I chose the longer route to the villa, under the shelter of a trellised portico, rather than walking across the windblown courtyard. In summer it would be fragrant with the scent of wisteria twining through a lattice screen, and geraniums, impatiens, and fuchsia would spill out of old halved wine barrels and hanging baskets. My mother had designed the space to connect the barrel room and the villa, creating a central gathering place like the charming village squares she had known growing up in France. Often at the end of the day, if the weather was nice, Quinn and I would take a bottle of wine over to the low stone wall at the far end of the courtyard, where we could watch the sun slowly turn the vines bronze-colored before disappearing behind the Blue Ridge Mountains.
But today the wind cut like a knife and the air had the unmistakable smell of snow, so I was glad for the protection of the colonnaded walkway. There was only one car in the visitors’ parking lot, which wasn’t unusual for a Monday morning after the hustle and bustle of the weekend, but I doubted it was Gino’s. He didn’t seem like the type to rent a dark blue Toyota Corolla with a dented fender.
A heart-shaped grapevine wreath decorated with red and pink silk flowers, variegated ivy, and sprays of berries hung on the front door to the villa in honor of Valentine’s Day and the Roaring Twenties “Anything Goes” dinner dance fund-raiser coming up on Saturday to support Veronica House. Frankie would have put it there, and knowing her, she’d made the wreath herself, probably woven it with our own grapevines. She was like that.
It had nearly taken an act of God to persuade her a few months ago that her responsibilities at the Montgomery Estate Vineyard—she was now de facto running the entire retail side of our operation—were too much for one person to handle, even someone who, on her worst day, could make Superwoman look geriatric. Besides managing the tasting room and hiring all the staff we needed—not many people see pouring wine as a career-making commitment, so there is a lot of turnover—she organized our events, took care of off-site sales, and handled the ever-increasing need for publicity and promotion.
We hired four new full-time people in quick succession, and now the offices that Quinn and I used to occupy in the back corridor behind the small library, as well as the old kitchen, had been taken over by an accountant with a lot of tattoos, two sweet-faced motherly women who handled our Internet orders, newsletters, and social networking, and a new assistant manager, who had relocated to Virginia after spending several years in public relations in the sports world. Frankie moved into my old office off the library and Eli had handled the renovation, modernizing the offices and taking care of getting the place rewired for high-speed Internet. It was part of a deal the two of us had made when he and Hope moved in with me last year after his brutal divorce. His job had gone up in smoke, along with the marriage, so he’d set up his own architectural business in what used to be our old carriage house. In return for free rent, any design work needed at the vineyard or the house would be pro bono, along with supervising the construction.
Frankie was standing at the bar, deep in conversation with Skylar Cohen, one of the social workers from Veronica House, as I walked into the tasting room. Skye, who had her back to me, turned around and flashed a warm smile.
“There you are, Lucie,” Frankie said. “I was going to call you and let you know Gino Tomassi was on his way over to see you, but Skye dropped by and I’m afraid I got sidetracked. He did find you and Quinn, obviously?”
Of course Frankie would have seen Gino. How else would he have known where we were?
“He did,” I said in a noncommittal voice, ignoring her inquisitive look. “Thanks. Hi, Skye. Nice to see you.”
“You, too, Lucie,” she said. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are for what you’re doing for us on Saturday. Plus collecting all these winter coats.” She gestured to two full carrier bags next to her on the floor.
Skye’s wardrobe was usually an eclectic combination of Goth and army surplus, which intimidated some people until they discovered her big, compassionate heart and gift for connecting with the more mentally challenged clients at Veronica House. Today she had on a knit orange cap that let only a fringe of bright purple hair show, a camouflage jacket over a gray hoodie, a spiked leather neck collar, jeans with ripped knees that showed off black fishnet tights, and combat boots.
“Don’t thank me,” I said. “It’s all Frankie’s idea. And I’m happy to be helping.”
Skye picked up the carrier bags. “I’d better get back to the center. Father Niall’s a little flipped out with that audit coming up next week.”
“Is everything all right?” Frankie asked.
“You know how he is about paperwork.”
“If I can help…” Frankie said.
“Well, you’re on our board, so I’m sure you could talk to him about it.”
“I’ll call him this afternoon.”
“Sure,” Skye said. “Do that.”
After she left, Frankie said, “Let’s go into my office and I’ll make us some tea. I’ve got the space heater on in there. It’s warmer.”
The office still looked much as it had when it had been mine, and my mother’s before that, except for the collection of framed pictures of Frankie’s photogenic family—her good-looking husband, and a son and daughter who were both in college—which filled the credenza behind her desk. She sat down in what was now her chair and I took the wing chair across from her. It still felt a bit weird.
“Before Skye showed up,” Frankie said, hitting a key on her computer keyboard so the screen flickered to life, “I was going over the final numbers for Saturday night with Dominique. We’ve sold every single ticket. The fire marshal won’t allow any more people in the room.” She sighed. “I’d give my right arm for another server, or someone else to pour drinks. Dominique can’t spare anyone else from the Inn, since it’s Valentine’s Day and they’ve got a waiting list for reservations from here to D.C.”
Dominique Gosselin was my cousin on my mother’s side and the owner of the Goose Creek Inn, a local restaurant that had won every major dining award in the region for its imaginative menus and romantic setting. Fortunately for us, the Inn also handled the catering for all our events, since the vineyard didn’t have the necessary license to prepare and serve food.
Dominique had moved here from France to help take care of my wild kid sister after my mother died, and she, like Frankie, had been born without an off switch. When Frankie took over the job of planning our events from me, I had wondered whether putting together two obsessively organized, detail-minded women who each liked to do things her way would be like mixing oil and water. Instead, it was like a chemical experiment in which you create something even more powerful than the components, or as Quinn said, like combining nitroglycerin and diatomite to get dynamite.
“How many people have we got coming on Saturday? Just how big has this gotten?” I asked Frankie. For events on this scale, she still wanted to be the general running the show; her assistant manager had been demoted to lieutenant.
“Two hundred and fifty as of this morning. And speaking of big, I didn’t know you knew Gino Tomassi. He owns the biggest winery in the country. I recognized him the minute he walked through the front door, especially that gorgeous mane of silver hair,” she said. “What brought him here to see you and Quinn, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She gave me an innocent smile, but nothing got by Frankie.
“Quinn knows him from California,” I said in a bland voice. “He just happened to be in the area, so he dropped by.”
“Really?” She picked up a mug with World Domination Through Vinification stenciled on it over a grape-colored globe. “You’ll have tea, won’t you?”
“I’ll get it,” I said. “Give me your mug.”
She moved it out of my reach. “We both know you just ducked my question. And something’s bothering you. Does it have to do with Gino Tomassi?”
After that scene in our office, I doubted Quinn wanted Frankie—or anyone else—to know he and Gino were related, and neither of us wanted anyone to know the real reason for Gino’s visit, especially after his parting shot about what he’d do if we talked.
So I shrugged and said, “Nope. It’s nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Nice try.”
“Okay, Quinn and I had a little disagreement. No big deal.”
Frankie sat back and stared at me, twisting her shoulder-length strawberry blond hair into a knot and stabbing a pencil through it to keep it in place. “Of course. Saturday is Valentine’s Day, so why am I not surprised that he wants to hibernate in a cave? Lucie, he’s a good winemaker … a great winemaker, but he’s just going to keep breaking your heart.”
“It was professional, Frankie, not personal.”
“Sure it was.” She shook her head. “Tell me it’s none of my business, tell me to butt out of your life, but, honey, move on.”
“It’s none of your business. Butt out of my life.”
She stood up. “I’ll get our tea. Stay put.”
As she left, I called after her, “Where did I get the idea that I own this vineyard and so I’m the boss?”
When she returned, she said, “It is an open secret, from everyone here down to the day laborers, that Quinn chickened out of moving in with you after he came back from California.” She set down a mug in front of me. “All of us love you, Lucie. No one wants to see you hurt.”
I drank some tea. Chickened out. I hadn’t heard that one.
“Thank you all for your concern, but I’m fine.” I gave her a defiant look. “After five years of working with Quinn every day, don’t you think I’ve figured him out by now? Besides, with Eli and Hope living with me, it worked out better that he stayed in the winemaker’s cottage.”
Frankie arched an eyebrow. “Huh.”
She wasn’t going to back down. Frankie had an innate Noah’s ark view of the world and felt that we were all meant into to go through life in pairs, each of us with a mate.
“Look, I’ve got a full life, a busy life, doing what I love. I live on land that has been in my family for two hundred years, working with people I love and care about. Now that Eli converted the old barn into a duplex and Benny and his family and Jesús and his girlfriend are living there, plus the fact that Antonio’s fiancée has moved into his cottage, it’s like we’re becoming a big extended family. And there’s you, of course, and all the new staff we hired. Between our own events and all the community activities I’m involved in, I’m busier than ever,” I said. “I have a good life, Frankie. I’m happy.”
She picked up her mug and blew on her tea. “You didn’t mention Quinn.”
She was right. I hadn’t. I gave her a cross look and said, “Well, obviously he’s part of everything that goes on. We’re together constantly.”
“Huh,” she said again in that unconvinced way. She leaned across her desk and picked up a book—The Great Gatsby. “I just finished rereading this. For the dozenth time at least. I love this book, but it breaks my heart every time I read it. Why don’t you borrow it?”
“I read it in high school,” I said. “Like everyone did.”
“Read it again.” She pushed it over to me. “I love the description of the parties. You know Fitzgerald spent time in Middleburg, don’t you?”
I nodded. “I’d forgotten until you mentioned it, but, yes, I did know.”
Frankie gave the book one more nudge. “So read it, already.” She sipped her tea and gave me a Cheshire cat smile. “I have a favor to ask.”
And something up her sleeve. “What?”
“I’ve got most of the decorations for Saturday figured out.… We’re going to turn the villa into a speakeasy,” she said. “Everything will be black, red, and silver.”
I nodded. We’d talked about this already.
“I happened to run into Mick Dunne at the Cuppa Giddyup the other day when we were both getting coffee,” she said. “Did you know he’s got an old photo album that the Studebakers left behind when they sold him their place? According to Mick, they used to have some fabulous parties back in the 1920s.” She pointed to The Great Gatsby. “Like something Gatsby would throw … oceans of champagne, food fit for a sultan, a band with a sultry chanteuse from one of the new jazz clubs in Washington, guests dancing on the lawn, partying until dawn.” Her blue eyes were sparkling. “Mick said we could borrow the album. Maybe get some ideas or inspiration. I thought you could drop by his place and pick it up.”
Sure she did. Frankie made no bones about the fact that she’d always thought I’d made a mistake breaking off my romance with Mick a few years ago, but I’d learned my lesson, and ended up a sadder but wiser girl. He had a wandering eye and he could be fickle.
In every way, Mick was the complete opposite of Quinn. A wealthy, urbane Englishman, he’d owned a pharmaceutical company in Florida, which he sold for multimillions, then moved to Virginia with the romantic notion of buying a farm and becoming a gentleman of leisure. He admitted later he’d watched Gone With the Wind one too many times, especially the party scene at Twelve Oaks before the war.
He bought the place next door to mine, the old Studebaker estate, with its parklike gardens, elegant Georgian manor house, and stables that were known for horses that had been Derby and Olympic champions. Before long, Mick had his own string of thoroughbreds, half a dozen polo ponies, and a few foxhunters. He was a regular player in the summer twilight games on the old polo field and, just recently, became the new master of the Goose Creek Hunt, the oldest foxhunting club in the region.
He’d also decided he wanted his own vineyard, though to be honest, he was what we call around here a “trophy winemaker.” What he really wanted was a wine label with his name on it to show off at dinner parties. Quinn and I had advised him over the years, since we shared a common property line, but increasingly I’d watched him become less interested in the business of growing grapes and making wine and more involved with the horses.
I gave Frankie a challenging look. “Maybe you’re the one who should pick up that photo album, since you talked to him.”
“I told him you’d be by,” she said, putting on a pair of glasses and peering at me over the top of the fire engine red frame like a schoolteacher regarding a difficult pupil. “He’ll think there’s something wrong if you don’t go. Maybe that you’re avoiding him.”
“I’m not avoiding him.”
“So what’s the big deal, then?”
“Stop matchmaking. We’re friends now. Nothing more.”
“Then go see a friend,” she said. “Please?”
“Oh all right.” I picked up her book and reached for my cane. “I was planning to drop by Foxhall Manor to visit Faith Eastman this afternoon and then pick up a few things at the General Store before the snow starts tonight. I suppose I can stop by Mick’s, since he’s just next door.”
Frankie gave me a coy smile. “See you when you get back.”
I left, already regretting my decision.