As Lang drove through the gates of his parents’ ranch, past the Saguaro Valley Winery sign, he wondered if this visit was a mistake. It would be great to see Rosie, his sister, but since his wild high school days, his relationship with his parents had never been easy. Once he left for Middlebury, he had never returned to the Valley. Summers he found jobs in his beloved Green Mountains, or on the Maine coast. Now, he lived in Cambridge, in a house he had renovated from roof to basement, a home where he was comfortable, surrounded by friends and colleagues he enjoyed. No lady love at the present, but the breakup with Priscilla, his girlfriend since junior year at Middlebury, had been tough. It was almost nine months, but he wasn’t ready to take the plunge again.
It had been his fault, or so he thought. She wanted commitment, marriage, and kids and he wasn’t ready for any of that. In truth, life with Cilla had been comfortable, but boring. They had grown apart and seemed to want different things, and their interests could not have been more different. She loved fashion shows, cocktail parties, and the social life of Beacon Hill, where she had grown up. He made every excuse in the book to get out of the continuous party and dinner invitations she threw at him. He loved the outdoors; she hated it. He wanted to buy land in the Berkshires or Vermont and start a small farm. Cilla told him he was crazy and said that “four years in the boonies was enough to last a lifetime.”
He missed Cilla’s touch, her beautiful smile on a Sunday morning as they woke and made languid love before starting their day. Often they spent the entire morning in bed, reading papers, eating sumptuous breakfasts, and making love again before rising for showers and maybe a walk along the Charles. No sense dwelling on the past. Cilla had moved on, and he should, too. He had heard through friends that she was in a serious relationship with a hedge fund guy and that their engagement was imminent.
“Lang! You’re here. Finally!” Martha Dillon greeted him with open arms.
She looked well, her snow-white hair carefully coiffed. Dressed in her signature A-line skirt and white eyelet top, his mother looked a decade younger than her sixty-five years. As he hugged her, Lang was genuinely glad he had come, for her sake.
“Hey, Mom. You look like a million bucks, as always.”
“Oh, pish tush, you’re such a liar. Come on in the house and we’ll have Neecy get you a nice, cool drink.”
Neecy Rodriquez waved from the porch, her smooth, flawless skin, brown as a berry. Just this side of plump, Neecy had grown up on the ranch, played with Lang and his sister Rose, and now acted as housekeeper. The Dillons also had a chef, Jon Wilson, who had come to the Valley from Laguna Beach, California. A chef, not a cook, the attractive forty-something man had always wanted to live and work at a winery. He had a boyfriend in Tucson, but seemed quite content living above the garage, in a lovely apartment Martha had decorated especially for him. The Dillons were very generous to their help. Neecy lived in one of the property’s guesthouses with her husband, Manual, who worked at the winery.
“Hey, Neecy, lookin’ good!” Lang called as he pulled his two bags from the back of the Rover. He was rewarded by a huge grin. Neecy had always had a major crush on gorgeous, unattainable Lang Dillon.
“After your phone call this morning, we expected you earlier, darling,” Martha said.
“Had a slight detour.”
“Oh?”
“Beth Morgan was broken down on the road a couple of miles out of town. Stopped to help her, then dropped her at the ranch.”
“That was sweet of you. Did she remember you?”
He laughed. “How could she forget? I was probably one of her worst tormenters before I left town.”
“Nonsense, she’s a tough gal.”
“Not today.” He related the circumstances of their meeting and an abbreviated version of Beth’s breakup and decision to move home.
“How horrible for her. That Bill always seemed like such a nice man.”
“Well, he’s a first-class jerk, if you ask me. Cheating on a beautiful woman like that after ten years together.”
“Has it been that long? Dear me. Would you call Beth Morgan beautiful? I’ve always thought of her as rather a plain Jane, especially alongside her gorgeous brothers, and perky little Ruthie.”
That’s because you never really looked at her, he thought, but he let his mother’s comment go. No sense in starting an argument five minutes after his homecoming. He gave Neecy a hug, then followed the two women into the house.
“We’ve put you in your old room, refurbished since the last time you saw it. Hope that’s okay? If you’d rather use one of the other bedrooms, that’s fine, too.”
“My old room sounds good to me. I’ll throw these things in and come down for a drink.”
Without waiting for his mother’s reply, he took the stairs two at a time, already feeling suffocated in the vast, overdecorated ranch house. His bedroom had been painted, the walls a soft red adobe hue. A patchwork quilt in greens, reds, and golds adorned the four-poster bed, and the new rough-hewn oak furnishings included a dresser, two bedside tables, and a desk. The room had a solid, lived-in look, although, with four additional guest rooms, he doubted that anyone had slept in it since he left. The bathroom had also been redone in deep red adobe, accented with colorful Mexican tiles in blue, white, and red. He stepped in, splashed water on his face, and stared out the window to a view of the acres and acres of grapevines as far as the eye could see. He was home, or in his parents’ home, and all he could think of was his real home in Cambridge, and the beautiful, sad-eyed woman he had rescued moments earlier.