Chapter 2

Esteban stood with his back against the counter, arms folded in suspicion of the beautiful fresa sitting on the other side of the table.

Madre should be furious! So why had she insisted that he pull the woman’s Mercedes into the lane for her, as if she were too distraught to do it herself? What girl that age drove a car like that, anyway? And how was it that, in the time it’d taken him to round up the rest of the chickens, set a two-by-four against the hole in the fence, and come into the house, that ritzy stranger now sat in his very own chair, pinky finger posed like the Queen of England’s, sipping Madre’s hastily brewed chamomile tea?

“My favorite,” she purred to Madre, delicate nostrils quivering.

“Good for your nerves.” His mother reached across the table to pat her hand consolingly.

She’d just killed one of Madre’s prized Ameraucanas, and Madre was treating her as the victim instead of the perpetrator!

She was one of the prize offshoots of Xavier St. Pierre, the notorious grower, vintner, and landowner next door. Though he could see their house from his, he’d never gotten a close-up. Still, he’d been hearing stories about Chardonnay, Sauvignon, and Merlot all his life. Who in the valley hadn’t?

Madre had been good friends with Jeanne, the St. Pierre cook, for years. Jeanne had reportedly been inconsolable when the girls had been sent to schools “back east”—a term that brought to mind thoroughbreds and country clubs—after Xavier’s wife left him and died in a car crash in South America. When the girls—now young women—had returned from their respective schools last year, Jeanne had been ecstatic—even more so because the timing had coincided with Jeanne’s own daughter’s move to Portland.

Padre brooded every time Xavier St. Pierre’s name came up. He said just because St. Pierre had come from an ancient line of grape growers, he thought he knew better than anyone else about terreno. About farming. Besides, this was America! Everyone started out equal. Or was supposed to.

Without warning, the woman raised lashes long and curly as a tendril on a pea vine. Or maybe they were only magnified by her thick glasses. Even through their lenses, Esteban recognized the intelligent curiosity in her brown eyes. When her lips curled into a polite smile, his heart stopped. Was it her skin, translucent as the petals of an apple blossom? The educated way she talked? Or her rosy scent, sweeter than the honey she stirred into her tea?

Don’t forget what she did. That was his old wooden chair Madre had given her to sit in, her skinny butt only filling up half of it. He was struck by a pang of resentment, followed immediately by embarrassment when he eyed the chair from her perspective. He’d eaten how many meals from that chair—and only now noticed how badly its white paint was chipped, and that one of the rungs needed re-glued. He glanced down at his muddy boots, comparing them to her fine leather shoes. He made his living in the fields. There was no shame in that. Defiantly, he lifted his chin. What was she to him, but a privileged, pampered wine princess whom he’d never get this close to again? She wouldn’t be here now if she hadn’t destroyed one of Madre’s award-winning flock.

Like two old biddies, the women clucked away, their tones morphing from traumatized to apologetic to gossipy, all in the space of fifteen minutes.

Had Madre no pride? No family loyalty?

“I see Jeanne every Saturday morning. She’s my most faithful customer. I can tell you what she buys each season.” Madre began listing vegetables on knobby fingers. They were fairly clean now, but by August she wouldn’t be able to get the green off them no matter how long she scrubbed. “Asparagus and peas in the early summer. After that, pepinos—how you say it?” She frowned, glancing at Esteban. You’d think she’d know by now. But Madre was used to relying on his help.

Esteban’s eyes were busy combing over the human sunflower’s shiny-sleek hair and her lithe body in an effort to memorize the creature that fate had unexpectedly brought. Despite his determination to hate her—scion of his father’s worst enemy—her every movement captivated him.

“Esteban?” repeated his mother.

“Cucumbers,” said Esteban, his sole contribution to the conversation since he’d walked in.

She held up a triumphant finger. “Cucumbers! And basil, and mint. Then peaches, peppers, and melons. Arugula and kale, into the fall. And always, my eggs . . .” Back to the chickens.

All at once, the eyes and mouth of the out-of-place kitchen goddess flew open wide.

“Omigod. My meeting!” She glanced at her gold watch. “I’m late!”

Halfway to the door, she caught herself. “Mrs. Morales, I want to give you some money to replace Marlena, but my purse is in the car, and I’m already super late for a very important meeting. . . .”

Madre shook her head. “No, Señorita Sauvignon. I will not hear of it. It was a accident. You don’t owe me nothing. I will have Esteban fix the fence better this time.”

Oh, so now it was his fault?

“Are you sure?” But the toe of one mud-spattered lambskin shoe was already over the threshold.

Esteban stood at the door watching her jog to her car, certain she’d never pass this way again.

Madre wouldn’t let him forget about her, though. She’d be yakking about this for weeks. His resentment came roaring back and he felt his eyes narrow as Sauvignon St. Pierre disappeared into her car. If his shit-kickers had got her precious Mercedes floor mats dirty—well, too damn bad. He doubted she cleaned it herself, anyway. Probably had “people” for that.