At dawn the next morning, Alex pulled on his boots and trudged out to the north vineyard. He’d driven up late in the night, hadn’t felt like wasting another night in town. Emilio had been evasive when Alex had called him from New York. Only a face-to-face talk would get to the heart of what troubled the man. Alex would talk to him, take care of things at Trovare, and start the week with a clear conscience. If he left by midmorning, he’d have no problem getting to the stadium before batting practice later that afternoon.
The air in the vineyard was crisp and cold—too cold for September. Songbirds sang in the cypress trees that lined the graveled path. He drew in a breath of the air, still moist with dew and laced with the scent of ripening grapes. Sunlight glinted on the old vines. They’d been the first that his father had planted; he’d put them in even before the foundation had been laid for the castle.
A flash of movement drew Alex’s eye. He looked closer and saw his mother standing between the rows of vines.
“I’ve never seen you up and about this early,” he teased, walking toward her.
“There are many things you’ve never seen, Alex,” she said as she hugged him. “It’s a lovely morning. I love the mornings out here.”
“It’s too cold, Mother.”
She nodded. She was a vintner’s wife; she knew the hazards that weather could bring. She fingered the leaves on one of the gnarled vines.
“He loved it here,” she said.
“Yes.” He took her hand and closed his fingers around hers. “I miss him too.”
She smiled up at him. Though there were many things they didn’t understand about each other, he’d never doubted her love. She had a capacity for loving life that he hoped he’d inherited.
She rested a hand on his arm. “Sabrina told me about the woman from the California Marine Mammal Center. I’d like to meet her.”
“That’s over,” he said, wishing it weren’t true. Over before it had begun. “You shouldn’t listen to Sabrina’s version of anything. She’s an optimist.”
“All Tavonesis are optimists, darling.” She patted his arm. “Love can pass you by, Alex,” she said with her most piercing gaze. “You can’t give your whole heart to a game.”
He swallowed down his practiced retort. He won no prizes for not admitting she was right.
“Sabrina and I are going to Paris,” she said as she turned to leave. “She has a three-week break before she starts shooting her next film. You know how I love Paris.”
He did. And Sabrina needed a vacation. The indie film she’d starred in last year had become a runaway success. Even Sabrina, for all her confidence, hadn’t been ready for the onslaught of publicity.
“I’ll be back before the playoffs,” she added, turning back and reaching to once again pat his arm.
“They have televisions in Paris,” he chided.
“I want to see you win your title in person. I’m your mother, Alex.”
“Hadn’t considered I was any competition for Paris.” He winked.
Emilio tromped down the path toward them. From the look of him, he’d already been up and out for a good long while.
“I’ll leave you to your meeting,” his mother said as she headed up the path.
Emilio clasped him in one of his bear hugs, then pushed him away and held him at arm’s length. “You look terrible.”
“I thought we were talking about the vines,” Alex said as he stepped back.
Emilio raised a brow.
“I haven’t been sleeping right,” Alex said. “Just about back on track though. No worries.” He kicked at a stone in the path, then lifted his gaze to Emilio. “Out with it,” he prompted.
“This weather isn’t going to hold.” He slowly turned, his jaw tight as he studied the vines. As he checked out the sky. “But I’m not sure about the timing. The question is whether to bring the grapes in early or risk a freeze.” He pointed at Alex. “You have to decide.”
“We, Emilio. We decide.” Alex palmed a cluster of grapes, fingered them gently. He lifted them and inhaled. The musky scent of the ripening grapes was like a tether through time—he could travel its length as it stirred memories of autumns past, autumns when life was simpler, decisions easier. “What did the sugar tests show?”
“Enough to convince me we shouldn’t harvest for at least another three weeks, maybe more. The grapes haven’t set, at least not to my liking.” Emilio plucked a grape hanging from the vine next to him and rolled it in his palm. “It’s a risk. We could lose more than last year. But if we harvest now, it won’t be a wine we’ll be proud of.”
Alex’s father had worked hard to keep the wines they made top-notch. And at Trovare, they used only organic methods. Emilio was a wizard at working with the soil and the beneficial insects, and fine-tuning the irrigation to create a symbiotic system sustainable for the long haul.
“Di Salvo’s crews are harvesting today,” Emilio said with a nod toward the neighboring vineyard that bordered the river.
The Di Salvo vineyard had twice the acreage of Trovare, but neither Alex nor Emilio knew how they’d managed a bumper crop last year. Evidently they were taking no chances this year. But the Di Salvo wines weren’t winning gold medals like Trovare did.
“It’s not Di Salvo’s anymore,” Alex said. “I have to remind myself of that—old man Di Salvo would never have pulled his crop this early.”
He’d have liked to compare notes with Di Salvo, but the man was ninety and was rarely in the area anymore. He’d leased his land to a large conglomerate three years before, claiming that the warmer weather in San Diego suited him better in his old age. The reps that came to the growers and vintner’s meetings kept their distance from the locals. The growers were a tight-knit community, and the newcomers’ odd behavior raised brows.
Alex nestled the cluster of grapes back into the vine and stared out over the vineyard. Timing the harvest was a risky business. Even with the heaters and blowers, a hard freeze could ruin them. And if it rained and then warmed up, they’d lose the crop to mold as they had last year. Growers tried to beat the weather; vintners plied for more time on the vine. Alex was both. It was like having the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.
He closed his eyes and inhaled. He pictured the grapes as he’d just seen them and the way they’d look at the perfect moment.
“We wait,” Alex said, opening his eyes.
Emilio, his shoulders relaxing, nodded. He picked up a rock on the path, tossed it to Alex. “I saw the interleague game against the Yankees. You’re hitting better than two weeks ago.”
“If Duarte keeps up his hitting streak, it’s gonna be a fight till the last game of the season. And Randy Hamilton is no slouch this year. His RBI numbers are tracking right with ours, so he could knock us both out. Maybe neither Duarte nor I get the big one.” He didn’t mention the couple of hitters who had a shot at passing both him and Duarte with home runs. He didn’t think any of them had the staying power he and Duarte had.
Emilio rapped him on the forearm. “You’ll do it.”
The Triple Crown was elusive, and with the way hitters specialized these days, it was growing even more so. But it had been a goal Alex had chased, had wanted, since he’d begun playing. He’d either do it this year or never get close again. Unfortunately, Duarte was having a hell of a year as well.
“Wouldn’t be happening without you,” Alex said, tossing the rock back to Emilio.
Emilio snatched it from the air. “My wife says you’ll do it.”
“Francesca still thinks the game is played with goal posts.”
“Well, I have base motives for wanting you to succeed,” Emilio said. “I want bragging rights. And a division champ’s cap for my sister’s boy. I’m practicing being considered a hero.”
Alex laughed. Securing hero-worship for Emilio was a first-rate motivation.