Love in the Vineyard (Tavonesi #7)(30)

“I came to California on a whim,” she said. “I had no idea how beautiful it was. I mean, I’d seen photos and seen footage in movies, but nothing captured the reality of this.”

He smiled, and the warmth of his expression curled an unspeakable delight into her.

She’d grieve when they parted. But she’d always treasure the memories of the times they’d spent together. She could pull them from her cache of thoughts and let them warm her in the loneliest nights.





Another limo met them on the runway in LA. She didn’t ask if this one was also borrowed, and he didn’t volunteer any information.

The Bolshoi. She was going to see the Bolshoi. Her mother would’ve loved to have been there. When they pulled up in front of the festively lit theater and Natasha saw the poster for the evening’s program, she imagined her mother not only watching the ballet in the beautiful theater but also dancing in it.

“Swan Lake,” Natasha said as Adrian offered his hand to help her from the limo. “It’s one of my favorites. My mother danced the lead several times.”

He tugged her shawl up over her shoulder. “It’s a favorite of mine as well. Your mother must have been a very talented ballerina.”

“I believe she was.” At least she was in Natasha’s memories, and that was good enough for her.

Adrian offered his arm, and they ascended the marble stairs. In Sonoma her dress had felt too dressy, but once they were inside the theater, the parade of fashionable women and tuxedoed men made her feel nearly drab.

An older woman in a sparkling gown with a train—a train—made her way toward them.

“Mr. Tavonesi,” the woman said, offering her hand to Adrian. “We are all so grateful for the gift your family gave to support this production. We couldn’t have brought the Bolshoi here without your help.”

Natasha wasn’t sure she’d heard right. But from the look on Adrian’s face, she was pretty sure she had. He was a Tavonesi. She had no time to wonder further because the woman rattled on.

“And thank you for the wine from Casa del Sole. You’ve done great work since you’ve taken the helm at the vineyard. I love the new labels, and the wine is divine. Truly divine. We’re serving it in the VIP level tonight.”

Natasha’s throat tightened as the woman’s words registered. Casa del Sole. Adrian Tavonesi. She worked for him! Adrian was her boss.

“It was our pleasure, Mrs. Getty,” Adrian said smoothly.

If he was uncomfortable about his identity being revealed, he hid it well. She, on the other hand, struggled to keep her face calm and composed, to hide the shock zipping through her.

He turned to her. “Mrs. Getty, this is Tasha…” He paused.

There was no way Natasha was going to give her real name. Maybe she could hide. Maybe she wouldn’t go to work in the morning. Maybe he was one of those hands-off guys who never showed up around the vineyard. She’d never seen him. But other than her focused work in the kitchen garden and a few quick trips up to the gift shop, her attention had been on her work. She hadn’t looked around much.

“Tasha,” the woman said with a broad, toothy smile. “Is that short for Natasha?”

Natasha nodded.

“Such a lovely Russian name. I do hope you enjoy the performance.” The woman looked back to Adrian. “And I hope you’ll stay for the reception.”

“We have to get back,” Adrian said. “We both have an early day tomorrow. But thank you.”

We. He’d said we. But there was no we. There wouldn’t be. Not ever.

A man walked through the crowd, hitting a chime with a rubber mallet.

“Show time,” Mrs. Getty said. “I hope I’ll at least see you during the intermission. I’d love to hear more about your plans for Casa del Sole.” She turned and melted into the crowd of bejeweled women and their escorts.

“Let’s go in,” Adrian said, as if the world hadn’t been suddenly turned on its edge. “I like to read the program before the performance. I always forget the plots of these ballets.”

Natasha’s head throbbed as they found their seats a few rows back from the front of the stage.

Adrian sat on the aisle.

“I like to sit up close like this,” he said. “I like to see the dancers’ bodies, the definition of their muscles. To me ballet is as tough an athletic performance as any.” He handed her a program. “You must know this story if your mother danced the lead.”

She did know the story. But her thoughts were crashing into her feelings and leaving road kill. The irony that the ballet was a tragic love story wasn’t lost on her. She could talk about the story. Maybe. She swallowed and marshaled her thoughts.

“The short version is that Prince Siegfried feels overwhelmed after his mother tells him he must choose a bride at the royal ball.” She took in a breath. “He’s upset that he can’t marry for love, so he goes off on a hunt to distract himself from his misery and sees a flock of swans.”

She knew the story so well, knew where it was going. And wasn’t sure she could continue. There were too many parallels to how she was feeling right that minute. Love found. Love lost. Why couldn’t the performance have been a modern ballet? Or one without such a clear message? One that wouldn’t torture her and mock the hope for love that she should never have allowed herself to feel in the first place? “Does the program have the rest of the story?” she asked, knowing full well it did.