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again,” the saleswoman called, in a tone that implied she didn’t care one way or another. Darby pushed open the door and headed for her car.
    ———
    Andrea Contento snipped another bunch of purple-leaved basil from the kitchen garden and added it to her willow basket. Once more she inhaled the herb’s rich aroma and sighed. It was the scent of the growing season, of late summer, and she never tired of it. She rose from her kneeling position, wiped her hands on her jeans, and lifted the basket. Time to make pesto.
    She strolled from the tidy garden to the stone patio, one of the many pleasing outdoor spaces at Contento Family Vineyards. An arrangement of weather-resistant furniture with plump cushions invited guests to sit, relax, sample one of the vineyard’s famous flagship wines, or take in the lush scenery. This particular patio was private, off-limits to the hordes of visitors who poured from vans, cars, and busses nearly every day, but there were plenty of lovely public picnic spots elsewhere on the grounds. The whole property was a showplace, a testament to the hard work and vision of generations of Contentos who had poured their time and money into the Ventano Valley land.
    Andrea paused before a hedge of rosemary that was growing vigorously in its sunny location by the rock wall. She admired the verdant spikes and broke off a small branch. Remembrance—that was what rosemary stood for. She glanced at the entire row and then frowned. One of the bushes was clearly sick, the tips of its needles an alarming shade of yellow. Aphids? Fungus? Or something else?
    Without question Rolfe, the estate’s gardener, would have some sort of non-toxic spray to counteract the disease. He was an expert and an expensive one at that, and the Contento family paid him well. After all, he was responsible for one of the most beautiful gardens in the valley. Andrea admired his skill, as well as the accolades her gardens received, but she had little patience with underperforming plants.
    She scrutinized the yellowing bush once more, then grasped its main stem and tugged. After a few yanks, the plant’s roots released their hold and surrendered to Andrea’s will. A burst of fragrance assailed her nostrils and she smiled. The scent was truly magnificent.
    A cleverly concealed compost bin hid near a blooming bougainvillea, and Andrea disposed of the plant, making a mental note to remind Rolfe to find a replacement.
    Brushing the soil off her hands, Andrea continued across the patio and toward the kitchen. Located just steps away from the herb garden, the country kitchen was set up for serious cooking. On any given day there were famous chefs from the valley and camera crews encamped amongst the painted cupboards, stainless steel appliances, and gleaming granite countertops, but on the rare occasions when Andrea had the kitchen to herself, it seemed a cozy and creative refuge from the bustling estate. She pulled a sky-blue apron emblazoned CONTENTO COOK-OFF from a hook in the pantry and tied it on her petite frame. Visiting hours for the vineyard were over, and the employees had left for the day. The house was serene; empty, with only the sound of the birds in the ancient gnarled apple tree to disturb the profound quiet.
    Andrea hummed as she rinsed the basil leaves and readied her food processor with the steel blade. She selected a bottle of olive oil from the pantry. The liquid inside was light colored, faintly tinged with green. She uncapped the bottle and inhaled its sweet aroma.
    The oil, as well as the pine nuts she now pulled off a shelf, hailed from the property, the nuts gathered from two old trees that still produced remarkably well. Olive oil was a sideline for the vineyard that was becoming more and more profitable. Plans to expand the olive grove had been in the works for years, but they hinged on available land. With every square inch of the estate’s acreage developed, there was simply no space to plant olive trees