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chair back and faced her computer, shoulders pulled back as if for battle.
    “That won’t be necessary. I know everyone has work to do here. Besides, I prefer the limo.” Alana turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “Would you also see if there are any rooms for late July at the Four Seasons in the Seychelles? It’s lovely there in July.”
    A good swim in the azure water of the Indian Ocean would do her good. Especially if Marcel could fly down and meet her. Maybe she’d take her paints. The lush jungles and blazing sunsets were always inspiring.
    “The fruit set tours are in July,” Peg said, turning in her chair to face Alana. “Surely you’ll want to be here for those. Enzo has growers from around the world booked for the tours and dinners. And I’ve invited key food writers; they love mixing with the growers.”
    Fruit set tours . Alana hadn’t considered the ranch in her summer plans, hadn’t intended to. But she didn’t have the heart to squelch Peg’s arrangements.
    “Perhaps I can find another time to go.” She started to explain that Peg shouldn’t make any more long range plans involving her, but the cool look in Peg’s eyes froze the words in her throat. Though they didn’t know her, the people on the ranch expected her to fill Nana’s shoes. Grief thudded in Alana. Didn’t they know no one could do that? Especially not her. Before she said something she’d regret, she stepped out of the office and into blinding sunlight.
    The past two days had been hot, hotter than usual. At least the nights cooled as the fog rolled in, making it easy to sleep. She’d overheard one of the staff say that it was perfect weather for the Pinot grapes planted in the west acreage.
    The rumble of tires jolted her out of her thoughts about the weather. Her brother Simon’s Jeep rolled up beside her.
    “Hey. You look every inch the farmer,” he said as he hopped out and hugged her. “Except for the shoes. Farmers don’t wear Prada. At least not on workdays.”
    “Talk nicer to me, or I won’t fix you lunch.”
    “You are the most beautiful, kindest, most creative, most talented —”
    “Good enough. That’ll get you a peanut butter sandwich. If there’s any peanut butter in this joint.”
    She settled Simon on a stool while she rustled up the makings for a sandwich.
    “Don’t suppose you want olive tapenade,” she teased.
    “With peanut butter?”
    “I’m told olives go with everything.”
    “Fire the marketing person. There are limits.”
    She stopped spreading the jam on the toast slices she’d pulled from the toaster oven. “Simon, I can’t do it. I can’t. I feel like I’m in some sort of charade. I mean, I want to honor Nana’s wishes but... she should’ve left this place to you. All I really know anything about is art.”
    He pointed to the original paintings lining the walls of the formal kitchen. Any one would’ve been a prize for a museum’s collection.
    “Plenty of that around here.”
    “You know what I mean. I’m not suited to any of this.”
    “But you always loved it here. We had some of our best times here in the summers.”
    She screwed the lid off the peanut butter and stirred. “I do love it—it’s a very special place. It’s just not my place. I’m much more comfortable in my flat in Paris or at my place in the outskirts of Rome. Here people are up and out near dawn. And they hardly ever leave the property. A couple of days this week I haven’t gotten farther than the house.”
    “The horror,” Simon said with a mock, wide-eyed gasp.
    “Be serious. And yesterday I overheard one of the staff say I was irresponsible. Even they know I’m no good for what this place needs.” She leaned her palms onto the counter. “Do you think I’m irresponsible?”
    “Is that a trick question? If I answer wrong will I get sucked down a trapdoor, never to be seen again?”
    “ You could run this place. Or Damien.”
    “Nothing could drag Damien back from Patagonia.