Twice in a Blue Moon (4 page)

The light from the dirty window fell on her heart-shaped face as she read. Flawless pale milk skin, her mouth a bit too wide and big, sad eyes. Not just the sad within them, but in their shape, tilting down a bit at the outside edge. She turned the page with long, elegant fingers.

She looked up, and their gazes locked. He recognized the pain in those big eyes from what he saw in the mirror every morning.

Why so sad?
He froze for a heartbeat, afraid he'd said it out loud.

* * *

A
RROGANT
AND
FULL
of himself.
Indigo studied her potential employee, not caring that he stared back. She had nothing to hide. Profiles like his graced Italian coins. He had a spade-shaped face: broad forehead, arresting wide-spaced brown eyes. There was a diagonal line through one of his heavy brows. At first she thought it was a razored fashion statement, but looking closer, she saw it was a scar. It, along with a slightly crooked nose, just made him look rugged. And a strong jaw narrowing to a squared-off chin only added to the effect.

Oh, Harry, your cameras would love this one.

And he
knew
how good-looking he was. He wore handsomeness as casually as he did his expensive clothes. Hollywood was full of men like this, bursting with charm and hubris. He had no way of knowing she'd been inoculated against that type years ago. “Why would you want this position?” She read from the résumé. “Cum laude in agribusiness from UC Davis, you worked your way up to lead vintner at one of the largest growers in the area within three years.” She dropped the paper and studied the man it supposedly explained. “You are obviously overqualified.”

“Actually, I'm looking to this job as a way of completing my education.” He leaned back, resting his hands on the chair arms. “I need to know how to start up a winery if I hope to own my own someday.” His eyes traveled around the dingy room. “No offense meant.”

“None taken.” She kept the wince on the inside. “I'm hoping our grand reopening will be
like
a startup.”

“‘Our.' Do you have a partner?”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “Not unless you count Barnabas.” Might as well scare him off before they wasted too much time; she had a lot to do today. “I can't afford to pay much.”

“What is the salary?”

She told him.

He wasn't as good at hiding winces as she was. “I have an idea.” His thumbs beat a cadence on the chair arms as he considered. “What if I accept your salary and we work out a percentage split of the profit?”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“If I can't increase the profitability of your winery, I only receive the salary you're proposing. But if I succeed, I get, say, fifteen percent of the profit I generate.” He stopped tapping and raised his hands, palms up. “This way you're assured that I'll do my best, because I have skin in the game. And you wouldn't lose anything that you didn't have to begin with.”

She searched for holes in his logic. “I'd have to think about that.”

He gave her a Hollywood smile. “Fair enough. Why don't you give me a tour and tell me your plans?”

“Follow me.” She stood and led him to the hallway. “Our wines have enjoyed a solid reputation for years. I hope to continue that.” When she stopped in front of a door, he opened it. “Since I have a background in yoga and massage, I plan to reopen as a boutique winery
and
spa. I think it would give us a unique twist.”

The room was long and narrow. “This would be great for my yoga classes.” She stepped in and flipped on the lights. “I'll install mirrors all along this wall and put reflective tinting on the windows for privacy. I'll wall off a small room at the end for massage and aromatherapy.”

“Really.” He didn't actually put his nose in the air, but his tone was the auditory equivalent. “I'm not big on all that new-age woo-woo, but you may be right. Rich women love it.”

Great. Arrogant and opinionated.
Well, he didn't need to approve of her—just respect her, as the owner. “Not only rich women. I'm going to encourage the local women to participate as well.” She pulled the door closed and led the way down the hall.

He's only the first applicant. Hopefully the next will be better.

“These are the manager's quarters. Barney and I are camping out here until I can get moved into the cabin at the top of the hill.” Glad she'd thought to make the bed this morning, she unlocked the door and stepped in.

He looked around, his gaze lingering on her open suitcase. “Nice.”

Of course her fuchsia underwear lay on top like a Frederick's of Hollywood advertisement.

Wondering if he referred to the apartment or her underthings, she stepped around him, walked across the room and kicked the suitcase lid closed, sure her face was the same shade as the lingerie.

“Why did you leave your last position?” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.

His assurance faltered as something flashed across his face—shock maybe. But it was gone before she could be sure.

“I'm the lead vintner at Bacchanal.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “They don't know I'm looking to take my career in another direction, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't contact them. My other references should tell you what you need to know.”

CHAPTER THREE

“I
SEE
YOU
'
VE
worked as an assistant vineyard manager...” She consulted the résumé before her. “...Craig. But I need more than that. I need a generalist.”

The earnest-faced young man leaned forward in the guest chair. “I know. But I learn fast. I thought I could start in the vineyard then advance.”

“I appreciate your aspirations and your attitude. But as you can see—” she spread her arms “—it's just me. I need someone who knows it all
.” And who can teach me.
“I'll hold on to your résumé for when I can affo—expand enough to require a vineyard manager.” She stood. “But thank you for coming by.”

The kid stood and extended a hand. “I hope you do keep me in mind. I'm looking for an opportunity to move up.”

From the office window a few moments later, Indigo watched his car peel out of the parking lot, leaving a haze of dust and desperation.

That was the last interview. The posting had run for a week, and she hadn't had a call in three days. As Harry would have said, “It's time to kill the engineer and start production.” But there had only been six applicants, and two had ended the interview when they heard the salary. One had the nerve to chuckle on the way out.

She lifted the three remaining résumés from the desk. The old man would be a great teacher, but with his huge-knuckled, arthritic hands, she had doubts that he could withstand the physical work required. She dropped his résumé in the overflowing trash can. The next looked great on paper, but two of his references had sung the same song about complaints from the serving staff. Sexual harassment complaints. Since the manager would live on the premises and Indigo's closest neighbor was a half mile away... She shivered, imagining a knock at the cabin door late at night. Or maybe not even a knock. His résumé followed the rest into the trash.

That left one. She studied the heavy ivory paper.

The arrogant Italian.

Yes, his attitude bugged her, but she was used to that. After all, if arrogance was a crime, all of Hollywood would be incarcerated. She'd checked his references. No one had a bad word to say about Danovan DiCarlo, from his expertise to his knowledge to his work ethic.

But something still nagged about him. Like the shredded remnants of a dream upon waking, something lingered, leaving her with an uneasy feeling and the memory of his sad smile. Her hands swept the papers on the desk into stacks, almost without her being aware that she'd done so. Whenever she was upset, her body craved movement, as if action could help sort the knots in her mind.

What was it about him?

For one thing, he's overqualified. He'll walk as soon as he gets a better opportunity.

But he already had a better job than she was offering.

How very convenient for him.

Are you looking for reasons not to hire him?

“Yeah, I am, kinda.”

Barney looked up from the blanket that she'd put in the corner for him.

On what grounds? A feeling?
What a joke.
She was batting O-fer when it came to being able to trust her feelings.

Maybe she should broaden her search to include the entire country. But that would take time, and meanwhile, money was flowing out of the checkbook with damned little coming in.

The chair squealed when she collapsed against the back. In spite of her vow to make her own decisions, and regardless of how it felt to cave this early, she lifted her phone from the desk to call in a lifeline.

Uncle Bob's baby was just too important to risk on
feelings.
Especially hers.

“The People's Farm. This is Sky.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Indigo! How good to hear your voice. Tell me what the winery's like. Have you settled in?”

Indigo could hear the bustle of the market in the background. The commune had barely been feeding itself when her mother took over and expanded the operation until they had surplus to sell. Her mother was half late-blooming flower child and half drill sergeant. The combination worked, for now the organic farmer's market she'd begun drew people from three counties.

“Not settled yet, but I'm working on it. First, tell me what's happening there.” She smiled at her mother's happy chirping about business and growing things. Wistful thoughts drifted in with her mother's voice, but Indigo knew that as much as her childhood had been peaceful and pastoral, she'd no longer be happy living that simple existence. Hollywood had stripped her of the innocence required for membership, and like a hymen, once broken, innocence wouldn't grow back. She shivered.

“Indigo? Are you there?”

“I'm here, Mom, sorry.”

“What's wrong?” Metal pellets of worry clicked in her voice.

“Not a big deal, I'm just calling for some advice.” She needed a lifeline, not a life preserver—her mother couldn't save her, only she could do that. “I'm about to hire my first employee. How can I know he's the right person?”

Her mother chuckled. “Lord knows, I made enough mistakes in the beginning to sink this place.”

“That's what scares me.” She wriggled in the chair to shake off her body's craving for movement. “How do you decide?”

“First, do your research. Then you take a leap of faith.”

“I was afraid you'd say that. I always sucked at the broad jump.”

“Indigo Blue. What's going on?”

She'd never discussed the dirty details of her life in Hollywood with her mother. In the beginning, she'd been too proud and embarrassed to admit that her pretty teenage dream had become a nightmare. After Harry, it had been easier to tell her a version closer to the truth. “Let's just say I've learned some things the hard way, okay?”

“Of course you did. That's the only way we learn.” Suddenly her voice barked, “No, Moon, not there. Put the radishes beside the arugula. It's more visually appealing.”

“You're busy. I'll let you go.” She didn't want her mother digging further into her past. Indigo's stories wouldn't stand up to more than casual interest.

“Honey, you know how to do this. Go to a quiet place, put on some soothing music and open some lavender oil. Just trust. The answer is inside you.”

“I will, Mom, thanks. I'll talk to you soon.” She clicked End. Her mother meant well, but meditation wouldn't fix the winery's problems—knowledge would.

She'd read through the
The Complete Idiot's Guide to Starting and Running a Winery
three times and had learned enough to know that she didn't know enough. Running a winery from a book was like a blind man attempting brain surgery.

Which led her back to the résumé that lay, front and center, on the newly tidied desk.

“Shit. Why am I putting myself through a mental rat maze? I don't have a choice.” And that rankled.

* * *

A
T
THE
SOUND
of a car engine, Danovan came back to himself and took a quick glance around the grassy hill dotted with marble rectangles. No visitors marred the perfect green lawn. Thank God. The family might have reclaimed his wife, but damned if they'd keep him from his daughter. He scanned the drive coming up the hill. He wasn't prepared for another confrontation. The cuts to his soul might have healed, but the scars were red and shiny, too tight.

He bent and placed the nosegay of baby's breath and tiny white roses on the headstone below the name Esperanza DiCarlo. He'd named her for the hope she'd brought, but the few months between the two dates below her name reminded him that hope was fragile.

“Sleep,
cara
. I will visit again soon.” He wiped a drop of regret from his eye and turned away.

He opened the door of his Range Rover and dropped onto the seat. The phone rang. “DiCarlo,” he answered.

“Mr. DiCarlo, this is Indigo Blue, of The Tippling Widow Winery. You applied for my generalist position earlier in the week?”

As if he could forget either the job or the husky quality of the owner's voice. “Yes, Ms. Blue.”

Her laugh was as smoky as her voice. “I think we'd better be on a first-name basis if we're to work together.”

Thank God.
He let out a breath it seemed he'd been holding forever. He'd sweated out the past four days, waiting for both the splash page on the Bacchanal site to be changed, wiped clean, as if he'd never existed. And for a call from Indigo, telling him she'd chosen someone else.

“That is, if you still want the job, based on the terms we discussed.”

“Oh, yes, I want it.” It might not be good form to smile in a cemetery, but his daughter wouldn't be offended; wine was in her blood on both sides. “I can start tomorrow, if you'd like.”

“Don't you have to give notice at your current position?”

Crap.
He'd been so sure he wouldn't land the job that he hadn't planned this far ahead. Thoughts ran through his mind in a blur, like a manic news feed. He snatched at one. “I put in notice after my interview with you.”

“A bit sure of yourself, aren't you?”

Her voice might be smoky, but he now remembered that smoke sometime came from ice. Dry ice.

“Oh, no, not at all.” His panicked brain snatched at another speeding excuse. “I'm committed to my new course. If you hadn't hired me, I'd have looked in Napa.” That was the truth—he'd planned to start looking on Monday.

“I see.”

His gut clenched at the silence on the line. He wanted to jump in, to convince her. But his father had always told him, “When you're in a hole, stop digging.” So he stopped.

After a lifetime of agonizing moments, she spoke. “How about tomorrow, say, ten?”

“Yes, of course. See you then. Thank you.” He hung up and started the car. If she thought that a vintner's hours ran on Hollywood time, she had a lot to learn. And for as long as she stayed, he'd teach her.

But he didn't expect that to be long at all.

He drove down the hill to the exit.
Oh, that's nice.
She's put her trust in you, and you lie to her.
When a wasp's sting of guilt hit, he soothed it with the vow that he'd fulfill his side of the bargain. He'd run the place to the best of his ability after she scurried back to the Cush Life. He owed her that, for giving him a second chance. Even if she didn't know she had.

He drove to the apartment that would no longer be his home, whistling a Paganini concerto.

This job would be a great do-over. He had every intention of doing it right this time.

* * *

I
NDIGO
SCRABBLED
THROUGH
the office desk's lap drawer, searching for the scrap of paper she'd seen among the ancient business cards, crumpled receipts and leaky pens. “You should have started on the cabin yesterday.”
Or the day before.
Odious as it would be, setting Uncle Bob's home to rights should be her job alone. But with Danovan reporting for work in the morning, she'd have to vacate the manager's quarters, and the only other bed on the property was in the cabin. She was out of time and needed help.

“Ah, here it is.” Squinting at the smeared numbers, she dialed.

“
Hola
,” a lilting feminine voice said.

“Hello. Is this Rosalina?”

“
Sí
, señora
.
Can I help you?”

“You own the service that cleans The Tippling Widow, right?”

“Yes.”

Indigo blew out a breath. “We need to talk.”

“We did not do a good job?”

“Oh, no. You've done a great job. That's why I'm calling. I need help cleaning the cabin on the premises. You know, the one at the top of the hill?”

“
Sí.
Señor Bob's.”

At the tenderness in the woman's voice, a bubble of sadness rose into Indigo's throat. “Yes, that one.” Her voice squeezed around the blockage, coming out skinny.

“But the manager, he no let us in there.”

“He doesn't work here anymore. I'm Indigo Blue, the owner. I'll be living in the cabin, but...” She searched for words that wouldn't scare the woman off. “It needs a good going over before I move in. Could you send someone today?”

Papers rustled. “No one free today. We can come next week. That's our normal schedule.”

“No one? Are you sure? Could you check again? I really could use some help.”

“I am so sorry, missus. No one today.”

Her heart shriveled to a small ball. She should have known it would come to this. It was her job to do, really. “You mean you don't come every week?”

“The manager, he tells us no.”

She couldn't afford it, but they were making and selling a food product; a clean facility was a must. And her time would be better spent learning than cleaning. She forced the words past the banker side of her brain. “Can I get on a once-a-week schedule, including the cabin?”

When they'd worked out the timing, Indigo thanked her and hung up.

One more call to go. “Cross your toes, Barney.”

The carefree mutt looked up from his blanket and yawned.

“Okay, a good-luck yawn. I can live with that.” But just in case, she threw a prayer to any god listening before dialing the next number.

“Yes?”

“Is this Sandra Vanderbilt?”

“This is Sondra.” She drew out the name, as if chastising the mispronunciation.

“Yes, sorry, Sondra.” She didn't stretch it. “I'm Indigo Blue, the owner of The Tippling Widow. I'm calling to—”

“I wondered when someone would call. Do not ask. I will not work with that vinous degenerate.”

Note to self—search Google for
vinous
.
“If you mean the former manager, that's no problem. He's gone. I understand from the records that you are the serving staff manager.”