and dinners. And I’ve invited key food writers; they love mixing with the growers.”

  Fruit set tours. Alana hadn’t considered the ranch in her summer plans, hadn’t intended to. But she didn’t have the heart to squelch Peg’s arrangements.

  “Perhaps I can find another time to go.” She started to explain that Peg shouldn’t make any more long range plans involving her, but the cool look in Peg’s eyes froze the words in her throat. Though they didn’t know her, the people on the ranch expected her to fill Nana’s shoes. Grief thudded in Alana. Didn’t they know no one could do that? Especially not her. Before she said something she’d regret, she stepped out of the office and into blinding sunlight.

  The past two days had been hot, hotter than usual. At least the nights cooled as the fog rolled in, m
aking it easy to sleep. She’d overheard one of the staff say that it was perfect weather for the Pinot grapes planted in the west acreage.

  The rumble of tires jolted her out of her thoughts about the weather. Her brother Simon’s Jeep rolled up beside her.

  “Hey. You look every inch the farmer,” he said as he hopped out and hugged her. “Except for the shoes. Farmers don’t wear Prada. At least not on workdays.”

  “Talk nicer to me, or I won’t fix you lunch.”

  “You are the most beautiful, kindest, most creative, most talented—”

  “Good enough. That’ll get you a peanut butter sandwich. If there’s any peanut butter in this joint.”

  She settled Simon on a stool while she rustled up the makings for a sandwich.

  “Don’t suppose you want olive tapenade,” she teased.

  “With peanut butter?”

  “I’m told olives go with everything.”

  “Fire the marketing person. There are limits.”

  She stopped spreading the jam on the toast slices she’d pulled from the toaster oven. “Simon, I can’t do it. I can’t. I feel like I’m in some sort of charade. I mean, I want to honor Nana’s wishes but... she should’ve left this place to you. All I really know anything about is art.”

  He pointed to the original paintings lining the walls of the formal kitchen. Any one would’ve been a prize for a museum’s collection.

  “Plenty of that around here.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m not suited to any of this.”

  “But you always loved it here. We had some of our best times here in the summers.”

  She screwed the lid off the peanut butter and stirred. “I do love it—it’s a very special place. It’s just not my place. I’m much more comfortable in my flat in Paris or at my place in the outskirts of Rome. Here people are up and out near dawn. And they hardly ever leave the property. A couple of days this week I haven’t gotten farther than the house.”

  “The horror,” Simon said with a mock, wide-eyed gasp.

  “Be serious. And yesterday I overheard one of the staff say I was irresponsible. Even they know I’m no good for what this place needs.” She leaned her palms onto the counter. “Do you think I’m irresponsible?”

  “Is that a trick question? If I answer wrong will I get sucked down a trapdoor, never to be seen again?”

  “You could run this place. Or Damien.”

  “Nothing could drag Damien back from Patagonia. He has a bird-brain in more ways than one. Did he send you the email about the penguins?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll forward it to you. But seriously, Alana, I have my own farm. You know I’m not into all this high-end stuff. And the whole body-care thing? I wouldn’t know a pheromone from fertilizer. That’s one of your specialties, not mine. I grow lettuce and micro greens and run a gleaning project for the county’s school lunch program. Basics.” He waved his hand at the marble fireplace along the far end of the kitchen. “All this would take energy away from what I love.”

  “My point exactly. It takes energy away from what one loves.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Simon quirked a brow at her.

  “And that would be what, exactly? What is it that you love, sis?”

  “You know. I like art and cities and nightlife and parties and—”

  “Besides all that.”

  Her cheeks flushed.

  “I could sell this place,” she said defiantly.

  “If you sell the ranch, someone will likely turn it into a fancy second home; some Silicon Valley type will use it on weekends to impress his friends. It won’t be a community, and it won’t be farmed like it’s meant to be. They’ll let staff go.”

  She grabbed the knife and sliced through his sandwich. “Maybe I could live in the city and hire more people, and it’ll pretty much run itself.”

  As soon as she said it, she knew it wasn’t possible. Already it wasn’t going that way.

  “A place like this requires you to be here, to know it, be part of the daily rhythms. You can’t have just one foot partway in.”

  Heat crept into her cheeks as she laid the knife on the counter. He knew damned well her aversion to commitment. She cleared her throat and glared. He simply smiled and fluttered his lashes.

  “You clearly did not come by to cheer me up.” She plunked the sandwich in front of him. The plate clattered against the marble counter. “Peanut butter and strawberry jam.”

  “My fave. Hey—Dad’s throwing a birthday party for Patrice when they get back from Africa. We have to go. It’ll break her heart if we miss it.”

  “He probably scheduled it for the day after Nana’s memorial. Did he happen to mention he foisted that off on me? And the fact that we had to schedule it for July so he wouldn’t have to cut his trip short?”

  “You’ll do Nana justice. Dad has no feel for that sort of thing.” He munched the last bites of his sandwich. “I’ll help you plan the memorial.”

  She leaned across the counter and kissed his cheek. “You’re the best.”

  A half smile curved into his lips.

  “Maybe Nana knew what she was doing when she left you the ranch.”

  “Out!” She pointed the knife at him. “I do not need a disloyal brother. You’re supposed to be helping me.”

  “Maybe I am. Help comes in many forms, sis. Some of them will surprise you.”