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shit over the fact that she was supposed to be here two weeks ago and she hadn’t put in an appearance.
    He was pissed because he didn’t want her there, and more pissed because he needed her to show up or the IRS would put a lien on his land.
    He had spent his adult life making sure he was never forced to choose between the frying pan and the fire—and now here he was, trying to figure out the precise moment to jump.
    No matter. He’d learned early not to let anyone see him in pain, not even someone he’d known as long as he’d known Royson. Wiping all expression from his face, he said, “I’ll go and chase whoever it is off my land,” and started up the hill.
    Royson snickered.
    Damn it. Eli would have fired him in a New York minute, except that Royson was the best foreman in any winery in the country, maybe in five countries, with a gut feeling at any given time about what the grapes needed, a sure instinct of where and what to plant, and an uncanny knowledge of what each season would bring.
    So Eli would pretend he didn’t hear the snickering.
    The climb to his house was steep, through rows of vines that zigzagged up the hill. The bud break had occurred early, in late February, and the leaves had unfurled to soak up the sun. At the same time they had the fresh, bright, spring green color of new growth. He saw no sign of grapes yet, but he knew they were waiting just out of sight, ready to sag below the leaves, small and green, tightly bunched. . . .
    It was odd, but every year until he saw that first bunch of tiny grapes he didn’t truly believe the cycle had begun again. He needed to know that the earth, the sun, the wind, and the rain would collaborate again to create that most precious of miracles: a rich, heavy, fully ripened fruit.
    He could take it, mash it, start the process that turned it from juice to wine, delicate or hearty, fruity or spicy, glorious in all its incarnations. He was a master at creating wines.
    But only God could create the grape.
    Every year, until Eli saw God’s hand at work, he lived on the edge of fear that this year it wouldn’t happen, and Eli would again be nothing, a pawn in the hands of fate.
    The incline became abruptly steeper, and his house came into view, the house he had so carefully designed. His architect would dispute that, say he designed the sprawling, copper-colored adobe home. But Eli had known what he wanted: an Italian villa nestled into the hillside, cool and restful, on three levels, and with a view of the valley. The orange tile roof softly glowed, and the wide eaves protected the interior from the California sun. On the main level—the second story—the wide veranda ran the length of the house and overlooked the same valley as at Nonna’s, but from a different angle.
    He had allowed an interior decorator to work closely with him to pick out the furniture, insisting on comfort first, with a lack of fuss and frills. He wanted his home to be welcoming, restful, and his.
    As he crested the ridge, he saw the car, a blue Ford Focus, parked in front of the cottage. A blonde was lifting bags out of the trunk, but from a distance it didn’t look like Chloë Robinson. She was shorter than he thought she would be, maybe five-five. And thinner. Bony. “Geez, girl, eat a burger,” he muttered.
    She had dust on her clothes.
    Her complexion was pale, and as he neared, he saw she wore not a speck of makeup. Freckles dotted her nose. Her lips were lightly pink, as if she’d been biting them. And her hair—it was white-blond, straight and short, sticking up all around her head like a dandelion puff waving in the breeze. As she turned to face him, he saw that two pomegranate red strands sprang from her left temple and grew long enough to cup her cheek, and a sparkling blue stud was stuck through the upper part of her right ear.
    Juvenile. So juvenile. Surely this wasn’t Chloë.
    But the face was right: cheeks sweetly rounded, big brown eyes, and a warm smile. Her