CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
He jerked his head to the side to indicate I should follow him.
While I was ninety-nine percent sure neither Raven nor Midnight would hurt Sam, there was still that one percent of me that knew animals were unpredictable, and I shouldn’t leave my kid alone in the stall with them.
Especially without me or Tom in the barn.
“Sam,” I said, hanging my head over the stall, “we’re going to see the donkeys and ponies.”
She hopped up from where she’d been sitting in the straw, petted Midnight, and joined us.
“I heard a loud noise this morning,” Tom said as the three of us made our way across the small patch of gravel that separated the main horse barn from the smaller donkey one. “And when I came out, I found the hole Pinata kicked in his stall.”
I face-palmed. “Oh no.”
“He ran through the grass, into the trees, and then right up onto their porch. Ate that horrible woman’s tulips.”
Sam snorted.
My jaw dropped, but the corners of my mouth really tried to lift as the image of it all took shape in my mind. Brenda Pickford so deserved to have a menace donkey eat her tulips.
“He was so loud he woke them up. A child answered the door. Their grandson.”
Sam and I both stopped in our tracks and said, “Grandson?” at the same time.
“Yeah. Short kid. Bad behavior. Clouse? Claude? Clem?”
“Clyde?” Sam whispered.
Tom nodded. “Yeah, that sounds right. Started screaming because he couldn’t pet Pinata. And Pinata even tried to bite him.”
“I wish he had,” Sam grumbled.
“Yeah, yeah, the kid deserves to get bitten by a donkey. Can we please circle back to the fact that Clyde is your principal’s grandson?
” I said. “No wonder he thinks he’s untouchable at that school.
Because he basically is.” I smacked my forehead with my palm again, then shook my head, anger bubbling up hot across my chest. “This makes so much sense now. Otto’s going to let Clyde get away with murder because they’re family.
And if Otto agrees that Clyde is problematic, he’s basically admitting guilt that his son or daughter is a shit parent.
Which ultimately reflects badly on him. And we all know nothing is ever Otto Pickford’s fault. ”
“How’d you get Pinata back?” Sam asked.
Why wasn’t my child more distraught at this massive revelation?
We might not know the root of Clyde’s disdain toward my kid, but at least we knew why he continued to be such a terror.
I needed to let other parents know. I needed to alert the media.
Take out a billboard ad at the ferry terminal.
Everyone needed to know this hidden connection and how it was negatively impacting the school—nay—the island.
“Your principal whacked him with a shoehorn, and he ran back home. Dragging me down the porch steps in the process.” He winced just a little.
I glanced down at Tom’s legs. Why did I only notice now that he was limping?
Scraping my fingers through my hair, I brushed it away from my face with both hands, and held it there for a moment, then turned toward the water, allowing the salty breeze to calm my ire. “I wonder how many other people on the island know about Otto and Clyde’s connection?”
Tom shrugged. “They’re a terrible family. Makes me feel less guilty for not meeting my neighbors. The big one, the principal, he basically asked me for my citizenship papers.”
We’d started walking again, reaching the door to the donkey barn, but I stopped and gaped at him. “No.”
“Si. Why would I lie?”
“That’s not … I don’t think you’d lie. It’s more … I just am stunned.”
He merely nodded, held the door open for us, and let us walk ahead of him. “I am glad Pinata ate her tulips. Do you know this Clyde child?” he asked Sam.
Her face went pale, and she glanced down at her feet as the door closed behind us. All the donkeys and ponies were out in the field, but the scent of fresh hay and manure hung heavy in the air.
“Samantha?” Tom probed when she didn’t answer.
“He’s her bully,” I said. “Kid is horrible. And now we know why he gets away with tormenting his classmates. Because he’s untouchable.”
“Nobody is untouchable when they behave like a donkey’s butt,” Tom said. He opened up one of the stalls and pointed to the enormous hole kicked into the back wall.
“Oh my god,” I breathed.
“I love animals, but not that one so much,” he murmured, shaking his head. “He makes my head hurt.”
“Can I go back and see Midnight?” Sam asked.
Tom and I both nodded, then followed her back to the main barn. His speed was slower, and he favored his right side. I could tell he was trying not to limp, and winced a little when he didn’t favor his knee the way he should.
“You should go rest,” I said, once we arrived back in the main barn and Sam went in to see Midnight and Raven. “We can help out here, I’m sure. You need to ice your knees.”
“Is but a wound of the flesh; I will live for many years to come.”
Rolling my eyes at his poetic stoicism, I smiled.
“And I’m glad for that, but still. You had a rough morning, and need to rest.” Then I remembered the fact that he’d hardly eaten anything yesterday.
Was today the same? If Pinata broke free so early in the morning, had Tom been out here since then?
Did he forget breakfast and lunch? “Have you eaten?” I asked.
“I had oatmeal and blueberries for breakfast.”
“At what time?”
He shrugged. “Eight?”
“That was ages ago. You need to eat.”
“I will eat.”
“You sure do like to argue.”
His mouth twitched. “Not usually. But I do like to banter with you.”
Heat filled my cheeks, and I glanced away from him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Go put your legs up, Tom. Sam and I can help out here.”
“It’s true, we can,” Sam piped up from inside the stall.
“I’ll eat if you both stay for dinner,” he finally said. “Let me cook for you as a way to say thank you for all of your help.”
“Can we eat out here in the barn?” Sam asked.
Like two parents totally in sync, Tom and I said, “No,” at the exact same time.
It was odd enough even to my kid that she popped her head over the stall. “That was weird.”
Yeah, it was.
I glanced at Tom, his brown eyes sparkling with hope.
Sam was bouncing up and down on her toes in Midnight’s stall, waiting for me to answer.
I sighed. “Fine. But you need to let me help.”
Tom grinned. “We will see.”
“Please let me help,” I pleaded with Tom as he stood in his kitchen with the copper pots hanging over the island, and the scent of garlic and herbs making my mouth water.
“Do you know how to make gnocchi?” he asked.
I glanced down at my feet. “No.”
“So then you are as useful to me as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.” He grinned wide and oh so sexy before making his way over to a lower cupboard near the French doors that led to the sundeck. “Do you drink wine?”
I scoffed. “I run a winery.”
“And I run a farm, but I don’t eat the animals.”
Rolling my eyes, I shook my head and smiled. “Yes, I drink wine.”
“I am a wine snob.” He brought over a bottle of red. “Only Italian wine touches my lips.”
Sam gasped from where she sat on the floor in the living room playing with Portia, who seemed keen to have someone to show her tricks to in exchange for treats. “Mom, did you hear that?”
“I did,” I said, giving another head shake. “That is some serious snobbery right there.”
“Maybe he just needs to try our wine,” Sam added. “We’ll bring you some tomorrow.” She scratched behind Portia’s ears when the pig correctly identified which cup had the little toy under it.
Tom popped the cork on the bottle and poured a small splash into a stemless glass, then handed it to me. “Tell me that is not the most delicious thing you’ve ever had on your tongue.”
Ooh, if I were Naomi or Raina, I would have made a cheeky, sexual comment.
But I wasn’t, and my child was in the living room.
So I let the innuendo fodder slide and didn’t bite.
Instead, I just put the glass under my nose, took a long, deep inhale and allowed the rich, almost chocolatey aroma to fill my lungs.
Then I held it up to the light to check the color, and finally, I swirled the wine around in the glass enough to give it “legs” which was the term for the rivulets that ran back down into the bottom.
Tom watched me the entire time with slightly veiled appreciation on his face.
Only then, after I determined it smelled great, had nice legs and good color, did I take a small sip.
Swishing it gently around on my tongue, I didn’t swallow right away.
I let it hit every corner, every tastebud.
Then I let it slide down my throat, and slowly pulled cool air in through my lips to truly experience all the flavors.
“And?” Tom asked. “Does it pass your thorough inspection?”
I kept him on read for a moment before finally shrugging and feigning nonchalance. “It’s fine, I guess.” It was delicious. Absolutely spectacular. But I couldn’t tell him that.
His eyebrows nearly flew off his forehead. “Fine? Fine?”
Sam giggled from the living room.
“This wine is not fine. It is a gift from God—if I were a religious man, of course.”
“I mean, I’ll have more, if that’s what you’re getting at.” I finished what was in my glass and held the empty vessel out for more. “Don’t dump the bottle out or anything.” I waggled the glass.
Grinning wide enough to cause dimples to form beneath his salt-and-pepper scruff, he shook a finger at me in mock scolding as he poured me more. “I would be less outraged if you condemned the pope,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart.
Of course, he was being just as playful as I was and winked at Sam when she got up from her spot on the floor and came over—with Portia on her heels—to take a sip of my wine.
Our philosophy at home with all the kids was that if it wasn’t treated like this “forbidden” thing, they would be less likely to abuse it.
We allowed them sips of ours to try, and on special occasions, a half glass of sparkling wine.
We’d rather they develop an appreciation and respect for alcohol, and not think of it as some prohibited fruit they need to abuse later.
Also, they all worked for us in some capacity, so they needed to know what they were selling and harvesting.
Tom didn’t bat an eye at Sam trying my wine. Then again, I’m sure children enjoying a glass of wine at dinner was pretty standard in Italy.
“That’s good,” Sam said. “I taste cherries.” She smacked her lips together. “And … licorice?”
Tom nodded. “Molto bene. Very good.” He turned the bottle over to read the back. “This aged Brunello has notes of chocolate, cherry, and anise.”
“What are we drinking?” I asked, taking the glass from Sam and having another sip.
“Brunello di Montalcino. One hundred percent Sangiovese. It has Italy’s highest DOCG classification.” The pride in his voice made me want to giggle, but I hid my smirk behind another sip.
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
“A classification system of wine in Italy,” I told her, affectionately running my hand down the back of her head. “Heavy quality control, strict rules on production methods, grape ripeness, aging, and there is mandatory government tasting before bottling.”
“Do we have that here?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Not as rigid. But sort of. We have the Wine Appellation of Origin, but it lacks the guarantee of quality assurance like the one in Italy.”
Tom nodded. “I have yet to try an American wine I welcomed into my stomach.” That made me snort. He took a sip from his glass, swirled it around in his mouth, closed his eyes, and let it slide down his throat, smiling the whole time. Then he glanced at me. “I have not tried your wine yet though.”
“Our wine is good,” my daughter put in, reaching onto the veggie platter Tom had put out and taking a bite of a carrot. “Can we bring him some tomorrow, Mom?”
I had to laugh at my child and how much she’d come out of her shell around Tom.
It was wonderful to see, and I didn’t want to discourage it at all.
But we’d been over here every day, and the last thing I wanted to do was overstay our welcome or become a nuisance.
He’d carefully curated his peaceful, private life here, and ever since we showed up, it’d been anything but either of those things.
Sam picked up another piece of carrot. “Can I give this to Portia?”
“Si,” Tom said, bobbing his head. “She will love you more than me by the end of the night, I am sure.”
Sam brought the carrot stick back into the living room and used it as an incentive to get the pig to sit.
“I will try your wine, Danica.” His eyes bored into mine, pulling my attention away from my child and the pig. “I cannot promise you that I will like it. But I will try it.”
I put the wineglass to my lips again. “Trying is good. Trying is … important.”
I took another sip, and he did the same. Our eyes locked as we each let my words settle between us. Heat blossomed in my belly like an unfurling lily, and I swallowed the wine.
“Tomorrow is Friday,” he said, still holding my gaze. “Come back for dinner.” Then he brought his voice down low. “Just you.”
And before I could answer, he turned, showed me his broad back, and began pushing the gnocchi around in the cast iron pan, humming softly as he sipped his wine and tapped his bare foot to a song in his head.
In just one week, Tommaso Barone had done the impossible.
He’d brought my daughter out of her shell, cared for me like no man ever had, made me feel things I’d never felt before, and most importantly, had me thinking about the future beyond what it would look like for just Sam and me.
Could we welcome someone else into our world? Would it work?
I had no idea, but as I watched Tom casually sauté the gnocchi, and my daughter belly laugh in the living room with Portia, I had the sneaking suspicion that a life like this, with these three, would be as delicious as the wine in my glass.