Chapter Two
On Thursday morning, Alara braced her hands against the island in the kitchen. "Are you sure?"
Faye stood on the other side of it, arms folded across her chest. She didn't speak, only raised her eyebrows in answer.
Alara let out a breath. "I'm sorry. I know."
"You should by now, I've told you often enough." Faye's smile warmed her words. "But I'll keep telling you until you get it. It really is my pleasure, and the day you can finally relax and accept that will be a good one for us both."
Alara pressed her lips together. As wonderful as Faye was with her and Zia, she couldn't see herself ever telling her even half their story.
"But to answer the question one more time, no, I don't mind having her in the kitchen with me." She turned to Zia with a smile. "You're a good little helper, aren't you?"
Zia nodded solemnly. "I am. And I don't get in the way, and I know that a kitchen can be a dangerous place, so I only go where Mrs. Faye says, and I stay there."
Alara had to smile when she added, with a slightly shamefaced look at Faye, "And glitter isn't food, and Mrs. Faye's food isn't supposed to sparkle. My glitter pot doesn't come in the kitchen."
"Ever again," Faye added with a stern smile. "So go on. If you want to get your work done, you don't need to be wasting your time here talking to me." She rested a hand on Zia's head. "We'll bring your mom some cupcakes when they're ready, won't we?"
"We're making cupcakes? Awesome! Do you have sprinkles we can put on top? The shiny ones?"
Faye made a shooing motion at Alara before ushering Zia to a step stool in front of the sink.
As she left the kitchen, she heard Faye telling her daughter, "After you wash your hands, we'll go through the cabinets and see what we have for decorating them.
I have a feeling the cupcake fairy might have slipped some shiny sprinkles into the last delivery of groceries.
But we're not putting them on everything.
I'm going to show you how to make special butterfly cupcakes, too. "
Alara's stride faltered when she heard Zia's wavering horrified tone. "You make cupcakes out of butterflies?"
"No, little miss. Nothing like that. They're just regular cupcakes, until we give them wings—that's what makes them special."
She carried on her way with a smile when Zia said, "Oh! I want to make those. Special people have wings, too, you know. But they're called pilots. Prince Daddy's one of the Flying Ones, and Sunshine King is too, did you know that?"
Faye chuckled. "I didn't, but I expect you'll tell me all about it while we bake. Scrub those fingers, we don't want any of your glitter getting into the batter."
"You don't."
Alara reached the end of the hallway and turned back before she entered her office. She couldn't see her daughter from here, but she was able to relax, knowing that she was not only safe, but well taken care of.
Inside the office, she paused at the window, staring out at the rolling hills covered in vines.
It was so beautiful here. If she ever got the time, she'd love to paint the place.
All of Napa was beautiful, but Charles's estate—the House of St. James winery—was breathtaking.
It was smaller than many of the other wineries, and as much as it still amazed her, she'd been on a few of the big estates now—the Jacobs estate, and DuPont Wineries. The guys who owned them were Reaves’s friends.
She'd worked Jacob and Becca's wedding at the Jacobs estate; that was the event that had changed everything for her and Zia.
It was where they'd met Reaves, and then Charles, and …
she turned away from the window and looked around the office—her office, as they were calling it.
She still wondered sometimes if she might wake up and find herself back in the camper, parked at the pullout where she'd finally had to stop and face the fact that she couldn't drive all the way to Oregon, that she just wasn't well enough.
She pulled out the chair—the big, leather chair that had to be the most comfortable she'd ever sat on—and looked at the folders on the huge oak desk before her.
She'd been working on the designs for the rebrand for weeks.
Well, if she were honest, she wasn't really working.
She was only toying with ideas. She should be ashamed of herself.
She could have put together a complete portfolio for him in the time that she'd been here.
And she couldn't blame her lack of output on her health.
In truth, the reason she hadn't finished the job already was that she hadn't been able to even start it in a way that she felt would do Charles and the estate justice.
She could have given him something that would work.
Delaney, who was the one in charge of the business side of the branding, while Alara was responsible for the artistic side, had fawned over the first few samples Alara had shown her.
She'd said that they would work wonderfully, were exactly what she'd had in mind to bring the House of St. James up to date, to claim its rightful spot in the modern market.
But Delaney was wrong.
Well, perhaps not entirely. Those initial designs did everything Delaney had said they needed to, but Alara knew there was more.
She wanted her designs to capture not just the brand that Delaney wanted to portray, but the heart and soul of the estate, the wines, the man.
That was the thing that people would eagerly pay premium prices for, that they'd want to be a part of—if she could just figure out how to express it all in the logo, the labels, the graphics for the marketing materials. And so far, it was eluding her.
She pushed the folders away; she wouldn't find inspiration in any of the written materials, least of all in Delaney's set of proposed brand statements.
Delaney was one of the best in the business—everyone kept saying that, and Alara could see it.
But that was the point—the House of St. James brand was about more than just business.
It was a feeling, an echo of a different time with a different set of values.
Charles might have fallen behind the times a little, but that didn't mean the wines or he himself had become obsolete.
She knew there was not just demand but desire for the old-school vibe that carried not nostalgia but old-fashioned warmth and … values.
She sighed. She couldn't find the right words yet, couldn't fully capture the feeling in order to express it, but it was there, under the surface, waiting to emerge.
And when it did, she knew it would be perfect.
For now, all she had was that the brand, like the estate, and like Charles himself until he came into Zia's orbit, felt …
emotionally … dusty. That was it. Everything was there underneath, but there was a coating of something like dust that dulled the sheen.
She needed to blow through it like a breath of fresh air, to help the place and the brand reclaim its elegance.
She rose from the desk. As much as she appreciated Charles having given her an office, it wasn't the place where she'd connect with the true spirit of the House of St. James.
She wasn't an indoor kind of person, never had been.
And the magic of this place was born of the vines and the grapes themselves.
She was almost to the door when someone knocked.
"Oh—um, come in."
She froze when the door opened and she saw Reaves.
"Hey, I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all. In fact …"
"Were you on your way out?"
"I… I was, yes. I was going to … I promise I'm not slacking off. But I need to feel the place. Want to walk among the vines—do you think that would be all right? I won't get in the way."
A slow smile spread across his face. "I think that's a great idea.
And if you like, I could show you around.
" He must have noticed her hesitation. "I can keep quiet and act as a silent tour guide—I don't need to get in the way of your creative process.
I have no idea how that works, but I do know how to keep my mouth shut. "
She took a tentative step toward him. "Thanks, I think I'll need a guide to make sure I don't go anywhere I'm not supposed to. And you don't need to be quiet. I want to get a feel for the place and … well, you're part of it."
~ ~ ~
In the hallway, Alara glanced toward the kitchen. "Zia's with Faye. I should …"
"I know. I hung out with them for a little while before I came to see you."
"And she let you leave?"
He chuckled. "She didn't want to, but Faye wanted me out of the way. Something about too many cooks, and the two of them were already elbow deep in cake batter."
Alara let out a short laugh. She did that a lot—as though humor had caught her off guard and managed to slip out for a second before she could hold it in, like she seemed to hold everything. "Why do I feel like that's a literal description?"
He grinned. "Because it pretty much is. In Zia's case anyway.
She was covered in the stuff, she had a little bit of batter on the end of her nose, and she'd even managed to get it in her hair.
" His smile faded. "Don't worry, Faye was talking about letting her take a bath when they're finished.
We can go check on them if you want to but they're fine. I promise."
"I wasn't worried. Not about Zia. I do worry about Faye though. She does so much already and …"
"And she loves it. I'm not just saying that. Faye's been with us forever. I remember making those same butterfly cupcakes with her when I was Zia's age—and using that same step stool Zia's standing on right now."
He couldn't read the expression on Alara's face as he opened the door and she stepped outside.
"Did I say something wrong?"
"No. I …" She looked around. "I was just wondering what it must be like to live in one place your whole life."