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“Listen,” said Bob, “if you can’t take him, I guess I could drive him down to the shelter in Healdsburg....”
Dominic looked into the young dog’s liquid brown eyes. Once you looked into a dog’s innocent eyes, it was all over. “Leave him. I’ll figure out something to do with him.”
Bob shoved the leash into his hand. “You’re real good with dogs and people. I’m sure he’ll do just fine with you. Thanks a bunch, Dominic.”
Dominic watched him amble away, confident that the big pup was in good hands. Bob knew him too well. He knew Dominic Rossi had a hell of a time with the word no. “Charlie, eh?” Dominic said to the dog. “You look like a handful, but I’ll find a new home for you. The Wagners need a housewarming gift, come to think of it.” Kurt Wagner had just qualified for a mortgage under a program Dominic had instituted at the bank enabling military veterans to buy homes; maybe Kurt would be willing to give the dog a home. Doubtful, though. Kurt’s wife had a baby on the way, so a half-grown dog would probably be too much.
Checking to see that the leash was secure, Dominic looked across the rolling hills at the Johansen spread, the apple trees of Bella Vista in craggy rows along a distant ridge that abutted Dominic’s place. The pickers should be in full swing by now, but Magnus’s orchard was curiously silent, with no one in sight.
The thought of work reminded him he’d better get going. He paused for a few seconds more, taking a big breath of morning and telling himself to be grateful for the life he had, even though it wasn’t the life he’d planned out for himself. His career as a navy pilot had ended when a mission had resulted in a mishap. Now he was a single dad here in Archangel where he’d grown up amid the sun-seared fields and vineyards, a place for dreamers and bohemians, farmers and families. The landscape, wild and dry, was crisscrossed by roads lined with twisted old oak trees leading down to a postcard-perfect town filled with shops and cafés. It wasn’t exactly torture, being back here. He was growing grapes and making wine, something he’d always dreamed of doing, even though there weren’t enough hours in the day to do it right. Life was good—mostly—so long as he focused on the things he had rather than the things he lacked.
Charlie gave a noisy yawn and licked his chops.
“I know, buddy. Let’s figure out what we’re going to do with you.” He thought again of Magnus and his granddaughter Isabel. Maybe the orchard next door was silent because Magnus’s money troubles had finally come to a head. Feeling like the grim reaper, Dominic had recently hand delivered a letter to Magnus, his oldest and favorite client of the bank. The memory of their difficult conversation made him wince.
“I’m sorry. I’d do anything to stop this. I’ve argued and delayed as much as I could.”
“I know. You gave me several extra years.” The old man’s mild expression had been philosophical, devoid of fear.
Dominic had held foreclosure at bay until the bank he had worked for failed. The new bank that had taken over—a corporate behemoth—had not been so understanding. “Damn. I hate this business, but I have two kids and I need to keep my job.”
“I understand. I’ll sort things out.”
Dominic didn’t say what he was thinking, that Magnus was all out of options.
Magnus, as usual, wasn’t thinking of himself. “I’m sorry about what happened, Dominic. To your family, I mean.”
Dominic nodded. “I appreciate it.”
“We’re both due for a change of luck, ja?”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“I understand. You’re a young man, taking responsibility for your kids. None of this is your fault. Sometimes I think you’re taking this harder than me.” Magnus had wrapped a hand around the bowl of his ever-present burl pipe. He’d stopped smoking years ago but always kept the pipe in his shirt pocket. “Now. Did you take care of the will? You’re still okay with being my executor?”
“Of course, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want.”
Dominic nodded. He did his best to help. But sometimes his best wasn’t enough.
He gave the leash a tug and headed toward the yard. Charlie could stay with him until he found a permanent home for the pup. His phone rang, and an unfamiliar number appeared on the screen.
“Dominic Rossi.”
“It’s Ernestina Navarro. I’m at Valley Medical.”
Magnus’s longtime housekeeper. “What’s up?” asked Dominic.
“You heard about the emergency over at Bella Vista?”
“What emergency?”
“Old Magnus fell off a ladder.”
Shit. “No.” Suddenly his day was turned inside out.
Four
Tess’s mother didn’t return her call. This was no surprise. Shannon Delaney, on a work trip somewhere in the valley of the Dordogne and the Lot in France, was not the best at staying in touch. She never had been.
Before turning in for the night, Tess uploaded the pictures she’d taken of Miss Winther’s Tiffany set and the other treasures she’d found at the old lady’s house. Tomorrow an assistant would go over there to catalog everything and ready it for sale.
Tess tried not to think about the fact that she was going to bed alone again—always. She used to cherish her independence and freedom, but sometimes it felt more like loneliness. At least the scary heart rush had abated after she’d given the scones and cigarette to the panhandler.
She moved aside the clutter on her bed—yes, she lived amid clutter, as though the flotsam and jetsam of her life made the place feel less empty. Then she closed her eyes and listened to the clanging trolleys, sirens, the hissing air brakes of trucks, a distant train whistle. The noise and vibrancy of San Francisco was the soundtrack for Tess’s life. Having followed her mother all over the globe, she’d grown to love the sounds of the city, and San Francisco was her favorite. If you were going to lie awake at night, unable to sleep, there might as well be something interesting to listen to.
The next day, she didn’t even try calling her mother again, even though she wished she could tell someone—anyone—about her upcoming meeting with Mr. Dane Sheffield himself. Only Brooks, the office manager, knew about that. Her success at finding the Polish treasure was about to be rewarded. Everything she’d worked for, so long and so hard, was about to come into fruition. Sure, she could have used a pep talk from her mom, but she knew she could do just fine without it. She always had.
Rushing around the kitchen, she nuked a cup of water in the microwave for tea. Dunking a bag into the cup, she paused to study the pale green shamrock hand-painted on the cup. It was authentic Belleek, one of a few souvenirs of her childhood in Dublin.
Ah, Nana, she thought. You’d be so excited for me today.
Back when Nana was alive, Tess would have bubbled over like a pot, spilling the news about the treasures she’d found and her excitement about the sparkly, shiny possibility of a big career move. She and Nana had been thick as thieves, to hear Nana say it. When Tess was growing up, it had been Nana who raised her while Shannon Delaney traveled for work.
To be fair, Tess acknowledged that Shannon had tried to bring her daughter along on her travels. Tess knew this because one of her earliest memories was of flying with her mother. She was five years old and miserable with an earache, but by the time she reported this to her mom, they were airborne. Her eardrum burst at thirty thousand feet, trickling blood and pus while she wailed for the next four and a half hours. It was then that Shannon had decided that trying to raise a child while constantly on the go was impossible.
Tess remembered a powerful feeling of relief upon being delivered back to the Dublin flat. Of course she’d missed her mom, but Nana had been the home port, in her colorful apartment and a magical shop she owned in Grafton Street, called Things Forgotten. The establishment was famous for antiques and collectibles, and as a gathering place for aficionados. While Shannon was on the road, Tess used to spend hours there, even as a tiny child, hiding amid the vintage washstands and armoires, or under Nana’s massive proprietor’s desk in the middle of the shop.
Nana had left the desk to Tess, an impractical but utterly beloved legacy. The piece had gone into storage until Tess finished college and settled in a place of her own. She’d attended Berkeley, where her mother had gone, and went to the ridiculous trouble of transporting it. Now the desk rose like a man-made atoll in the middle of the main room, gloriously ornate with carved flourishes.
Tess’s earliest and fondest memories revolved around the massive piece with all its drawers and cubbies. She used to set up housekeeping for her dolls in the kneehole. She would swaddle them in blankets while listening to the murmur of Nana’s voice as she talked with clients or on the phone. The game of make-believe never varied. Her dolls didn’t go on adventures or travel the world in search of pirate treasure. Instead, they played a game Tess called “Family.” The siblings squabbled, the moms and dads scolded them and put them to bed. In Tess’s world, this sort of thing was high fantasy, something that couldn’t possibly exist. She didn’t have a family, not in the traditional sense. She never had.
At a young age, Tess had learned that it was not normal for a mother to come and go, in and out of her child’s life. She’d heard her teachers and sometimes the mothers of her friends speculating about it, exclaiming over Shannon Delaney’s work schedule and what a shame it was she couldn’t stay home with her child.
Tess vividly remembered a day when her mother was packing for another trip. Tess could still picture the paisley lining of the suitcase, and the gray webbing of the compartment that held all her lotions and makeup. There was a little wind-up clock attached to a picture frame, which held Tess’s school picture from second grade, her silly grin displaying a huge gap where her top front teeth had come out, both on the same day.
“Mommy, tell me about my dad.”
“You never had a dad. The man who fathered you was not a dad. He was just...someone I once knew.”
“Mirabelle says I’m a barstid.”
“Mirabelle is a mouthy little brat,” said Tess’s mom. “And her mother is a mouthy big brat.”
“Is it bad to be a barstid?”
“No. It’s bad to be a brat. It’s good to be who you are—Theresa Eileen Delaney, the first and only.”
“Then why would she say something mean?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Is it because I don’t have a father?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Sometimes when I see kids with their fathers, I want one in the worst way.”
Mom hesitated, then said, “Fathers are overrated.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means... My goodness, you ask a lot of questions.”
Nana was the one constant in Tess’s life. The two of them spent hours together in the shop. Whenever there was a lull in the day—and there was always a lull—she and her grandmother would have tea together, often brewed in an heirloom Wedgwood or Belleek china pot, and perhaps served on a silver tray. Nana loved old things and treated them with respect. However, she never kept them at arm’s length.
Filled with the warmth of memories, Tess set down an imaginary tray. Perfectly replicating the lilt in Nana’s voice, she said, “Put the music on, a stór. The quiet, slow music will make shoppers want to linger.” That was Nana’s pet name for Tess; it was Gaelic for “my treasure.”
Maybe it was the music, or perhaps some other magic; Things Forgotten had a special atmosphere that drew people in and kept them coming back. Travel magazines, guidebooks and even the New York Times advised tourists and collectors alike to pay a visit. The unlikely little shop turned into a success.
Another gift of Nana’s was her judgment. She had a shrewd head for business and nearly always made her margin. Yet every once in a while, she would let something go for a song, watching her profits walk out the door with a delighted new owner.
“Sometimes the true value of the piece is how much a person loves it.” Tess quoted her grandmother aloud as she rummaged in the desk, now thousands of miles and many years distant from the Dublin shop. She was looking for Nana’s ancient leather agenda to take to her meeting. Her planner and calendar were both on her phone now—her life was on her phone now, or so it seemed—but she still made notes in the agenda and transcribed them later.
A glance at the clock jolted her into action. She checked email and messages on her phone one more time; not a word from her mother. Typical. She shrugged it off; she didn’t have time to talk, anyway. She slowed down while passing the polished burl framed picture of her grandmother, which sat atop the desk. “Wish me luck,” she said, then dashed out the door, walking along as she sent a text message to Brooks, telling him she was on her way.
A half hour later, she arrived at the office, standing in front of a plate glass window, fixing her hair while trying not to act as if she had spent the past ten minutes in a taxi, yelling at the driver that her life depended on getting to this meeting on time.
It was the Irish in her. A flair for drama came naturally to Tess. Yet in a sense, her urgent need was no exaggeration. Finally, she was about to reach for her dream, and this meeting was a critical step in the process. She couldn’t afford to be late or to be seen as a flake, or unreliable in any way.
The San Francisco fog had done a number on her hair, but the reflection looking back at her was acceptable, she supposed. Dark tights and a conservative skirt, cream-colored sweater under a gray jacket, charcoal-gray pumps. She wore a tasteful necklace and earrings. They were vintage 1920s Cartier, a gold, crystal and onyx set on loan from the firm.
She shook back her hair, squared her shoulders and strode toward the entrance to the glassy high-rise that housed Sheffield headquarters. Checking her watch, she saw that she was actually five minutes early, a huge bonus, since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Oh, yeah, the olives from last night’s martini, the one that had preceded her elevator meltdown. Before heading inside, she stopped at a street cart to grab a coffee and a powdered donut, her favorite power breakfast. That way, she wouldn’t have to show up at the meeting with Mr. Sheffield on an empty stomach.
She wanted it to go well. This was the biggest thing that had ever happened to her in her career, opening before her like a magic door. It would go well. She anticipated a move to New York City, a significant raise and more of a role in the acquisitions process for the firm. The prospect of putting her student loans to rest and gaining complete independence gave her a fierce surge of accomplishment. Finally, after what felt like a very long slog, Tess felt as though she was truly on her way.
The only element missing was someone with whom to share her news—someone to grab her and give her a big hug, tell her “good job” and ask her how she wanted to celebrate. A nonissue, she told herself. The feeling of accomplishment alone was satisfying enough.
Clasping this thought close to her heart, she hurried into the building, juggling her briefcase with her breakfast-on-the-fly, and punched the elevator call button with her elbow. She shared the swift ride to the ninth floor with a young couple who kept squeezing each other’s hands and regarding each other in a conversation without words. They reminded her of Lydia and Nathan last night, moving to an inner rhythm only they could feel. She imagined herself having a boyfriend, calling him, bursting with her news. Okay, she thought. Maybe the universe was trying to tell her something. Maybe she was ready for a boyfriend, a real one, not just a date for the night.
Not today, though. Today was all about her.
She left the elevator and walked swiftly to the Sheffield offices. She shared space with a diverse group of buyers, brokers and experts for the firm. A competitive atmosphere pervaded the San Francisco branch like an airborne virus, and Tess was not immune.
As she pushed backward through the door, the paper cup of coffee in one hand, her overloaded bag in the other, the powdered donut clamped between her teeth, she fantasized about her upcoming meeting with Dane Sheffield, already feeling a dizzying confidence, even though they’d never met. He had grown the firm so that it was on a par with Christie’s and Sotheby’s, and she was now a key player. The two of them would be kindred spirits, both dedicated to preserving precious things, each aware of the delicate balance between art and commerce.
“Someone is here to see you,” Brooks announced from behind her, gesturing at a lone figure in the foyer.
Shoot, he was early.
Tess turned to look at her visitor. He stood backlit by a floor-to-ceiling window, his form outlined by the soft, foggy light from outside. His features were in shadow; she could only make out his silhouette—broad shoulders, a well-cut suit, imposing height, definitely over six feet.
He stepped into the light, and she caught her breath. He was that good-looking. Unfortunately, the startled gasp made her inhale the powdered sugar from the donut between her teeth, and an enormous sneeze erupted. The donut flew out of her mouth, dusting her clothes and the carpet at her feet with a sprinkling of white.
Both Brooks and Mr. Sheffield hurried to her aid, setting aside the hot coffee before it could do more damage, patting her on the back.
“She’ll be all right,” Brooks assured their visitor. “Unfortunately this is normal for Tess. She takes multitasking to the extreme, and as you can see, it’s not working out so well for her.”
“I’m fine,” she assured them, sending a warning glare at Brooks.
With an excess of fussiness, Brooks covered the donut with a paper towel as if it were a dead mouse, carefully scooped it up and deposited it in the trash. She tried to act as composed as possible as she faced the stranger. “My apologies,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’m Tess Delaney. How do you do, Mr. Sheffield?” He didn’t look anything like his profile picture on the company website. Not even close.
“I’m Dominic. Dominic Rossi.” He held out his hand. He had a slow smile, she noticed. Slow and devastating.
Tess had to regroup as she took in the man before her. “I was expecting someone else.”
Brooks stepped in and wiped the remaining powdered sugar off her fingers before she shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Sheffield just called,” said Brooks. “He’s running late and pushed the meeting back an hour.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rossi.” Tess tried to hide her sinking disappointment that this amazing-looking person was not her employer.
“Call me Dominic, please.” He had the kind of deep, sonorous voice that drew attention, even though he spoke in low tones. Tess could practically feel everyone within earshot tuning in to eavesdrop.
“All right, then,” she said. “Dominic.” Of course his name would be Dominic. It meant “gift from God.” AKA a life-support system for an ego. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t fun to stare at. Dominic Rossi looked like a dream, the kind of dream no woman in her right mind would want to wake from.
She had always been susceptible to male beauty, ever since the age of ten, when her mother had taken her to see Michelangelo’s David in Florence. She recalled staring at that huge stone behemoth, all lithe muscles and gorgeous symmetry, indifferent about his nudity, his member inspiring a dozen questions her mother brushed aside.
Now, with utmost reluctance, she folded her arms across her chest, walling herself off from the charms of Mr. Tall, Dark and Devastating. “So...how can I help you?”
“Shall I send out for more coffee?” asked Brooks. “Or maybe just disaster cleanup?”
“Very funny.”
Oksana Androvna, an acquisitions expert, popped her head above the walls of her cubicle. She spotted the visitor, then ducked back down. The handsome stranger had probably already set off a storm of workplace gossip. He didn’t look like most Sheffield clients. “My office is through here,” she said, heading down the hallway. She led the way, wondering if he was checking her out from behind, then mad at herself for wondering as she unlocked the door and turned on the lights. When she turned to face him, his gaze held hers, but she had the uncanny feeling that he had been checking her out. She wasn’t offended. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d do the same to him.
As usual, her work area was a mass of clutter. It was organized clutter, to be sure, though she was the first to admit that this was not the same as neatness. “I’m a bit pressed for time this morning—”
“Sorry to arrive unannounced,” he said, striding forward into the cramped confines of her office. “I’m not sure I have a good number for you.”
“I never gave you my number,” she said. But I might have, if you’d asked me.
He held out a business card. “I’ve been looking for you.”
For no reason she could fathom, his words gave her a chill. In a swift beat of time, she tasted the intense sweetness of powdered sugar in the corners of her lips, felt the cool breath of the air conditioning through a ceiling vent, watched it ripple through some loose papers on her credenza.
“Miss Delaney?” He regarded her quizzically.
She studied the card—Dominic Rossi. Bay Bank Sonoma Trust. “You’re a bill collector?”
