Love in the Vineyard (Tavonesi #7)(27)

If she wanted a good father figure for Tyler, she’d have to wait until she found a man as good as Adrian. She knew she couldn’t have him. Wished it weren’t true, but knew it deep down. Not only were their life circumstances poles apart—she had Tyler. They came as a package. And the reality was that few men wanted an instant family, especially a ten-year-old boy who’d soon be a teenager.

But she didn’t want to think about reality right now. She deserved a little joy vacation. And thinking about Adrian was just the ticket. Maybe number seventeen had led her to her destiny. It wasn’t a perfect destiny, but she was thankful for where she was at this moment and grateful for the joy and blessings she did have. And for her time with Adrian. Even if it couldn’t last.

“Those oats are going to sprout if you keep stirring them like that,” Debra said.

Natasha looked at the mash of oats and butter in the bowl.

“I was distracted,” she admitted.

“Mooning is more like it,” Debra said.

Mary stopped spooning mounds of batter onto the sheet in front of her and raised a brow.

“Mom! Help me with this tray, it’s—”

He dropped an entire tray of chocolate chip cookies. The cat sprang from the stool she’d been perched on and stole one before Mary could grab her.

“Hot.” Debra said.

Tyler looked like he was going to burst into tears.

Natasha scooped up the dozen cookies that had scattered on the floor and set them on the counter. “We’ll eat those. Mary keeps a spotless floor.” She tapped Tyler with the spatula and winked. “We were going to eat that many anyway, honey.”

“Best get back to work,” Debra said. “Fourteen dozen to go, young man.”





The next morning Tyler chattered all the way to the town hall where several tables had been set up for the bake sale. Each team of two boys had chosen a different location around town.

“Look, there’s Brandon and his mom.” He waved. “Her name’s Monica.”

Monica Exeter was busy directing a woman stacking the trays of cookies she was unloading from Monica’s car on the largest of the tables.

“I wanted to write a check for the blasted bleachers,” she said to the woman carting the trays. “And I wanted to hire a pastry chef to bake all these cookies Brandon committed us to. But oh no,” she said with a shake of her silky blond highlights. “Brandon wanted to bake them himself.”

“I like cooking, Mom,” Brandon said. He lined up a perfect row of cookies along a tray on the table.

“Last thing I want is a chef for a son,” Monica said to no one in particular.

“What does he want?” Natasha asked, unable to resist an effort at championing the boy Tyler was so fond of.

Monica looked at her for the first time. “To be a pitcher. Not going to happen. His father went to Oxford and he’s going to Oxford. They do not play baseball in England, thank God.”

Natasha’s heart sank for little Brandon.

A woman in a sleek linen suit came up to the table. She bought three dozen cookies. Tyler and Brandon treated her like she was the Queen of England. She unwrapped one of the trays and bit into a cookie.

“These are heavenly. Oatmeal and chocolate and—”

“Macadamia nuts,” Tyler chirped. “I baked them.” His smile warmed Natasha. It always did. He glanced at her. “Well, Mom helped. And Debra.” He pointed to Debra. “That’s Debra. She’s a real pastry chef.”

“Really?” the linen-clad woman said. “We need a pastry chef.” She extended her hand. “I’m Margaret Thomas. My husband and I just opened a restaurant in Petaluma. Nothing fancy. Want to come by and have a look?”

Debra looked like someone had hit her with a stun gun. Tyler elbowed her hard.

“Yes. Yes I would,” Debra said.

They sold all but one tray of cookies. Monica was busily adding up the totals. The last two customers had made donations in addition to their rather large purchases. They were shills, maybe, but the intention was right.

“Two hundred dollars short of our goal,” Monica practically moaned. “Now can I write a check?”

“We have one tray left,” Tyler piped up.

A woman came marching up the sidewalk as if someone had set her on fire.

“I am so sorry I’m late,” she said to Mary. Leaning down, she spoke to Tyler and Brandon. “Looks like you did really well today.”

Natasha knew from her tone that she didn’t know how to talk to children. She had an accent, but Natasha couldn’t place it. She clearly knew Mary. The assessing glance she shot at Natasha made heat crawl up her neck. Maybe she knew that Natasha and Tyler lived at Inspire. Maybe confidentiality wasn’t the carefully tended boundary Natasha had been led to believe. Mary probably talked about the shelter with her friends, just as everyone talked about their jobs and their passions.

“We’re two hundred dollars short of our goal,” Brandon said with a long face. “The other kids might beat us,” he said with a plaintive look toward his mother.

“Well, I just happen to need two hundred dollars’ worth of”—the woman picked up the last plate of cookies—“what kind of cookies are these?”

“Chocolate chip macadamia nut,” Tyler and Brandon chirped in unison.