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“I worked in a department store in the bridal registries. But I needed a change.”
Then it came to him suddenly. “Jesus, what a dunce! Dysart Trucking!”
“That’s right,” she said. “You’ve heard of them?”
He grinned. “We use them, Ginger. They take our crops to market. They’re a good-size company.”
“Locally,” she said. “My dad started with one truck.”
“My grandfather started with a small grove and a few sheep and a lot of debt, but every time he had two nickels to rub together he bought more land.”
“He invested in himself,” she said.
“He invested in his sons. My dad has the grove and sheep and potatoes, Uncle Sal has grapes, Andreas has a couple of fishing boats. As you no doubt noticed, there’s quite a lot of family.”
Then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it, sent the caller to voice mail, put it back in his pocket. Lucy. They’d gone out a few times. She’d like to go out a few more. Time to move on.
“I don’t mind if you take that call.”
“That’s okay, I’ll call back. So, everyone works in the trucking company...”
“Except me. I’m willing to help out but I don’t have any talent for it, except maybe washing rigs.” She laughed. “I’m very good at all the things people don’t get paid much for—cooking and cleaning, that sort of thing. I suppose when my parents are very old and infirm and I’m an old maid, I’ll be the one to take care of them. And all your family is involved in the farm?”
“No, only a couple of us. Peyton is here, Ginny and Ellie are homemakers and their husbands are not farmers, Mike will be a professor married to a professor, Sal is a CPA for a large winemaker in Napa. He’d like to buy a vineyard someday. I guess, named for Uncle Sal, it makes perfect sense. He’s good with numbers and has a very good nose. They’re all pretty successful. My parents pushed us hard.”
Through dinner they talked about their families, some of their childhood experiences, what movies and books they liked. He told her he was a part-time teacher and she told him about her three best friends from high school and how they’d all left Portland for big careers. He made her laugh and he was mesmerized by her sweetness and charm. They had a cup of coffee but neither wanted dessert. Two hours had flown by. She told him that as apology dinners go, this was the best she’d ever had.
“So,” he said, “what is it you like so much about this little town? Why do you want to stay?”
“The people have been so lovely. And that flower shop—it’s perfect for me. I’m around people sometimes but I spend a lot of time alone, making up arrangements, cleaning up the cooler and back room. I need that time—time to think. But I shouldn’t have too much time or I get caught brooding.”
“And what does a pretty girl like you have to brood about?” he asked, flashing his dimples.
“Peyton didn’t tell you anything about me?”
“Come to think of it, she told me you’d had a bad year and made me promise I wouldn’t be a wolf.”
“Well, we have maybe a couple of things in common. I’m also divorced. Just over a year.”
“Is that so? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”
“You first,” she said.
“It’s not that interesting,” he said. “Everything Natalie and I talked about for the year leading up to our wedding, we agreed on. Immediately following the wedding, she was unhappy. She didn’t want to be married to a farmer, I got up too early, went to bed too early, had dirt under my nails, shit on my boots. She wanted me to go to med school or get a PhD and teach. She wanted fancy cocktail parties rather than big hoedowns at the farm. She was intimidated by the sheer size of my family. So we fought, and fought and fought. We’d married the wrong people. It was a damn shame, but there it is.” He shrugged. “See? Not interesting. Make yours at least interesting.”
She took a breath. She twirled the coffee cup around on the saucer. “Maybe I shouldn’t...”
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I married the wrong person, too. I married a musician. A singer/songwriter with the voice of an angel. The first time I heard him sing was in Portland at a fair and he sang ‘I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City.’ My bones melted and I fell right in love with him. I was young—twenty-one. He was older and had been trying to make a breakthrough in the music business for a long time. He traveled a lot but when he was in the Pacific Northwest, which he called home, we’d see each other. After a couple of years of that he suggested we live together, though he would continue to travel for every gig or business opportunity. He moved all his things into my little rented house. That went pretty well for a while. In fact, there were times it was a lot of fun—lots of musicians around, lots of music, a real party. We got married and he sang to me at our wedding. He also notified the newspapers and had a couple of photographers there. He was going to be the next Eric Clapton. I worked in a department store and he made a pittance on his gigs, barely enough to keep him in equipment and plane tickets. He did sell five songs to a big country star, they just never made the charts. That’s when I started to realize what a mistake I’d made—he made a hundred thousand dollars and bought all-new equipment. It was all about him. The big break that would set him up for life was always right around the corner. But of course marriage didn’t work. He didn’t want to be a husband. His music came first. He said, ‘I told you, Ginger—I have to concentrate on my music and I thought you were on board with that.’”
Matt gulped. Had he put the farm ahead of his wife? Would everything have been different if he’d given her ideas a try? “I’m sorry, Ginger.”
“Well, time to move on, right?” she said.
She was obviously trying to brighten up. He thought the pain of divorce must be much fresher for her. His phone vibrated and he looked. Lucy again. He’d call her later and explain he wasn’t in Portland and she’d have to find someone else for the night. He put the phone back in his pocket.
“Really, it’s okay...”
“Just my kid brother,” he lied. “I’ll call him back.”
“What if it’s an emergency?” she asked.
“If it was an emergency, I’d hear from Paco and Peyton and I’d answer for them because it would obviously be important. He probably has a work-related question. He’s working on a biochem degree. He’s researching.”
“Wow. You really do have an impressive family.”
He laughed. “So do you, Ginger.”
He walked her to her car. She told him again that it was the best apology dinner she’d ever had. “With my sister living here, we’ll see each other again. I can always apologize again.”
“You really don’t have to,” she said with a laugh. “Would you like a ride home?”
“No thanks. I like to walk, especially at night.”
“All right. Have a good visit then.” She put out her hand.
He pulled on that hand gently and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. Take care.” And he walked off into the night.
When he got back to Peyton’s house, it was kind of dark. They’d left the outside porch light on for him and when he went inside he found Dr. and Mrs. Grant were curled up together watching a movie. Peyton instantly put the movie on pause, flicked on the table lamp and sat up straight. “You’re back,” she said.
“I’m back.”
“Did you have a nice dinner?”
“I had a very nice dinner,” Matt said. “Have you ever tried the Cajun ahi at Cliff’s? Because it’s really good.”
“I meant with Ginger!”
“Did you realize that she’s Ginger Dysart of Dysart Trucking?”
“Who’s that?”
“The trucking company we use to take our crops to market. The company we rent our flatbeds from to take Christmas trees to market.”
“Huh. I didn’t realize.”
“You could’ve told me she was recovering from a divorce, just like me. I might’ve understood why you were acting so protective of her.”
“Well, it was a bit more than that. She told you about the baby?”
“What baby?”
Peyton sighed as if trapped. “Well, everyone knows. It’s been easier for her, really, since everyone knows and no one asks. She got pregnant and her husband left her, I don’t know the details. She said he didn’t want children. He wanted to devote his time to his career. So he left her.”
“Where’s the baby?” Matt asked with a sinking feeling.
“She moved back with her parents, had her baby as a single mother, and he died of SIDS at four months. That was almost a year ago. She’s just coming back to life.”
Matt thought he might throw up. “God.”
“She’s doing well now, considering. But you can see why I didn’t want you to be your tomcat self around her.”
“For the last time, I’m not a tomcat,” he said.
But he was. And he was damn lucky he hadn’t offended Ginger for the second time because he found her very attractive. Very desirable.
But now, knowing what he knew, he was going to get out of town and get back to Portland tomorrow. He’d make some excuse. He wasn’t staying the weekend, after all.
Three (#ulink_42e76777-54eb-51e3-936b-453535ce155d)
Grace walked around the great room of the new house. It was freshly painted. She hoped her mother would approve of the colors she’d chosen—ivory with dark brown accents in the great room. Taupe with just a touch of mauve in it, dark accents, ivory ceiling in the master bedroom. It was restful, she thought. On Monday they would install the kitchen cupboards and light fixtures and continue work on the shower in the master bath. The thing she thought was the smartest and most practical—a curved glass cinder block wall rather than a shower door for accessibility and also for the elegant design—that was taking the longest. Workers had spent days on that one small project.
Troy was taking advantage of a warm sunny Saturday with only a light breeze rather than strong winds off the Pacific to seal the deck and steps to the beach. The sealer dried so quickly he was already on the second coat and it was early in the afternoon. Sealer had been sprayed on the underside of the deck before Troy brushed on the topside. Spencer, their next-door neighbor and Troy’s colleague at the high school, was at work on the steps—fourteen from the deck to the lower level, fourteen from the lower level to the beach. The main level of the houses was thirty feet above the beach.
She found herself standing just inside the great room doors watching Troy. His jeans were ripped at the knees and he wore a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, exposing those biceps and forearms she loved so much. The jeans fit perfectly on his booty. He wore a cap to cut down on the glare, but he yanked it off regularly to wipe the sweat from his brow. He was just as sexy sweaty as he was all primped up.
He caught her staring and shot her that dazzling smile of his. “What are you looking at, little mama?”
“Dinner, I think.” And then she bit her lip.
There would be enough to do to keep them busy for quite a while, but she thought she could get her mother in the house in two weeks. And she suspected that her former skating coach, Mikhail, would be staying with them for some time. He had said, “I will come to this place if you could secure a little room in a cheap hotel. Just a bed is all I need—I despise to sleep on the floor. Someone should help get her settled. Winnie can be difficult. Then I will leave.”
Difficult? She could be a nightmare! But Winnie was ill now, losing her physical stamina, failing as ALS took over and the fatigue she suffered from made her more docile. It was true she had always listened to Mikhail. And Mikhail had said he was coming for two or three days and he’d been there over a month already. She’d better get that second upstairs bedroom and bath finished for him. She had a feeling Mikhail planned to stay much longer than he let on. There was an affection between Mikhail and Winnie that Grace couldn’t really identify. Not romance, certainly. Friendship, but more than the usual friendship. Partnership. Mikhail had been Grace’s coach for years, from the time she was fourteen until she was in her early twenties and quit competing, and through all that time he had stayed close to both Grace and Winnie.
Virginia, Winnie’s assistant, would stay in her position until that big albatross of a house in San Francisco was closed and all the possessions were dealt with. There were a few pictures Grace wanted for this house, but the rest of her mother’s art was going to a fine-art museum on long-term loan—it would be displayed as The Banks Collection. With the help of the now part-time housekeeper, some things were being packed and shipped to Thunder Point—just a few treasured pieces of furniture, some dishes, kitchenware, her mother’s precious bedroom rug, a valuable Aubusson. Then there would be an estate sale—the furs and most of the jewelry would be included. Grace would have to make a couple of quick trips to look through things—there were undoubtedly photo albums, books, mementos and keepsakes that should be preserved.
Virginia was looking for a roomy flat in the city where she could live and work until the estate was settled. Then Grace just might ask her if she wanted to continue to manage the estate after Winnie was gone.
Meanwhile, that handsome history teacher on the deck was trying to get a binding pre-nup. He wasn’t looking for half, he was looking for nothing. He never wanted it even suggested that he was interested in Grace’s legacy. That would be the money she would inherit because as of now she had a flower shop and about a year’s income in the bank, cautiously invested. Troy had been intimidated by Winnie’s house and furnishings. If he ever saw the actual bottom line, the net worth, he might stroke out.
Oh, they were going to make interesting neighbors. A teacher and flower shop owner, now expecting. A diva with ALS who would probably sit on the deck in a wheelchair wearing furs and diamonds. Full-time nursing help. And a little Russian coach who liked raisins in his wodka.
“Troy!” she called. “I think I’m going to do a little painting in the loft.”
He straightened and pulled off his cap. “You paint nothing! There are fumes. You can sweep. Or go arrange flowers. Or call your mother and tell her how helpful I am.”
“She already likes you more than she likes me,” she muttered.
“As it should be,” he said.
“Wow. Good ears!”
“I’m a high school teacher! I have to hear everything!” he shouted.
“And so do I,” Spencer yelled from the bottom step.
* * *
Matt Lacoumette had one of those grueling weeks where he had to be everywhere at once. There was fertilizing to do in the orchard—the flowers were giving way to buds of fruit and it was a delicate time. Some of George’s ewes had lambed but there were some late breeders ready now. He liked to shear the ewes to make their lambing easier, and Matt helped with that. Then they liked to get the ewes delivered so they’d be ready to breed by fall. Everything happened in spring and fall, over months—the planting, the harvesting, the pears, the grapes, the lambing, the breeding. And things were not going to calm down anytime soon—there was more shearing to be done after lambing so the sheep could grow nice coats over summer. On top of that, he had to teach a couple of classes before the end of term.
If all that wasn’t enough, he had to deal with Lucy, who kept calling him. Despite the fact that he’d been clear he was not in the market for a girlfriend, Lucy, like so many women, thought he’d change his mind. So she cried and he had to do his best to assure her there was nothing at all wrong with her—she was lovely and smart and sexy. It was him—he was not going to be anyone’s boyfriend. It was brutal.
And then, after leaving his last class of the week, he left the building to find Natalie leaning against his truck. She was sporting yet another hair color and style—this time it was jet black. The last time he’d seen her it was brown with red highlights. When they were together he’d gotten the biggest kick out of her change in looks, every variation beautiful. There it was again—he was feeling both lust and rage.
“What is it, Nat?” he asked.
“I thought maybe we could have a cup of coffee,” she said.
“Because...?”
“Because having you hate me is killing me! Please, Matt!”
He took a breath. “I don’t hate you,” he said patiently. It was a lie, he really did hate her. The problem was that he was also still drawn to her. He could love her if he’d just relax and let himself, but he’d be damned if he’d even entertain that notion. “We’re not having coffee. We’re not trying again or patching things up or being good friends. We thought we felt the same way about things and it turned out we felt the opposite way about important things. We made a mistake, Natalie. I have to go now. It’s been a long week.”
She didn’t budge. “And you have to get to bed!”
He ground his teeth. “I’ll call campus security,” he threatened. “And I’ll tell Dr. Weymouth I can’t give any more classes because his department secretary is harassing me.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“I would. I should. Now get out of here and please, no more of this.”
“But when are you going to forgive me?” she said, crocodile tears running down her cheeks.
“There’s something I just can’t forgive. Everything else is a distant memory, but that one thing—”
“God, who knew you were so Catholic!”
He clenched his hands into fists. They’d been over this, too. It wasn’t religious or political. It was his personal ethic about marriage, their marriage in particular, about how marriage had to work. There had to be give and take, they had to talk about deeply personal issues, they had to find a way to compromise. There had to be trust. They couldn’t lie to each other. They failed at marriage and it had nothing to do with his religion. As far as he knew every religion shared similar if not identical ethics.
He took out his cell phone.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Calling campus security. Then Dr. Weymouth...”
“Ugh!” she grunted, moving out of his way. Then she stomped back toward the building in her high heels with ankle straps, her short skirt and long legs more than distracting.
