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Francesca opened the door and emerged balancing a silver tray with pots of hot coffee and warm milk.
He seated Maggie, and Francesca poured her café au lait, heavy on the milk.
“Would you prefer less milk?” he asked Maggie, noticing Francesca’s heavy handed pouring.
“She likes milk,” Francesca answered firmly, passing a platter of sliced melon and another of warm pastries. “Milk is good for her.”
Niccolo didn’t comment and Maggie lifted her coffee cup, inhaling the steam and fragrant blend. “I’ve tried to give this up, but I can’t. I love good coffee too much. One cup every morning, that’s my limit, yet I do enjoy it.”
“If coffee is your only vice, you’re doing quite well, cara.”
“It all depends on your definition of vice, doesn’t it?” she answered.
He noticed the delicate pink blush staining her cheeks, her coloring so fine that even a hint of a blush made her vivid, exquisite.
“Amore, you’ve grown up. I don’t see how you could possibly have a vice.”
She shook her head, biting her lower lip. He stared at the soft lip with fascination and almost envy. There was so much sweetness in her, sweetness and mystery.
“I’m having guests tonight. A dinner party that’s been planned for months. I’m introducing my new Chianti. It’s one of the first American Chianti ever made with Tuscany grapes. I hope you’ll be free to join us.”
Meg’s second day with the Hunts was again spent in deep discussion. Though the Hunts were committed to renovating their century-old gardens, they found it painful to discuss removing aging trees even though they understood many of the older trees were diseased and dying. Most of the afternoon was spent working through their concerns and acknowledging their sorrow at losing such majestic trees.
Their great devotion to the land was something she understood. Meg sometimes felt trapped in New York, even though she’d chosen for business purposes to make it her home. There were times when all the concrete and asphalt made her head spin. Too much noise, too much smog, too much activity.
Perhaps that’s why she’d channeled her love of gardens into a career. People needed places of refuge. Sanctuary from the busy, modern world. Trees, shade, cool green places, these could restore one’s soul.
Meg’s eyebrows arched at her archaic word. Soul. It wasn’t a very modern notion, and yet nearly everyone called her a very modern woman. Especially her father. But when her father called her modern, he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
Her eyebrows arched even higher as she imagined his reaction to the news of the baby. He’d be upset, angry, disappointed—but not surprised. Certainly not surprised. He’d come to expect the worst from her. He almost expected her to fail him again.
Meg flexed her hands against the steering wheel, miserably aware that her cool relationship with her father was about to get colder.
She pulled into the formal gates leading to the Dominici villa. Valet drivers waved her over. She’d forgotten all about Niccolo’s dinner party, and approaching the stucco and stone house, she heard the sweet plaintive notes of a violin. The Dominicis always mixed music and wine.
Meg hesitated outside the massive front door, listening to the string quartet. It was gorgeous music. A piece by Pachelbel. The brighter notes were tempered by an underlying longing. Much like her own emotions.
Jared. Her father. Niccolo. Everything here felt so complicated. Coming home was the hardest thing she knew how to do. There was a reason she avoided Napa Valley, and suddenly she was in the thick of it, caught up in the intensity and the memories and sorrow. If it weren’t for the Hunts, she’d grab her suitcase and catch the nearest plane to New York. Right now the noise and glare of Manhattan seemed infinitely more palatable than this muddle of emotion.
The Pachelbel piece ended, and Meg shook off her melancholy mood. She was here to work, not to continuously examine her feelings.
Meg discovered Niccolo in the great room that had been designed as a ballroom. It was Niccolo’s favorite room for large parties and winery-related entertaining.
Although Francesca was present, tuxedo-attired waiters served the catered appetizers. Offered a tray of toasted Brie rounds, Meg accepted one and nibbled on it, watching Nic mingle with his guests. He wore a pale green suit and a crisp white shirt. The shirt was open at the neck, revealing a hint of his broad chest, his skin golden from hours in the sun.
He laughed at something one of his guests said, throwing his head back, his dark hair brushing his collar. Supremely male, Meg thought, as he turned to greet another guest. Beautiful, sleek. Powerful.
Suddenly he was looking at her. Their eyes met, and slowly one corner of his mouth lifted in recognition. She felt a bubble of warmth form inside her chest and she smiled back, pleased.
He broke free from the circle of guests and moved through the crowd toward her. Meg balanced the remains of the toasted round on a paper napkin, her appetite gone.
His arms encircled her. His face dipped. Her nose was pressed against the exposed skin at the base of his throat. She felt his pulse and the heat of his chest.
A tremor coursed through her as he lifted her chin, kissing both cheeks. “Maggie, cara, when did you arrive?”
He held her loosely, and yet she was aware of the length of him, his taut hips inches from hers, his strong chest brushing her breasts. Her nipples tingled. She tingled. “Just a bit ago,” she answered breathlessly, disposing of the appetizer on a server’s empty tray.
It was crazy to respond to him like this. She knew how he felt about her, knew he wasn’t attracted to her, and yet her body ignored her brain and flooded her limbs with warmth, filling her with a hot, languid need that had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with desire.
“You look tired,” he said, brushing a tendril from her cheek.
“Do I?” She reached up to pat her French twist, feeling better than she had in days. She hadn’t felt all that tired until now. In fact, she hadn’t been queasy once today. “Perhaps I should go upstairs and put on some lipstick.”
“Not to worry, you look lovely. Now come, let me introduce you around.”
Dinner was delicious, and Niccolo’s guests were interesting, but by ten o’clock Meg had slipped away from the festivities to her room.
The guest wing in Niccolo’s stone villa offered elegant sanctuary, and after a long soak in the sunken tub, and after lathering lotion on her skin, Meg pulled on her cotton nightshirt and sat at the dressing table.
Mark hated her roomy blue striped nightshirt. She’d taken it with her on their one and only weekend getaway. Later he’d gone out and bought her a satin and feather concoction that made her giggle. She remembered holding the scrap of fabric to the light. “Mark, what on earth is this?”
“You don’t like it,” Mark had answered flatly, his feelings obviously injured.
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just not me.”
Mark had told her to take it back and carelessly tossed the sales receipt at her. Realizing she’d hurt him, she’d tried to appease him. They’d ended up in bed.
They’d kissed before, but never made love. It was the first time they’d been so intimate, as well as the last. But once was more than enough. They’d made a baby, a baby Mark refused to acknowledge.
“There’s been no one else,” she’d told him, horrified that he even suggested she’d been sleeping around.
“I don’t care,” he’d answered bitterly. “I don’t want this baby. You can’t keep it.”
“You’re just angry.”
“I’m not angry. Because I know you’ll do the right thing—”
“Right thing?” she’d challenged.
“Yes, the right thing. This baby isn’t an option.” It was then he’d confessed he was married. He’d said he loved his wife and he didn’t want to hurt her and that if Meg kept the baby, it would ruin his life.
Ruin his life.
Her eyes burned, and she picked up the hairbrush, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out.
How dared he? How could anyone be so self-absorbed?
His life. What about their baby’s life?
Meg dragged the brush through her hair until her scalp tingled and her arm grew weary, refusing to stop until her anger subsided.
Thank goodness she’d never loved him. For a short time, she’d imagined she did. He’d looked so much like Niccolo, his Greek mother giving him the same hard features and dark coloring, but he lacked Nic’s strength of character, not to mention Nic’s morals.
Nic would never sleep around. Nic would take responsibility for his child.
Meg stilled, the brush hovering in midair. She had to stop doing that. Had to stop comparing every man to Nic. It wasn’t fair to other men, and goodness, it wasn’t fair to her. She’d never meet the right man if she continued to hold Niccolo up as some standard for manhood.
A knock sounded on her bedroom door.
Meg set the brush down and opened the door. Francesca stood in the doorway, hands on hips. “I saw your light still on. I thought you might not be well. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
“You left the party early.”
“Niccolo didn’t mind.”
Five minutes later, just as Meg prepared to slip into bed, there came another knock on her door. She opened the door a second time.
Niccolo stood in the doorway balancing a cup and saucer and a small plate of cookies.
Meg didn’t think she had the energy to smile, but her lips twitched anyway. “Housekeeping?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m very funny. You just have a terrible sense of humor.”
His lovely mouth grimaced. “This was not my idea.”
“Obviously. You know I hate warm milk.”
“The point is, I will not be making a habit of bringing you bedtime snacks.”
She didn’t know why, but his gruffness compelled her to tease him. “Are you sure this wasn’t your idea? You know I’m a sucker for cookies.”
“They’re biscuits.”
“Cookies, biscuits, same thing.”
“They’re not at all the same.”
“Like comparing apples and oranges.”
“No, not like apples and oranges. Like a Merlot and a Cabernet.”
“Of course. Wine. That’s all you ever think about.”
Niccolo’s expression darkened. She’d succeeded in aggravating him. “Do you like quarreling with me?”
Meg smiled impudently. “Yes.”
He muttered beneath his breath in Italian. “You test my patience.”
“Then don’t let me keep you.”
“You’re not keeping me. I’m choosing to stand here.”
“That’s right, you always have to win. Even if it’s just a war of words.”
“And you have to argue. You’re still such a child.”
Meg’s stomach began to cramp. Perhaps it wasn’t the Brie that had made her sick. It was Nic. “Like I said, don’t let me keep you.” With that she slammed the door shut, ignoring the surprised expression on Niccolo’s face.
Meg twitched in her seat, trying to keep still. She’d never been bored by a discussion on perennials in her life, but at the moment, she thought she’d scream if deadheading was mentioned again.
She closed her eyes, pressed her knuckles against her brow and forced herself to draw a deep breath and slowly exhale. One yarrow, two yarrow, three yarrow…counting yellow yarrow the way one would count sheep.
Some of the tension left her shoulders. Meg drew another deep breath and opened her eyes. She’d woken up feeling blue, and the blue mood quickly turned to irritation. All morning her nerves had been on edge, and Mr. Hunt’s rather long-winded discourse on deadheading had just about driven her mad.
What she needed was action.
She had a hundred and one things to decide, plans to make, and this discussion on gardening chores was getting her nowhere.
What she needed was a new apartment.
She’d been living in a quaint one-bedroom flat across from Central Park for years. The apartment had a squeaky hardwood floor, antiquated plumbing and a charming little terrace with a breathtaking city view. But the apartment barely accommodated her bed and sitting room furniture, much less a crib and changing table.
Yes, she needed a bigger apartment.
She also needed a crib. A car seat. High chair. A layette, not to mention diapers, ointment, powders and so forth.
Babies certainly required a lot of gear.
No wonder her old college friends had complained about babies being expensive. Meg would need a small fortune to outfit the baby’s room, much less pay for child care while she met with clients.
She couldn’t blame anyone but herself. She’d slept with Mark knowing the risks. He’d used a condom, but things did happen and, well, things had happened.
A nerve pulsed at Meg’s temple and she pressed two fingers against the spot, trying hard to stay calm, to sit still.
The truth was, becoming a single mother terrified her.
It was such a huge responsibility, such a crucial role, she couldn’t help being afraid. Meg had made her share of mistakes and she knew she’d make them as a mother. Her baby deserved the very best, but what if Meg wasn’t good enough? Strong enough? Loving enough? What if she said the wrong thing, forgot the right prayer? What if…
“Margaret?” Mrs. Hunt leaned forward to clasp Meg’s hand. “Margaret, dear, are you all right? You’re looking quite pale.”
She was fine. She was just a little nervous. But that was only to be expected. Even for a modern woman, having a baby was quite a big deal.
Niccolo glanced at his watch. The winery co-op council meeting should have wrapped up just after lunch. Instead it threatened to last well into mid afternoon. He shot a quick glance at his watch. He had another hour before he’d have to excuse himself.
