Chapter Nine Take a Road Trip
Chapter Nine
Take a Road Trip
The next two weeks pass by quickly in a series of appointments and meetings. I had my teeth cleaned, my annual gynecology appointment, the miracle I like to call Botox injected into my forehead, and my hair trimmed and highlighted.
I’ve seen my parents a lot and even hung out with Scarlet and the kids. I also had a conference call with the Winthrop Foundation’s attorneys. I half wondered if Hart himself would be at the meeting, but none of the family members were present.
I’ve texted with Hart almost every day, but I still haven’t decided about Napa.
I’m settled in a pedicure chair with my feet soaking in hot water, flipping through the book of colors the manicurist handed me when my phone rings.
When I see Hart’s name, I smile. The reaction is automatic, and maybe that should worry me, but it doesn’t. I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
“Hi,” I say, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Hi,” he returns.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Getting ready to play tennis with my friend Isaac. He’s mad at me because I’m not going to a music festival with them this weekend.”
“What is it, Coachella?”
Hart makes a surprised sound. “No. Coachella was a few months ago.”
It was the only music festival I could think of. See, I’m old —I want to say, but I don’t.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I fill him in on the meeting I had this morning with the attorneys. “And now I’m treating myself to a pedicure.” I select the color—a cherry red—and the manicurist nods. “Why aren’t you going to the music festival?”
“Because,” he draws out the word. “I want to come see you. You never answered me about Napa, by the way.”
I fidget. “I know.”
“Well, will you come and spend the weekend with me?”
For a moment, I don’t say anything. “I’m not sure,” I settle on.
A pause.
“Why?”
Scarlet’s words ring in my head. Is it a fling, or is it something more?
“Because I don’t understand what we’re doing, Hart.” My voice is laced with frustration.
He draws a slow inhale. “I like spending time with you. And as I’ve told you before, I don’t meet many women like you. I think you’re smart and you’re beautiful. And I like you.”
I draw a slow breath.
“And you told me how busy you’re going to get come the first of the year. So let’s just enjoy this until then.”
I told him in London, on the walk to the restaurant the night we had dinner, that after the first of the year, my work with the school in Nairobi would steal most of my time, and it’s true.
That’s a few months away. The old Alessia would overanalyze and overthink this to death.
At least, according to Scarlet. For once I don’t want to do that.
“Okay,” I say softly.
“I’m going to send a car for you.”
“I can drive myself. It’s only an hour or so from here.”
“Whatever you prefer.” He pauses, voice dropping lower. “So you’ll come?”
“I’ll come.”
I almost talk myself out of going like six times.
After I’ve packed and unpacked twice , I stand in front of the mirror and dab lip gloss onto my lower lip.
“Not everyone gets the fairy tale,” I say to my reflection.
I’m not foolish enough to believe otherwise.
Maybe this is all I’ll get—a good life, friends who love me, work that feeds my soul ... and the occasional hot fling. It could be worse.
Buck up, buttercup.
I get in my car and drive to Napa.
It’s a perfect cloudless sky and seventy-five degrees outside. The drive passes by quickly, and when I get closer, I turn down the Lana Del Rey song I’m listening to and pay attention to the GPS.
The Winthrop family owns the Caelum Winery, which Hart told me means heaven in Latin.
It’s not open to the public, and they don’t have wine tastings, but it’s a real working winery with a small vineyard, where they produce wine that’s bottled and enjoyed by the family or donated to charity auctions.
Apparently, there’s a large estate home and then a small guesthouse, where he and I will be staying. Hart filled me in on the details when I asked about the sleeping arrangements.
The GPS indicates that I’m here, but I wonder if this is right. There’s a very long gravel driveway—at least a quarter mile long—that leads to what can only be described as a castle . Estate , my rear.
I turn onto the long driveway, slowing so I don’t kick up too much gravel, and take in all the details. It’s absolutely breathtaking. Before I make it very far, two men on dirt bikes come roaring up, and I slow to a stop. They park beside me. One of the men pulls off his helmet. It’s Hart.
It’s been over two weeks since I last saw him, and somehow, he’s even more handsome than I remember. I forgot how tall he is, how strong and lean his body is. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, which he manages to make look incredible.
He treats me to a secret smile, then hops off the bike and kicks down the kickstand before jogging over to my car window, which I’ve rolled down.
His hair is disheveled from the helmet, and his skin is lightly tanned from the sun. His dimpled smile does something weird to my stomach, causing it to pitch.
“Hi,” he says, pressing his hands onto the doorframe of my car and leaning down toward the window, where he studies me.
“Hi.”
The other man has hopped off his bike and removed his helmet as well.
Hart tips his chin toward him. “This is my cousin Hayes.”
“Hello.” I give him a weird little wave.
I didn’t expect to meet any of his family.
Hayes is tall and lean, like Hart, and about the same age. He has haunted gray eyes and longer hair, but you can tell they’re related. I can’t help but wonder if this was the cousin he told me about in Florence—the one who slept with his girlfriend.
“It’s nice to meet you. Welcome.” He nods, tipping his chin at me.
Hart gives him a casual handshake, and they exchange a few words that I can’t hear; then Hayes puts his helmet back on and takes off on the dirt bike.
“Hope I’m not interrupting your ride,” I say as we watch the retreating form of Hayes get smaller.
“Not at all. I’m glad you’re here.” He bites his lip with all the boyish charm I find hard to ignore. He points to the house. “Parking is on the left. I’ll meet you over there.”
When I pull into the gravel parking area and step out of my car, Hart has parked the dirt bike near a five-car garage and is striding over to me.
I’m wearing a breezy white cotton sundress, camel-colored sandals, and large black sunglasses.
He takes me in with a smile. “I’m glad you came.”
“You said this was a small vineyard.” I place my hand over my eyes like a visor and look out upon the endless rolling hills of grapevines, which from this distance look like rows of small green trees.
“It is. Thirty acres, give or take.”
I laugh. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Welcome to Napa Valley.” He spreads his arms wide. “Have you been before?”
“A long time ago for a girlfriend’s bachelorette party.”
But we stayed at a small hotel that fit our budget at the time, certainly not at the private home of a billionaire, so I imagine this trip will be quite a bit different from my buzzy girls’ weekend from over a decade ago.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.” I was so anxious before I left that I couldn’t fathom eating anything.
“Come on, then. You’re just in time for lunch.”
Hart shoulders my leather duffel bag, and I grab my handbag and then follow him along the walkway paved with large pieces of flagstone.
Everything is landscaped beautifully. I can see why his grandparents named this place heaven. There are lush rosebushes, big white hydrangeas, and blooming flowers everywhere I look. A row of crepe myrtles provides privacy between the guesthouse and the main estate.
“This is where we’ll stay.” He points out the guest cottage. “I’ll give you a tour after lunch.”
I suddenly feel a little apprehensive as we approach the house—which appears to be at least an eight-thousand-square-foot mansion. “Is it just you and Hayes here this weekend?”
“It’s me and you here this weekend. Hayes decided to tag along. My grandfather wanted me to check on a few things, and Hayes was bored, so ...”
I motion to the row of cars parked behind the garages. “But ... who do all of these belong to?”
He points to each car as he answers. “Hayes. Security. Housekeeping staff. Chef. And ... I don’t know,” he says when he gets to the last car, scratching his temple. “Why? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me? Don’t want my family to know you’re here?”
“Did you say chef ?” I ask, deflecting.
He chuckles. “Yes ... Carmena. You’ll love her.”
“Also, are we going to just breeze right by the fact that your family has a security detail ?”
He lifts one shoulder. “You get used to it. Come on.” He takes my hand, lacing our fingers together, and leads me up the steps of the mansion.
The estate is like something out of Architectural Digest .
Hart gives me the complete tour. There are six bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a billiards room, a study with built-in bookcases that resembles a fancy library, and a large sparkling pool in the backyard surrounded by a half-dozen chaise longues.
Every room is immaculate, and the art adorning the walls is to die for.
Now we’re seated at the marble kitchen island ready to enjoy a lunch spread that Carmena has set out for us.
I help myself to slices of tomato and fresh mozzarella drizzled with balsamic glaze, and a skewer of grilled shrimp. Hart does the same, loading up his plate.
“Do you want something to drink?” Hart opens the beverage fridge and peers inside.
“Water, please.”
“Sparkling or still?” he asks.
“Surprise me.”
He chuckles and hands me a glass and a bottle of sparkling water. “How’s that?”
“Perfect,” I say, taking a bite of soft, slightly tangy mozzarella cheese that melts on my tongue. “Are your friends still mad that you didn’t make the music festival?”
“I don’t care. I have you here.” He brings his thumb to my cheek and wipes away a stray crumb.