Authors: Ashley Ludwig
Chapter Ten
Misty stood outside the hardware store, her purchases piled in a wheelbarrow-turned-shopping cart. Sacks of soil, fertilizer, pots of bright gold and burnt-umber marigolds, creamy wax-blossomed dahlias, and climbing red-budded ivy geraniums tucked in, around, and on top.
“You sure you can get all that in there?” Hank looked uncertain, hands set on his wide hips.
Misty eyed the ancient car, screwing her lips. The trunk lid heaved open revealing enough room to house a family of four. “Pretty sure.”
“I’ll have those wine half-barrels delivered in a jiff. Put a call in to my handy man.”
A sturdy, work worn truck rumbled into the lot. Misty raised her brows and watched as Cain climbed out, dusted off his jeans, a laugh already on his lips.
“Cain.” She turned back to the hardware store owner. “He’s your handy man?”
“Sure.” Hank rubbed his jaw, looking from Misty to Cain and back again. “Has been since he was a kid—not sure if he’s a better musician, carpenter, or olive salesman. ‘Spose he’ll decide one of these days.”
He turned to Cain. “Take those barrels up the hill to the Darling place, will you? Misty’ll show you the way.”
“My pleasure.” Cain’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Hey, there.”
“Hey, yourself.” Misty couldn’t help her bubbling laugh as he ambled over. She turned away, popped her open trunk and set in the fertilizer followed by the small geranium pots, and then slammed the lid. “What don’t you do, Cain?”
“Not a big fan of insects. You need a bug killed, best go find someone else.”
“Bugs. I’ll remember that.” A dahlia in one hand, the marigold six-pack in the other, she couldn’t help but watch while he worked.
He rolled and then muscled the well-worn barrel into the truck bed, followed by another. Back sturdy, solid, and strong.
Her heart jogged.
Cain heaved the giant sack of soil, his jeans tightening in all the right places.
She blinked, light headed, like a balloon on a string.
Dusting off his hands, he turned and caught her looking, though his expression remained even. “That does it. You lead the way?”
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the drive and set to work. He settled the aged barrels in place, one on each side of the front porch stairs. He crossed his arms, leaned into his battered pickup. “That ought to do it.”
“Not quite.” Misty filled the first barrel with soil, stepped forward, and plucked the little olive tree from its spot on the front seat. She dug her bare hands into the moist, dark earth and made a hole. The wispy trunked olive tree fell from its pot, all roots, no soil. She moved to plant it.
“Wait.” Cain stepped forward, hand on hers. “May I?”
She gave it to him, folded her arms, and watched as he kneaded the root ball. His hands mesmerized as they massaged and separated the tangle of white, ropy root strands with careful fingers. “There.”
“What does that do?”
“These seedlings were planted in these pots. It’s bound up now. You’ve gotta free the roots so they can explore new territory.” He settled the plant into place and tucked it in with more soil.
The plant looked so lonely there she added a circle of marigolds, mimicking his technique on each of the six plants.
Setting hands on hips, he nodded in approval.
She caught the slight frown he gave to the empty, matching whiskey barrel, but saw it vanish almost as quickly as it appeared. Then he turned, flipping truck keys in his palm. “Will I see you Friday?”
“Me?” What was Friday? Her mind whirred. Friday. The tickets. Cain Trovato plays classical guitar. Butterflies ascended from her belly to throat. “At your concert?”
He kept up his chin, gaze heavy lidded, warm, and focused on her.
He thinks I’ll say no—A thrill coursed her veins as she realized, for the first time in months, she wasn’t afraid. To her soul, she wanted to see him perform. “Absolutely.” A breeze tugged her hair into her face, obscuring her vision, breaking the spell. “Grandma would love to go. I’ll bring her.”
He blinked, stepped back, and nodded. “See you there, then.”
She stood at the front porch rail and watched his truck disappear down the drive.
Her heartbeat fluttered—butterfly wings. She’d been captured, caged for his keeping.
Could he possibly sense it, too?
Chapter Eleven
Misty fought for normal beneath the residual thrill. Cain. Her mind twirled with their encounter, replaying it over and again. She brought her grandmother a mug of afternoon tea, and filled her in with the day’s news. The Flower Field, the Raineer’s, and now Cain.
Nona sat at the well-worn, gleaming wood kitchen table. The tickets to the concert splayed out before her. “He did all that, for nothing?”
“As long as I promised to take care of that.” She pointed to the gray-leafed, slender trunked tree in its new home out front. “And to take you to the show.”
“Well, seems like the least we can do.” Nona idly poured, then stirred milk into her china cup.
A finger of worry wormed its way into Misty’s heart, watching her grandmother’s gaze flicking back to the dark computer monitor, while her hand just kept stirring. “What is it, Grandma?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I just got an electronic letter from Adele today.”
“An e-mail, you mean.” Misty fought the urge to laugh, impressed with her grandmother’s attempt to join this century.
“That’s right.” Grandma nodded. “Silly thing, Adele. She gave my address to an admirer of mine in Italy. He sent me the most lovely of letters.”
“You’re already getting fan e-mail?” Misty swallowed a mouthful of cold tea. “You’ve only been online a day.”
“Apparently, yes.” Grandma laughed, but there was pain behind her expression as she rubbed her curled fingers together. “I wanted to ask, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. You see, my arthritis is acting up and typing was taking an age.”
“Grandma, I’d be happy to take dictation from you. Let’s have a look.” Misty rose and turned on the monitor. What she read made her blush to her roots. “This isn’t just fan mail. It’s a love letter.” Misty swallowed.
Grandma giggled and plunked on the stool next to her. “I haven’t seen anything like it for years. Seems Adele took a picture of the four of us along with her, for old time’s sake. She showed it to this gentleman, and he’s positively smitten. Isn’t that the limit?”
“Of course he is. You’re a dish.” She read on, squinting so as not to glance away from the romantic discourse of the elderly. Nope. No easier to digest.
Mr. Giacomo had written Grandma a sonnet, quoting Shakespeare, Whitman, and if she wasn’t mistaken, some Jane Austen. He’d gone on about her beauty, her smile, how age had blossomed upon her like fine wine. While Misty’s head spun with the intimate words. Her heart tugged. She’d never received anything like it. Not from Todd. Not from anyone. She slid a glance to eye Grandma, noticing her cheeks pink, jade eyes sparkling.
“Isn’t he marvelous? It’s been an era since I’ve had such a letter.”
“Well, at least since Granddaddy.” Misty nudged with her elbow.
“I never read that sort of fan mail after I fell in love with your grandfather. I read—and believed—too many of them beforehand.” Grandma shook her head, expression solemn. “Wide-eyed, innocent, foolish child that I was.”
“We’ve talked about this…” Misty’s brows drew in concern.
“Over fifty years later, and it’s no different for those young things parading to parties and clubs. Now-a-days, the studios just spin it as exhaustion for the entertainment channels. Some things never change.”
Grandma looked out through the lace-covered window, and then turned back to Misty, her voice strong and sure. “I put everything in that box and hid from it. Like I could forget those horrible things ever happened.” She swallowed. “Silly, really. I’d hoped we could talk about it someday. As women.”
Misty tried to swallow through the building lump, but it wouldn’t go away. Her thoughts drifted to the hall closet, jammed full of contents of her and Todd’s collective memories. She’d forgotten Grandma’s box in her haste to leave—no amount of wishing would bring it back.
Now, Todd all but taunted her to call him again. To ask where it was, why he hadn’t sent it. Why had she brought it to his attention? Guilt twisted inside, a storm just waiting to break. Todd had a knack for finding dirt, and she’d delivered him a sack-f.
Misty cleared her throat and changed the subject, hands hovering over the computer keyboard like an orchestra leader. “What do you want to say in reply?”
Lips pursed in a secret smile, Grandma slowly dictated her thanks for Mr. Giacomo’s words.
Misty typed out each carefully spoken word, about how his thoughtful nature had touched her deep in her heart. Wishing herself under the carpet, she turned her thoughts to Cain. To her brief, stuttered flirtations with the musician, the olive oil sales-guy, the handy man. Just the thought of his crooked smile, how he tossed his hair out of his eyes when he laughed, how his subtle touch to her hand sent thrills to her heart.
She flexed her fingers as the letter ended, remembering his hands as he strummed the Gypsy Kings tunes on his pearl inlaid guitar. A glance to the clock, she sighed. Friday couldn’t come soon enough. Misty turned a heavy eye on her grandmother. “All right, lady. If I hit send, he gets this. Not in two weeks, but now.” Her index finger hovered over the enter key. “Like in seconds.”
“Amazing.” Nona sighed. “Like passing notes in school?”
“Just like that.” Misty nodded. “Are you sure you want to? You realize you’re asking him—all but begging him—to write you back.”
Grandma Nona blinked, as she fiddled with a pearl button on her blouse. “Yes. I realize that.”
“Okay, but—”
“Misty Darling!” Nona’s sharp tone cut to the quick; her expression softened as she looked her granddaughter straight in the eye. “I’m a flesh-and-blood woman, widowed for fifteen years. I’ve given birth to two fine children, one of whom is your father, and have practically raised you. I’m not a child, and I would appreciate not being treated like one.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Instantly, Misty reverted to the ten-year-old who’d broken a favorite vase during summer vacation.
“Now. Send the letter. Let’s see if Mr. Giacomo can top his last one.” She patted Misty’s hand and together they pressed send. “I think I need a drink of something a bit stronger than tea.”
“I’m with you.”
The two dissolved into laughter as Misty fetched the sherry. They settled onto the couch to sip their honey-sweet amber aperitifs, and wait.
Chapter Twelve
Tucked in upstairs, Grandma Nona snored softly from her room. Misty listened to the steady sounds of her breathing from across the hall. Each subtle exhale reminded that she, on the other hand, had tossed and turned until her sheets were in knots at her ankles. She flipped her night table lamp on. A pool of light pushed back the darkness.
She fisted the neck of her t-shirt, inhaled a ragged breath and chased it with cooling sips of water. Mouth still dry, her heart raced. Why couldn’t she sleep? What was the matter with her? Grandma’s love letter swirled through her mind, each word a vivid picture of everything she’d missed. Each memory completely different from any experiences she’d had with love and longing. Everywhere she turned these days, her biggest mistake appeared to haunt her.
Misty flopped her head back into her pillows, mind drifting back to San Francisco, and why she’d left. She’d given her heart and soul to the production studio she’d helped build. She worked for peanuts until the thing became a behemoth. She and Todd had been such an amazing team until—well, until she’d caught him in a lie. An unforgivable, and as-of-yet improvable, lie.
When she at last confronted him, things got nasty. Looking back, she had no idea how someone she thought she loved could become so manipulative, so completely cruel. She sat on the edge of her bed in the thin pool of light, with only the dimmest idea why she’d ever fallen for Todd. He’d been relentless in his pursuit, focused on her every need. For all his towering good looks and classic charm, his driving force remained a mystery that he refused to share. She’d mistaken his secretiveness for passion, fallen hard and fast for his dark intrigue.
They’d shared an apartment in the downtown district—the guest room supposed to be her editing bay. Instead, the room was where he spent hours going over her footage, or on the phone with his bevy of informants.
Todd worked all the time, and in the end, her only place to get away from him was the balcony. Afraid of heights, he also wasn’t fond of the water or of the sun. Her planned picnic to the Muir woods had ended with her dining alone on a red-checked blanket. She drank wine and fed the squirrels while he sat in the car, on his Bluetooth headset.
Truth? She reviewed each painful fact, raking hands through her loose and wild hair. The only thing Todd Rhenquist ever loved was his work. Research. He had a knack of pulling people up by the roots, of finding the hidden dirt, and an insane desire to expose it in the most tabloidesque way possible. He had no interest in planting things, or making something grow.
Her thoughts shot to Cain’s hands as he massaged the roots free. A tangle, long knotted in her heart began to unravel.
No. She turned off the lamp and scowled into the dark. Hardly the time to daydream about her crush. She craved the anger, wanted it, searched for it as she forced thoughts back to Todd, who’d been raised on privilege, was more interested in country clubbing and networking. She’d met him at an event. Had convinced herself that he was attracted to her, her brains, her skill as a producer, her ability to manage large scale productions—not her famous ancestry. He’d asked her to marry him after they’d won their first award, and she’d bought the fairy tale he sold her.
Her mind hooked on how he introduced her, when he remembered to do so. She’d be positioned at his left elbow, a demure smile on her lips, and wait for her turn to talk. He always got to talk first, because, after all, Todd knew how to pitch. He’d taught her, trained her, like a toy poodle.
In company, he’d usher her forward—his ace in the hole, especially when their funding ran low. You know my partner, of course. Misty Darling—Nona Darling’s granddaughter. Yes, the Nona Darling. Academy Award Winner from the fifties?
On and on. And the money always came. She gave him the promo gigs, happily avoiding the limelight to ensure the productions they embarked upon were meaningful and handled with taste, and care. The lioness at the gate, in the end, her sole purpose came down to keeping Todd’s exposés from going tabloid.
Her guidance had brought them their own slew of awards in documentary film categories. In spite of him, he’d say, and laugh at cocktail parties. She saw the anger behind his smile. She knew the cold shoulder he’d throw her once back at home.
She also realized, with his token engagement rock on her finger and neither one of them interested in setting a date, what that said about thoughts of the future.
Her mind spun back to that last day when she’d dragged off the ring and flung it at his chest. Why had she let things go on as long as they had? She would never let a man have that much hold over her again. She was a name to add to his laundry list of must-haves for his company, but what had she seen in him?
Todd appreciated finer things, like wine, art, and music. Could he play an instrument? She didn’t think so. She imagined him waving those manicured hands of his when he talked. His plethora of grooming supplies outnumbered hers by a long shot. Metro-sexual, all the way. Todd’s motivation was in tearing things down. People. Her. Could a man like that strum a guitar until his fingers were calloused? Would he drag a bag of dirt and plant a tree, or build anything of consequence?
No, but Cain would.
Flopping over, she punched her pillow rather than fluffing it. She hadn’t so much as looked at another man since he broke her heart. Todd broke her heart, tricked her, left her with nothing, all but destroyed her reputation both professionally and personally, and went on his merry way.
She’d handled his sudden and complete dismissal by disappearing. She vanished, left her job, her life, left everything in their apartment—save for the forgotten boxes—and ran away from San Francisco, from the limelight, and from Todd, back to Long Valley.
Grandma’s world was the perfect place to lose herself. She could focus on someone else’s needs, rather than her publicity-starved ex who’d used her and cast her aside like yesterday’s paper. She sat up, covers flying. Enough time wasted.
So, what about this insane attraction with Cain. He showed up everywhere she turned. What did that mean? Were some cosmic forces at work? For grandmother and granddaughter, alike.
Misty kicked her feet on the floor, focusing on her last encounter with Cain. Of watching him plant the tree, of the empty matching barrel. What was the significance of that? And, what about the concert? He all but insisted she attend. Sleep escaped her completely.
Biting her lip, she tilted her alarm clock into view. Barely four in the morning. Dark pressed at her windowpane as she slipped into her bathrobe. Misty negotiated the stairs with whisper-light feet, avoiding the squeaky step, robe dancing at her ankles as she felt her way to the banister. Opting for the dim bulb over the stove than the harsh overhead kitchen light, she heated up a kettle then placed scoops of fresh coffee grounds into the French press.
The laptop waited on the table, snapped shut. Secrets waited there. A world, accessible at the touch of a button. A world she’d managed to avoid for months. Like avoiding an addiction, she’d hid from e-mail—from everyone—keeping up with that fast-paced world only through the Long Valley Valley
Journal
.
A mug of steaming coffee in hand, she flipped up the computer screen and brought it to life with the press of a button. The start-up chimed like an orchestra. So funny that this little sound stirred something lost in her soul. Almost funny.
Almost.
The screen illuminated and Misty idly checked the in-box. One message waited—from Mr. Giacomo’s address. She chewed her lip, considering.
Did she wait for Grandma? Or did she go ahead and open it? What’s the harm? She opened the e-mail with a click. I’ll just print it out, and take it to Grandma with her breakfast tray…
An hour later, she swallowed guilt and cold coffee, and scrolled through the letter for the third time. She knew more about Mr. Anton Giacomo than she’d ever intended. The lovely Italian man had such a command over his English. He wrote of his villa in Tuscany, of the grounds of his estate with its rolling hills, low, rock walls—built by his own grandfather, and of his many groves with reaching, ancient trees that captured the light of the setting sun.
He wove a tapestry in words about his home, once full of light and laughter, now darkened and damaged with age—like his soul, he confessed. His children and grandchildren lived in California, his wife of fifty years taken from him a few years before. He watched the evil thief of Alzheimer’s steal the very memory of the life they’d built together.
All he had now was a connection with his grandchildren through the wonders of the internet, and friends to share good wine and break bread with once a week. Where—of course—he’d met Adele and her husband, Mr. Sincliare. He called it the luckiest day of his life, to sit next to the fair-skinned Adele as she waxed rhapsodic about her dearest friend, Nona Darling.
Anton suggested that he had no idea she meant the lovely starlet who he’d watched on the silver screen. Her sweet stories of the four friends meeting every week entranced him, brought him to laughter, and captivated his soul. He couldn’t help but think of a widow somewhere across the sea, perched on a hilltop, who believed love could give anyone a second chance.
That comment from Adele had made him pause. What good was an empty house unless there was music between its walls? Or, an orchard—if no one plucked its fruit? Neither one of them were children. They both had played the game of love, and lasted to the very end. They’d seen their partners move on to heaven, and were both merely going through the motions of living.
But Nona’s words made him feel a young man again. Full of strength and vigor. With renewed reason for living…if only to meet her. To touch her hand. To remind her that she was a woman worth living for.
Misty blew out a breath. A blush heated her neck as she turned away from the screen with downcast gaze. Here she’d only been alone for six months, and had doubts if she’d ever love anyone again. The heartbreak and betrayal weren’t worth it.
How long had passed since her grandfather had passed on? Ten years? Closer to fifteen? After almost fifty years of marriage—what must losing one’s soul mate do to a heart? And yet when Grandma spoke of Granddaddy John, she had love and light behind her words. Life had to go on, even when you were in your seventies. Why not? And what better reason than to leap into a new, blooming love, at any age?
She caught sight of the pale blue stationery covered in scrawling script. Narrowing her focus, she saw Grandma had planned for her to answer if a letter came before she woke.
After a quick scan at its contents, Misty chewed her lip. The two would-be lovers had the same notions. The same longings for companionship and—as she put it—someone to walk into the sunset with. Grandma had written of a renewed vigor since “meeting” him. She had her own lovely memories of Tuscany and its golden hillsides.
The words were filled with dreams of budding love alongside the pragmatic concerns of a woman—written, she imagined, late last night long after Misty crawled her way upstairs, one glass of sherry too many.
Refilling her mug with hot coffee, Misty glanced through the kitchen window at the dark, foggy morning and calculated the time across the sea. It had to be middle of the afternoon. The sun would be arcing over those Tuscan groves, painting silver leaves with the golden light.
Tuscany! Almost divine design, how her life kept winding its way to that piece of the world that she’d never seen. After keeping herself cloistered in this house, now all paths led to olive groves, Tuscan engagements, and an elderly gentleman, undone by her grandmother’s attention.
She returned to the computer. Her fingers began tapping across the keyboard, first hesitant, then flying of their own volition. Typing out the note that Grandma left took only a few minutes. The cursor blinked, mocking her to add more.
No one should be alone. Not when two lovers are so willing. Her heart whispered, and her head was lost to the moment. How long would these two dance around their inevitable meeting?
Her mind filled with the thoughts of Cain strumming his guitar, his rich, melodious Spanish rendition playing across her soul. What could it hurt? To add a line or two? She elaborated on Grandma’s note. Just a bit. And then just a bit more, until the page had filled with thoughts, fears, and desires that were hers alone.
Before she knew it, she’d compared Tuscany’s beauty to Long Valley, expressing how she longed for him to come see where she had made her life. She mentioned the film festival, and how she wished he could be the one to escort Nona Darling on the red carpet, and sit beside her when the lights turned low. The cursor flashed, daring her to say more.
Misty pushed away from the desk, heart thundering in her ears. What Grandma wanted? Or what she wanted. Somehow, the call of these two lovebirds had become a siren song, and much like Cain’s guitar, and the art session the week before, when she’d lost herself in their story. She pulled her robe closed under her neck, and stepped into the damp, foggy morning.
She could see the entire valley from Grandma’s hilltop home. The undulating hills of the olive groves on one side, the vineyards further away. The valley of Long Valley, between—dotted with brightly painted Victorian homes, sidewalks, and tree-lined streets. Homes still dark, residents snug behind curtain-closed windows.