Revenge at Bella Terra (14 page)

“What type do I seem to be?” she asked frostily.

His mouth quirked. “Unpredictable—”

“—so I suppose I should have expected the dress.”

“I’m going to meet your
grandmother
. I can’t wear a grass-stained shirt!”

“Nonna wouldn’t care.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I was taught to have respect for my elders.”

“When you talk, I don’t usually feel the Southern influence or hear a Texas accent. But I heard it that time.” He smiled.

He was smiling more often, as if he were becoming more human . . . as if their intimacy had softened him.

Not intimacy. Just a kiss or two, and his touch on her breast . . .
Don’t think of that.
“So tell me about your grandmother.”

“She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s a great cook, and she raised me.” Brief. To the point. Not exactly friendly.

“Sounds like a nice lady.” Actually, Chloë now knew a lot about his grandmother and a lot about him. Last night she had surrendered to curiosity and looked him up online.

She’d discovered plenty about Di Luca Wines. Their Web site was beautifully designed, a charming stroll through the vineyard, winery, and tasting room, and the family bio had shown a photo of the three Di Luca brothers with their movie-star-gorgeous father and their graciously smiling grandmother. Everything about the Web site invited the viewer to wander through Bella Valley and taste the wines—everything until she reached Eli’s bio.

That
was dry as dust, a mere recitation of the schools he had attended, the awards he had won, his dedication to making great wines. His photo was worse; he looked like a romance hero facing a firing squad, his back against the wall: handsome yet resistant to publicity.

Then she’d found the other stuff, the nasty stuff, about his beauty-queen mother stabbing his movie-star father and going to jail. Those headlines were thirty years old, but big and easy to find. It hadn’t been so easy to figure out what happened to Eli afterward, but she’d finally decided he lived with his grandfather and grandmother until his mother got out of prison, and then went to live with her.

But he didn’t give his mom any credit for raising him, which brought Chloë back to that sense that everything about him shouted,
Private!
and
Dark secrets!

So what was she doing talking to him, listening to him, kissing him? She didn’t need those kinds of complications in her life. She had a book to write.

“Your light was on early this morning,” he said.

“I worked late, fell asleep, and woke early with more stuff in my brain.”

They turned off the main road and onto a long, paved drive lined with gracious, wide-branched oak trees and dark green rhododendrons.

“So the writing is going well?” he asked.

“Seeing the water tower yesterday, and the still, and the body, wrenched my mind out of the rut it was in and sent it careening in a new direction. I worked out my plot, got stuck again, went for a walk, and figured out the whole thing.”
I got kissed in the vineyard.
“The field trip yesterday was exactly what I needed. Thank you.” Good. Smooth finish.

“Talking to Nonna will give you more grist for the mill. She’s a natural storyteller, she never forgets anything, and she loves to share the history of Bella Valley.”

An old-fashioned white farmhouse with a tall porch and Craftsman-style detailing came into view, then disappeared behind the bend, then was back again. It wasn’t huge, nothing like Eli’s behemoth house on his very own hill, but it exuded comfort, a home that had absorbed the dust of a hundred and twenty years, seen storms and droughts, and had settled in to become an extension of the land.

Eli parked the giant truck in the wide turnaround off to the side.

“What a great house.” Rather than wait for him to come and help her, Chloë opened the door and slid down and out onto the ground.

As an evasive maneuver, it sucked, because as she mounted the stairs, he was there with his hand under her arm. “This is the Di Luca family home,” he said. “We leave, but this place calls us back.”

She turned and looked. At the flower beds that were planted with brilliant reds and yellows and cool whites. At the dark-leaved trees hanging heavy with oranges. And beyond, at the long, sweet sweep of the valley, where, in the afternoon sun, the colors faded from sharp green to a misty blue. “I can see why. This valley is beautiful, warm, welcoming, a community. Yet there’s room to stretch and grow.”

He looked at her sharply. “Yes. That’s it. Exactly.” Capturing her chin, he lifted her face to his and examined it, murmuring, “How is it possible that you understand so well?”

Flustered, she backed away. “It’s obvious that . . .”

He followed, put his arm around her waist.

“I mean, every person who comes here must feel the magic of the place. . . .”

He leaned close. His gaze captured her, commanded her, examined her, learned her . . . and at the same time, she felt the distance between them.

He wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to hold her at bay.

He was too private. He was too deep. She’d been in his company less than eight full hours, but beneath the face he presented to the world she sensed a soul that was bleak and pain-swept.

Retreat!
But fascination held her in place.

She felt his breath on her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed.

And the front door flew open and an elderly woman called, “Come in, children!”

Chloë stumbled backward, face flaming.

Calmly Eli turned to face his grandmother. “Nonna. You got your cast off!”

“This morning.” Stepping out onto the porch, she flexed her elbow. “Good as new.”

She was like a small bird, thin and lively. Her big brown eyes observed and approved. She darted forward to kiss Eli and accept his hug, then held out her hands to Chloë. “Welcome, dear girl! I’m Sarah Di Luca, Eli’s grandmother.”

“How do you do?” Chloë could barely slip the words in.

“I’ve been nagging Eli to bring you over. I hope you don’t mind, but you are my newest favorite author, and I’m so excited to have you in my home.” Sarah smiled, open and kind, gracious and warm, everything that her grandson was not. Taking Chloë’s arm, she led her into the house. “I have a delicious lunch prepared, but I warn you, you’ll have to sing for your supper. I want to know everything about how you plot your marvelous books!”

Chapter 18

“
M
y mother hated Massimo.” Sarah led the way through the afternoon warmth toward the arbor on the side lawn. “She said he was a gangster. But he was famous around Bella Valley. I heard he was not handsome, but it was the Depression—tough times—and he had money and spent it lavishly. He made wine, good wine. He gave gifts.”

Chloë walked with Sarah’s hand on her arm.

Eli paced behind them.

Lunch had been, as promised, delicious, eaten at the kitchen table with two of Sarah’s employees, Olivia and Bao. All three were fans of Chloë’s book, and they peppered her with questions and made her feel proud that her writing had connected so well with her readers.

Eli had eaten, but said little. Chloë thought he was not antisocial.

Probably he was sitting there smoldering with sexuality. You’d think it would give him indigestion.

When they were finished eating, Eli had suggested that he and Chloë take Sarah for a walk. They left Bao and Olivia cleaning the kitchen and, with Eli carrying a small basket, they headed out across the yard.

As they walked, Sarah told Massimo’s story.

“Massimo had no family,” Sarah said, “not in the Old Country, not here. He used to disappear for months at a time. He’d slip out of town, then quietly return. I remember my father saying Massimo had the luck of the devil. Then my mother would say it was because he had made a deal with the devil, and everyone knows the devil is not to be trusted.” Sarah turned to Chloë and said apologetically, “Massimo had disappeared by the time I was born, so for me this is all simply memories of conversations.”

They reached the arbor, white painted and covered with twisting and graceful wisteria vines. There Sarah and Chloë took seats on the Adirondack chairs overlooking the garden. Eli placed the basket on the table between them. He pulled out a small bottle of his own Miele cabernet port and opened it, then poured it into three tiny crystal wineglasses. He put a plate of chocolate-chip cookies between them, then watched with a faint smile as Chloë helped herself to one and took a bite.

“Oh, my God. These are the best chocolate-chip cookies I’ve ever had.” She took another bite. “Oh, my God.”

“It gets better,” Sarah said. “Try it with the port.”

Chloë glanced at them; they were scrutinizing her as if the anticipation of her pleasure heightened their own.

Chloë took a sip of the port, and another bite of cookie.

She closed her eyes as the flavors sang in her mouth, the blend of dense, dark chocolate, black walnuts, and rich dough paired with a port so potent that she tasted a concentration of berry preserves, orange, and spices.

In a whisper, Sarah said, “She savors her food and wine like an Italian.”

“I know.” Eli sounded as if he were smoldering again.

But when Chloë’s eyes sprang open, he picked up his glass and wandered away toward an artfully placed Greek marble column. He looked tough and capable in his jeans—they fit his legs and rear as if they’d been tailored for him—and his black T-shirt.

“Eli is a very handsome young man,” Sarah said.

Sure she’d been caught staring, Chloë glanced at Sarah in embarrassment.

But Sarah was watching him fondly, as if her observation had been nothing more than any proud grandmother would make. And maybe it was.

But somehow, Chloë didn’t think so.

Sarah was smart, and she’d seen that almost-kiss on the porch.

Sarah patted Chloë’s hand to get her attention. “But I was telling you about Massimo. Even my mother admitted his wine tasted like the promise of heaven.”

Chloë listened, enthralled, as Sarah’s voice rose and fell with the tenor of her tale, and Chloë’s fingers itched to take notes, to transcribe this tale into a story to be read and shared.

“When he gave the gift of a bottle,” Sarah said, “it was treasured, brought out for only the most important of occasions, shared with only the best of friends. He would make one barrel to be given to the sons of the valley on the day of their births, to be opened on their twenty-first birthdays.”

“Not the daughters?” Chloë nibbled on another cookie.

Sarah laughed. “There was nothing politically correct about the times, and certainly nothing politically correct about Massimo.”

“It would be too much to expect.” Chloë took another sip of port.

“I suppose you could say Massimo received justice. In 1930, his luck ran out. The revenuers finally caught up with him. They smashed his wine barrels with their axes. They should have put him in jail, but, because it was Massimo, they weren’t able to prove the wine was his. However, after they left, he managed to salvage enough wine for one bottle. One bottle only of Massimo’s last barrel.” For the first time, Sarah seemed to lose her pleasure in telling the tale. The sparkle in her eyes faded; her voice lost its lilt. “That bottle started the trouble, the trouble that has never gone away.”

Chloë leaned forward. “What trouble?”

“On the day my husband, Anthony Di Luca, was born, another son was born across the valley. Massimo rightly gave the bottle to Anthony, saying that because he was born first, he deserved the bottle. To the infant Joseph Bianchin, he gave a silver rattle. Massimo disappeared not long after. But in the Old Country and in this country, the Bianchins were always proud, arrogant bullies. They said that because Massimo liked them best,
they
should have the bottle.”

Chloë remembered the body in the water tower, and put the cookie down. “Is it possible the Bianchins killed Massimo?” She thought Eli was too far away to hear the question, but he turned as if listening to his grandmother’s answer.

“I never heard a hint of the possibility. The Bianchins, especially Joseph, are capable of murder, but they were always cowards, fighting only if the odds were overwhelmingly in their favor, or hiring thugs to remove those who displeased them.” Sarah’s lip curled in scorn. “Massimo was tough and smart . . . and dangerous. They didn’t complain in front of him, much less dare to raise a hand against him.”

Eli nodded as if in agreement, then leaned against one of the pillars and observed them from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

“Anthony and I married on his twenty-first birthday, and, of course, that was Joseph’s birthday, too.” Sarah’s smile trembled, and faded. “The Bianchins crashed our reception with guns and knives and destroyed everything.”

“Oh, no,” Chloë breathed, and covered her mouth in horror.

“They tried to kill Anthony,” Sarah said.

Chloë’s horror grew.

“But Massimo’s bottle was still safely hidden, so in that they failed.” Sarah lifted her chin in defiance.

“How horrible for you! What an awful end to your wedding day!”
How could anybody be cruel to this sweet woman?

“It was a long time ago.” But all too clearly, Sarah remembered—and she loathed. “Anthony survived, but he took his revenge every chance he got, by bringing out the bottle and showing it off to family and friends, knowing that across the valley Joseph was angry. I finally told him we had to drink it, to put the matter to rest, but he wouldn’t, and after his death, when I went looking for it . . . it was gone.”

“Gone where?” Chloë looked between Sarah and Eli.

“Gone,” Sarah repeated. “Those last few years, Anthony suffered from dementia. He hid the bottle; I don’t know where.”